Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday 29 January 2026 at 08:04
“A faithful person will abound with blessings.” — Proverbs 28:20
Dignifying Others and Ourselves With Trust
When I was young, my father used to tell me The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. What I recall was that Tom would constantly lie—sometimes playfully, sometimes selfishly—and yet his charm often would shield him from consequence. Quietly, the story teaches that attractiveness and wit can disguise moral weakness and failure.
Trust, however, is not handed out like spare change. It is minted over time. It is a quiet currency by which we weigh one another’s inner substance. When someone is trusted, it is not merely because they are pleasant or persuasive, but because they have shown emotional containment—the ability to carry another person’s truth without dropping it.
Sadly, even religious people can fail here.
I remember attending a religious convention in another country. I had been speaking with a woman who had converted to Christianity two years earlier. After I walked away, a man approached me and said, “That sister you were talking to, used to be a prostitute.”
I didn’t want to know that. No good came from it. Such disclosures do not enlighten—they wound. They stumble others and can quietly ruin lives.
Years earlier, while in East Germany, I noticed how guarded people were when asked even simple questions. Words caught in their throats. Someone explained that decades of surveillance had trained people to treat conversation as risk assessment. Trust had learned to walk with a limp. Though circumstances have changed, the psychology remains familiar: when betrayal becomes common, silence becomes self-defence. I have encountered the same dynamic in my own relationships.
Imagine asking those closest to you—a partner, a confidant, a spiritual leader, a family member—to rate you out of ten on trustworthiness. Not charm. Not generosity. Trust. Ask someone who gains nothing by flattering you. Their answer, whatever it is, would be a mirror worth lingering before. Discomfort here is not punishment; it is instruction. Growth often arrives disguised as a bruise. As the psalmist prays, “Set a guard over my mouth,” because maturity is revealed not only in what we say, but in what we restrain ourselves from saying.
Psychologically, betrayal cuts so deeply because it violates an unspoken contract. When we confide in someone, we are not merely sharing information—we are lending them temporary custody of our inner world. To misuse that access is a kind of ambush. The pain lies not only in what was said, but in the fact that we were not present to defend our truth.
These wounds appear everywhere: in families, workplaces, friendships that profess virtue but fail to practice it. Often the deepest harm comes when vulnerability is repackaged as gossip, when private pain is embellished for public consumption. The very need to say “please don’t tell anyone” Is evidence of something broken. Confidentiality should be assumed, not negotiated.
Over time, we learn caution. Some people never fully know us—not because we lack love, but because experience has taught us discernment. This is not hardness; it is wisdom shaped by consequence. Still, it remains a quiet tragedy, because we are made for connection. Betrayal is not only personal harm; it fractures something essential in our shared humanity.
The psalmist understood this well; enemies who whisper, visitors who gather slander and release it once the door is closed. These words endure because human psychology has not changed.
Here is the paradox: a trustworthy person has learned how not to use power. They resist the small thrill of sharing secrets, the social leverage of insider knowledge, the false intimacy of gossip. In doing so, they cross an invisible threshold. Others sense it. Respect gathers around them naturally. And something quieter—but deeper—happens as well: they gain self-respect. Dignity settles in.
Dignifying Others and Ourselves With Trust
“A faithful person will abound with blessings.”
— Proverbs 28:20
Dignifying Others and Ourselves With Trust
When I was young, my father used to tell me The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. What I recall was that Tom would constantly lie—sometimes playfully, sometimes selfishly—and yet his charm often would shield him from consequence. Quietly, the story teaches that attractiveness and wit can disguise moral weakness and failure.
Trust, however, is not handed out like spare change. It is minted over time. It is a quiet currency by which we weigh one another’s inner substance. When someone is trusted, it is not merely because they are pleasant or persuasive, but because they have shown emotional containment—the ability to carry another person’s truth without dropping it.
Sadly, even religious people can fail here.
I remember attending a religious convention in another country. I had been speaking with a woman who had converted to Christianity two years earlier. After I walked away, a man approached me and said, “That sister you were talking to, used to be a prostitute.”
I didn’t want to know that. No good came from it. Such disclosures do not enlighten—they wound. They stumble others and can quietly ruin lives.
Years earlier, while in East Germany, I noticed how guarded people were when asked even simple questions. Words caught in their throats. Someone explained that decades of surveillance had trained people to treat conversation as risk assessment. Trust had learned to walk with a limp. Though circumstances have changed, the psychology remains familiar: when betrayal becomes common, silence becomes self-defence. I have encountered the same dynamic in my own relationships.
Imagine asking those closest to you—a partner, a confidant, a spiritual leader, a family member—to rate you out of ten on trustworthiness. Not charm. Not generosity. Trust. Ask someone who gains nothing by flattering you. Their answer, whatever it is, would be a mirror worth lingering before. Discomfort here is not punishment; it is instruction. Growth often arrives disguised as a bruise. As the psalmist prays, “Set a guard over my mouth,” because maturity is revealed not only in what we say, but in what we restrain ourselves from saying.
Psychologically, betrayal cuts so deeply because it violates an unspoken contract. When we confide in someone, we are not merely sharing information—we are lending them temporary custody of our inner world. To misuse that access is a kind of ambush. The pain lies not only in what was said, but in the fact that we were not present to defend our truth.
These wounds appear everywhere: in families, workplaces, friendships that profess virtue but fail to practice it. Often the deepest harm comes when vulnerability is repackaged as gossip, when private pain is embellished for public consumption. The very need to say “please don’t tell anyone” Is evidence of something broken. Confidentiality should be assumed, not negotiated.
Over time, we learn caution. Some people never fully know us—not because we lack love, but because experience has taught us discernment. This is not hardness; it is wisdom shaped by consequence. Still, it remains a quiet tragedy, because we are made for connection. Betrayal is not only personal harm; it fractures something essential in our shared humanity.
The psalmist understood this well; enemies who whisper, visitors who gather slander and release it once the door is closed. These words endure because human psychology has not changed.
Here is the paradox: a trustworthy person has learned how not to use power. They resist the small thrill of sharing secrets, the social leverage of insider knowledge, the false intimacy of gossip. In doing so, they cross an invisible threshold. Others sense it. Respect gathers around them naturally. And something quieter—but deeper—happens as well: they gain self-respect. Dignity settles in.