Turns Out I Was The Problem

The filter is talking.

Or maybe it’s me.

I’m honestly not sure anymore.

The older I get and the deeper God pulls me into sanctification, the less convinced I am that I see people as clearly as I thought I did.

That realization has been… uncomfortable.

James writes,

“My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.” (James 1:19)

I’ve read that verse more times than I can count.

I always thought I struggled with the “slow to become angry” part.

Lately, I’ve realized my problem starts much earlier.

I’m not nearly as quick to listen as I imagined.

I’m incredibly quick to interpret.

For years I wore my quick responses like a badge of honor.

If someone said something sideways, I had something sideways ready.

If someone threw shade, I could return it with interest.

I could think on my feet.

I was witty.

Sharp.

Fast.

And if I’m being completely honest…

I was proud of it.

As if pride isn’t a sin.

Hello, Jazmin.

Somewhere along the way I confused being quick with being wise.

Those aren’t the same thing.

Not even close.

The more time I’ve spent with God lately, the more He’s been exposing something that has quietly shaped so much of my life.

My filters.

We all have them.

Filters built from childhood.

Filters built from betrayal.

Filters built from abandonment.

Filters built from church hurt.

Filters built from disappointment.

Filters built from politics.

Filters built from trauma.

Filters built from all the moments that taught us what to expect from people before they ever opened their mouths.

The problem is that filters aren’t facts.

They’re interpretations.

Yet I have spent years responding to my interpretation instead of the truth.

Sometimes I wasn’t even arguing with what someone actually said.

I was arguing with what my filter told me they meant.

That’s a terrifying thought.

Because if my filter is wounded, then everything I hear has the potential to sound like another wound.

It also explains why two people can hear the exact same sentence and walk away with completely different conclusions.

Neither conversation changed.

The filters did.

It has also made me think differently about today’s political climate.

It almost feels like we’ve forgotten how to hear each other.

We’re listening for ammunition instead of understanding.

Someone says one sentence and before they’ve finished talking we’ve already assigned motives, intentions, character, voting history, intelligence level, and probably their entire family tree.

We don’t respond to what was actually said.

We respond to the filter we’ve built.

Mine is no exception.

There have been moments where I’ve been offended before someone even finished their sentence.

Moments where I judged faster than I listened.

Moments where I spoke with conviction but not necessarily with truth.

That stings to admit.

Because offense is a terrible translator.

Trauma can become one too.

When you’ve lived through enough hurt, it becomes incredibly easy to interpret neutral things as threatening things.

It feels protective.

Sometimes it even feels righteous.

But feelings aren’t always faithful.

The Holy Spirit has been asking me a question that has been following me around all day.

“Did they actually say that… or did your filter?”

Ouch.

One of the things that convicted me the most was learning what active listening actually is.

Active listening isn’t simply staying quiet while someone else talks.

It is intentionally giving someone your undivided attention, setting aside your own judgments long enough to accurately understand not only their words, but the heart and intent behind them.

That kind of listening is an act of love.

It honors the dignity of the person speaking.

It says, “I’m going to fight my assumptions long enough to actually hear you.”

That’s much harder than winning an argument.

I’ve also been thinking about bearing false witness.

I always associated that commandment with outright lying.

But bearing false witness isn’t limited to inventing stories.

Sometimes it’s speaking against someone’s character because we’ve assumed their motives.

It’s deciding who they are based on our interpretation instead of their actual words.

It’s telling ourselves, “I know exactly what they meant.”

Do we?

Or did our filter decide for us?

Proverbs 18:2 says,

“Fools find no pleasure in understanding but delight in airing their own opinions.”

That verse has been sitting uncomfortably with me.

Because I like having an opinion.

I especially like having an opinion when I’m convinced I’m right.

Scripture, however, seems far less impressed with how quickly I can formulate one than how willing I am to seek understanding.

Proverbs 11:2 says,

“When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with humility comes wisdom.”

Humility listens.

Pride interrupts.

Humility asks questions.

Pride fills in the blanks.

Humility says, “Help me understand.”

Pride says, “I already know.”

Again…

Hello, Jazmin.

Jesus modeled something entirely different.

In John 6, after one of His teachings, many of His disciples walked away confused. They left with an interpretation instead of asking for clarification. They responded to what they thought He meant rather than what He actually said.

How often do I do the same thing?

Not just with God.

With people.

With my husband.

With friends.

With strangers on the internet.

With someone whose political opinion immediately activates every experience I’ve ever had.

My filter starts talking before they even finish.

Then I wonder why peace feels so far away.

Proverbs 29:20 asks,

“Do you see someone who speaks in haste? There is more hope for a fool than for them.”

That’s sobering.

Maybe holiness isn’t found in having the fastest response.

Maybe it’s found in creating space between what I feel and what I say.

A pause.

A breath.

A question.

“Can you help me understand what you meant?”

What if that one sentence saved more relationships than the perfect comeback ever could?

The enemy would love nothing more than to use the pain of our past to build a filter for our future.

To convince us that because someone hurt us once, everyone will.

That because one person rejected us, everyone secretly is.

That because we were betrayed before, betrayal is always hiding around the corner.

The filter becomes stronger.

More convincing.

More believable.

But not necessarily more truthful.

The beautiful thing is that while our filters may never be perfect this side of heaven, they can become healthier.

Not because life stops hurting.

But because the Holy Spirit keeps renewing our minds.

Today wasn’t one of those mornings where I walked away feeling encouraged by how much I’ve grown.

It was one of those mornings where I walked away realizing how much of my communication has been shaped by old wounds instead of present truth.

How often I’ve answered from offense instead of understanding.

How quickly I’ve judged.

How confidently I’ve assumed.

How proudly I’ve mistaken sharpness for wisdom.

And strangely…

I think that’s grace.

Because conviction isn’t condemnation.

It’s God lovingly putting His finger on the places that still don’t look like Jesus.

So today, I’m praying less for better arguments.

And more for better ears.

Less for quicker responses.

More for slower hearts.

Less for being understood.

More for understanding.

Because maybe the greatest evidence that God is changing me won’t be found in how well I speak.