The Pythia, or Oracle at Delphi, was sought out for her predictions. The high priestess of Apollo, the Greek god of music, prophecy, medicine, the sun, and assorted other odds and ends, she shared, on demand, prophecies divined from the god himself. The stories of her forecasts reveal a nearly universal human truth: we often hear what we want to hear.
The Oracle, like king’s astrologers and emperor’s soothsayers throughout the ages, had eminently sensible reasons to let her supplicants read what they chose into her pronouncements. After all, a fortuneteller who tells the powerful that they are bound for destruction might not retain favor—or life—for long. Humans have a natural aptitude for finding patterns in chaos and meaning in chance. Just ask anyone skilled in cold reading. So why not make an ambiguous statement that could mean yes, no, or maybe, depending on the mood of whoever was asking?
One of the Oracle’s most famous—and the one that I’m thinking about right now—concerned the wealthy King Croesus of Lydia, who inquired whether it would be a good idea to war on Persia. The Oracle dutifully told him that Apollo had told her that if Croesus attacked Persia, he would bring about the fall of a great empire.
“That’s good enough for me,” we can imagine Croesus saying as he marshaled spears, shields, and soldiers for an attack on the forces of Cyrus at Pteria. When that battle was inconclusive, we can imagine him mulling whether he should ask the Oracle for his money back, but Cyrus had other ideas. Taking the offensive to Croesus at Thymrbia, he won a smashing victory, despite having half as many troops as the Lydians; after a subsequent siege, Cyrus broke the power of Croesus entirely, absorbing Lydia into his empire. Croesus walked off the pages of history, and it is not recorded whether he appreciated that the Oracle was right all along: the great empire that fell after his attack was his own. Cyrus, on the other hand, did well enough in the empire category that he became known as Cyrus the Great.
While it’s tempting to mock the arrogant Croesus. After all, we would never be as clueless as him. Right?
Not so fast. Even those not given to braggadocio or an excess of self-confidence can struggle to hear something other than what they want to, when they want something badly enough. Whether we know it or not, we’ve probably all been there. Basically, if there’s any ambiguity or room for interpretation, wishful thinking will usually inform what we hear, rather than the bare meaning of the words themselves.
Another example from Greek mythology that seems apt here. Cassandra, who spurned the advances of Apollo, was cursed by him to have perfect precognition, but to be fanatically disbelieved by all whom she told her visions. We can think of how she felt after she told the Trojans that maybe the horse the Greeks had left behind had an unexpected “gift” inside. Ridiculed, she set out with axe and torch, but was restrained by the Trojans, who after all had seen the Greek fleet sail away. What could possibly be hidden inside? The Trojans’ refusal to listen seems stupidly obstinate, but let’s think about this for a minute. They have been battling the Greeks for a decade. Who among them wouldn’t want to believe that the war was finally over? And wouldn’t shush voices asking them to trust but verify? Well, the war was over, but not to the Trojans’ satisfaction.
In other words, even if you are absolutely right, if your message isn’t desired, it might not be heeded, even if you punctuate it with an axe.
We can see misunderstandings, intentional and not, when Apollo is nowhere in evidence. Whether the words that stumble out of our mouths aren’t as clear as they seemed in our minds, or some odd alchemy has transformed them while they vibrate in the air from our mouths to our listeners’ ears, we seemed condemned to be continually misunderstood. Whatever we try to say, it seems, people will hear what they want to.
So what can we do about it?
One thing might be to clear up any confusion on our end. Knowing that others might not always scry our true meaning from what we say, what if we thought things through before speaking? Imagine that we are in the passenger seat as a friend is driving. They ask us which way to turn. Instead of saying, “That way,” and gesturing, while our friend’s eyes are rightly on the road and not us, how about, “Turn left at the next light,” or “Follow the red Mazda?” Both leave less chance for some misunderstanding, some kind of mistake.
Being clearer about what we mean, though, is only part of the puzzle. Communication is a two-way street. And while we can’t control how our partner hears us, we can try to get into their mind to understand what they want to hear. An empathetic journey can alert us to how our “clear” words might be misheard, might be misinterpreted. If we warn of a great empire falling, is it really likely that our partner will realize that, logically, they haven’t been told whose empire is at risk? By thinking like our listening partner, we can hone our message to be (we hope) better understood.
Flipping the roles around, it becomes apparent that listening is the key. While we fret about being misheard, isn’t it just as likely that we aren’t listening as carefully as we should, or that we are hearing what we want to hear? Again, there is nothing sinful or unusual in selective comprehension—we have all probably been guilty of missing the message at some point.
The good news is that, by listening more intently to what we are told, and actively not listening to what we are telling ourselves we heard, we can avoid the fate of Croesus. And perhaps, just perhaps, if Apollo isn’t stacking the deck, by listening to those we are trying to persuade, by navigating their doubts, biases, and hopes, we can pry more understanding from them than Cassandra could.
So until next time, expect the unexpected, stay informed, and I’ll stay informal.
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