I enjoy repartee and frequently engage in devil's advocacy. In

“I enjoy repartee and frequently engage in devil’s advocacy... I do not guard every word that I say because I think that I know they know that my commitment to equality and justice is real.” Thus spoke Jeff Sessions, a man not defending his wit but unveiling the perilous dance between speech, trust, and misunderstanding. His words rise from a truth as old as human discourse: that friendship and conversation thrive upon candor, yet tremble on the edge of misjudgment. In this confession lies the eternal tension between freedom of speech and the frailty of perception. For what is spoken in trust may, when torn from its roots, appear as folly or sin to those who lack the soil of understanding.

In the ancient gatherings of philosophers, this spirit of repartee—the clash of words for the sharpening of thought—was honored as the forge of wisdom. Socrates himself, the master of devil’s advocacy, questioned not to mock, but to awaken. Yet even he was condemned for the misinterpretation of his speech, accused of corrupting youth when he sought only to free their minds. So it has ever been: those who speak boldly, testing ideas like iron against fire, risk being burned by their own sparks. Sessions’ lament is thus not new—it is a cry as old as Athens, as universal as the human need to speak truth without fear.

But behold the tragedy that unfolds when trust fades from the realm of friendship. For words once shared in laughter or debate become snares in the hands of the suspicious. The friend who once listened with goodwill begins to hear with accusation. And thus the speaker, who once soared freely in conversation, must clip his own wings for safety’s sake. This is no small loss. When one must guard every word, the heart grows silent, and the flame of intellectual exchange dims to ash.

Consider, then, the tale of Cicero, the Roman orator whose tongue once ruled the senate and stirred the people. He, too, loved wit and wordplay, trusting that his comrades in power understood his deeper loyalty to Rome. Yet when envy and politics corroded that trust, his words—once jewels—were turned into chains. The very eloquence that raised him high was used to bring him low. So fell Cicero, slain not by sword but by misinterpretation, proving that in a world without understanding, even truth becomes a weapon.

And yet, we must not forsake speech for fear of error. To silence the tongue is to imprison the mind. The wise must learn the art of balance: to speak boldly, but with awareness; to jest and challenge, but not to wound; to trust, but not blindly. Sessions’ confession reminds us that integrity—a visible and lived commitment to justice and equality—is the only true defense of free expression. For when our deeds proclaim our virtue, our words need not bear their burden alone.

Let this be the lesson: guard not every syllable as though the world were an enemy, but neither scatter words like careless seeds upon unworthy soil. Speak truth with courage, but choose your audience with discernment. Test your thoughts among those who listen with both heart and reason. For conversation is a sacred rite, a covenant of mutual respect. When entered in trust, it refines the soul; when betrayed, it poisons the air itself.

So, dear listener, when next you engage in repartee, remember this: the aim is not victory, but illumination. Speak as one who seeks to understand, not to conquer. And if you must play the devil’s advocate, let it be not to destroy, but to reveal the hidden strength of truth. Live so that your character—your constancy in justice—stands as a fortress around your words. Then, even if the world misjudges your speech, your life will correct their error. For in the end, it is not the cleverness of our tongues, but the righteousness of our actions, that defines who we truly are.