Speaking Up
By Sara Flores
Now all the Athenians and the foreigners living there would spend their time in nothing but telling or hearing something new. (Acts 17.21, NRSV)
When they heard of the resurrection of the dead, some scoffed, but others said, “We will hear you again about this.” (Acts 17.32)
This passage in Acts reminds me of a painting I have seen many times. School of Athens, by Raphael, is a fresco in the Vatican depicting a host of philosophers and other thinkers anachronistically crowded into a single space. Over 50 different figures inhabit the painting in various states of conversation and contemplation. Some read. Others furiously scribble away. (I’m particularly fond of the person on the right using their knee as a desk so they can jot down something important while they balance on one foot.) Brows furrow and heads tilt as various people write, read, or teach. Meanwhile, awe-inspiring architecture encompasses them all. You can practically hear the cacophony of voices crashing into each other. The whole scene can seem a bit overwhelming even on a computer screen. I can only imagine how it would feel to stand in front of the real thing.
I have never been to the Vatican, but just over a decade ago I spent a lot of time staring at a copy of this painting. My first semester of college, I took a course on the history of Western philosophy called “Great Ideas.” A print of Raphael’s famous fresco hung on one wall in our classroom. While learning about Plato and Aristotle, my classmates and I could look at School of Athens and see these philosophical giants frozen in a fictional moment, discussing their competing views right in the middle of everything.
Part of me wishes I could somehow jump into this painting. Just to be among all these interesting people saying interesting things sounds pretty awesome. I love hearing people exchange ideas—that is a major reason why I’m in grad school now and hope to work at a university afterwards. If I’m the one speaking, however, this kind of intellectual space can often terrify me.
For as long as I can remember, I have seen myself as more of a listener than a speaker. In college and through my PhD coursework, practically every time I would ask a professor about how I was doing in class, they would say something like, “You could speak up more often.” Instead of taking this comment as encouragement, I would get anxious. I would think, “What if I say something that doesn’t make sense?”
I recently learned Raphael also painted Paul at the Areopagus. Like School of Athens, this scene features a host of figures packed into one small space. I find both scenes equally intimidating. Actually, the thought of speaking at the Areopagus intimidates me even more than the thought of trying to say something in the School of Athens. Unlike the hubbub in the other painting, Paul stands alone. He does not have to fight to be heard. All eyes turn to him. He speaks, and everyone listens.
Speaking up puts you in a vulnerable position: you run the risk of being misunderstood. You run the risk of someone else dismissing your ideas. You give someone else the opportunity to shut down your voice. And speaking up, in turn, also runs the risk of closing down and shutting out someone else’s voice as well. Thankfully, the majority of academic spaces I’ve moved through have not been that hostile. But still, speaking up is never without some risk.
So when I think about Paul in Athens, I’m fascinated with him as a speaker. Not only does he get up in front of these thinkers to present new ideas, but he does so in a way that doesn’t seem hostile. You can be bold and assertive without being hostile, and I think that’s what Paul does here. He clearly and succinctly states his key points, effectively incorporates familiar philosophical ideas and poetry, and concludes with one major takeaway. It’s not necessarily a grand or flashy speech, but he gets his point across. And to do that while running the risk of not making sense? I’m impressed.
But I’m also impressed with the listeners—particularly the ones mentioned at the end of verse 32:
When they heard of the resurrection of the dead, some scoffed, but others said, “We will hear you again about this.”
These “others” may not be entirely convinced by Paul, but they don’t dismiss him either. They are at least willing to hear him out. They want to discuss things further. As far as intellectual exchanges go, this seems like a pretty good one (especially compared to Paul’s experiences in Philippi, Thessalonica, and Berea).
And maybe that’s the best we can hope for sometimes: that after sharing with others our new ideas, anxious thoughts, or beliefs about life, death, and resurrection—however confidently or tentatively articulated—someone will want to hear us again.
That possibility makes speaking up worth the risk.
Sara Flores is a Ph.D. student in English at Washington University in St. Louis.