Those Who Allow the Boat to Rock

I’ve been thinking about a particularly vital social role — one that can shift the atmosphere of a room, change the dynamics of a community, and ripple through the broader culture we share.

We know how hard it can be to go against the grain and name a truth that’s uncomfortable, especially when social forces are at play that prefer to deny that truth or look away entirely. Naming these truths is a brave and necessary role. But it’s not the only one.

You probably don’t have to reach far to think of examples:

Naming a painful family dynamic.
Naming systemic racism.
Naming active harm and the need to protect marginalized people, especially when those very people have been politicized, diminished, or distorted in the public sphere.

It’s not difficult to see that these truths need to be spoken. But it is difficult to be the one who says them out loud. That moment carries risk — sometimes social ostracism, sometimes punitive consequences. And that’s why there’s another role that’s just as crucial: the role of the one who seconds the truth.

The one who says, “Yes. I see that too.”
The one who gives their weight to the boat being rocked.
The one who helps shift the equilibrium so that more people can rise and speak.

Years ago, a friend shared an image with me from family systems theory. Imagine a group of people in a small fishing boat. One person stands up, perhaps to draw attention to something important. But by standing, they throw off the balance of the boat. In that moment, everyone else has a choice. They can try to pull that person down in an effort to restore the old equilibrium, or they can shift their own weight — literally moving their bodies and changing their positions — to create a new equilibrium.

There is power in standing with the person who stood up. There is power in backing a community that says “no more.” There is power in seconding the cry of the harmed and the marginalized, and making space for others to speak too.

This week, I found myself thinking about Jesus’ story of the Good Samaritan. It begins when someone asks, “What is the greatest commandment?” Jesus answers: Love God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself. Then the man follows up, “And who is my neighbor?”

Jesus tells a parable with a surprising twist. The hero is a Samaritan, a person who, in the eyes of Jesus’ audience, was socially maligned and religiously distrusted. Jesus doesn’t just tell us to be kind; he challenges the very systems of who gets to be considered good, worthy, and neighborly. He lifts up the one who had been vilified.

In telling this story, Jesus isn’t only standing up. I wonder if he may also be seconding something he saw recently — Samaritan who had acted in love, or perhaps someone who had recently defended a Samaritan and faced backlash for it. Maybe Jesus is making space for more people to say, “We’ve maligned Samaritans in harmful ways, and that has to change.”

Sometimes the first person to speak pays a cost. But those who follow — those who second and third the truth — can turn one voice into many. They can spark a domino effect that allows communities to change their posture, to shift their weight in the boat, and to make a new kind of balance possible.

We need those people.
We can be those people.
We can allow the boat to rock.

— Renee Roederer