When Silence Isn’t Peace: A Parable About Justice, Mercy, and Integrity
Many equate silence with peace—but sometimes, silence simply hides injustice. A common misunderstanding among those who value peace is that avoiding conflict is always the righteous thing to do. But what if the appearance of peace—silence, withdrawal, refusal to engage—is actually a way to avoid justice? What if true godliness means being willing to enter hard conversations with humility, courage, and love, rather than assuming that disagreement is always “contention”?
This confusion often stems from equating disagreement with contention, when in fact, honest dialogue can lead to true peace. Honest dialogue isn’t the enemy—pride is the true source of contention.
True peace comes not when we silence one another, but when we each take responsibility for our own hearts, reactions, and words.
If someone says something that stirs anger in me, that reaction is mine to examine. Their words may have triggered something, but my response is my stewardship. My honesty, likewise, isn’t automatically harmful just because it makes someone uncomfortable. Emotional accountability is part of walking in truth. Without it, we trade real justice for fragile silence.
The Garden Wall
In a quiet valley nestled between two hills, there lived two gardeners—Melek and Lyra. They shared a long, fertile stretch of land, and many seasons ago, they laid down a row of stones to mark the boundary between their gardens. It was a peaceful agreement. The line was simple, fair, and mutually understood.
Each tended their side with care. Their styles differed, but they respected one another’s space. And for a time, all was well.
But as the years passed, tension grew. One morning, Melek accused Lyra of letting her plants cross the boundary. Lyra, surprised, suggested they walk the stone line together and reassess. She was open to discussion, to clarity, to adjustment—if needed.
But Melek folded his arms.
“I won’t argue,” he said. “I stand in truth. I have nothing more to say.”
Lyra’s heart ached. She wasn’t trying to win an argument. She was seeking understanding. She longed for peace rooted in fairness—not silence rooted in fear.
But with Melek unwilling to talk, the matter remained unresolved. Worse still, he began to whisper to others, “Lyra is never content. Always stirring things up. Always finding fault.”
Lyra could have responded in kind. Matched his silence with distance. Matched his words with bitterness. But she didn’t.
Instead, she walked the boundary alone.
She examined the stones.
She studied the old agreements.
She even trimmed a few of her plants—not because she believed she was in the wrong, but because she preferred to give more than take. Not for appearances, but for the sake of integrity.
She didn’t demand understanding. She didn’t campaign for sympathy. She simply ensured that her actions were just—fair, humble, and true. She gave what she wished had been given to her.
In time, the valley saw—not the conflict, but the character.
Not the silence, but the strength.
Not the accusation, but the quiet integrity of a woman who refused to trade truth for comfort.
Justice Over Comfort
Lyra’s actions reflect a deeper principle about justice, as taught by Denver Snuffer:
“Every man did deal justly one with another. See, there’s a difference between mercy and justice. Justice is a tougher standard. We don’t want justice. We want a merciful Redeemer, who will come in and who will make up for our defects. But this is saying, ‘Every man… did deal justly… with one another.’ You don’t have to give me mercy, because I’m going to give YOU justice. I’m going to be tougher on myself. It is fair that I do this for you. …I will break my heart, I will break my wallet, I will break my life before I will not deal justly with you and give you everything that you’re entitled to.”
— Denver Snuffer, Zion People, May 3, 2020
That’s the heart of Zion.
Dealing justly means we don’t demand others tiptoe around our emotions. It means taking responsibility for our own reactions. If someone says something that offends me, it may stir feelings—but that doesn't make them contentious. I have to pause and ask: Why did I react that way? What wound did it touch? What truth might I be resisting?
Likewise, if I speak something honestly and someone becomes upset, I am not automatically in the wrong. Their emotions are their stewardship, just as mine are mine. Mutual accountability means neither blaming others for our anger nor labeling honest conversation as “contention” just because it’s uncomfortable.
Real peace is not built on avoidance.
Real unity is not built on silence.
And real justice means holding ourselves to the higher standard—not expecting to be let off the hook, but being willing to pay the price to do right by others, even when it’s not reciprocated.
Let us strive to be like Lyra—seeking clarity in disagreement with humility, and pausing to reflect before reacting in conflict.
To walk our lines.
To speak with integrity.
To deal justly—even when it costs.
And to remember that in Zion, no one gets to offload their emotional burdens onto someone else.
We each carry our own heart to the altar.
Postlude: A Soundtrack for the Silence
I couldn’t decide which song to include with this post—so I’m including both! Each speaks to a different side of the story.
“Say Something” captures Lyra’s quiet ache—the longing for honest connection and the pain of being met with silence.
“The Sound of Silence” reflects the broader warning: when we avoid truth for comfort, we lose both peace and integrity.
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