Key Verse: “My advice is wholesome. There is nothing
devious or crooked in it.” (v.8)
The city was already arguing with itself when I arrived.
Car horns overlapped like competing opinions. A street preacher shouted past a guy livestreaming a rant. Screens glowed everywhere—phones, billboards, reflections in glass—each one offering certainty in thirty seconds or less.
I felt mentally cluttered. Over-advised. Under-convinced.
Solomon sat at our usual café table, half in shade, half in sunlight. Linen shirt. Handmade boots resting easy. His silver-streaked hair was tied back, and when he leaned forward I caught that faint cedar scent again—grounded, steady, unhurried.
“You look like someone who’s been listening to too many voices,” he said.
I laughed once, dry. “Everyone sounds right. That’s the problem.”
He tapped the table—soft, deliberate. “Then today’s passage is about words themselves, not outcomes.”
He let that settle, then continued. “In this section, I let Wisdom speak out loud. Not privately. Not spiritually vague. She stands in public places—intersections, gates, markets—where decisions actually get made.”
A bus sighed to a stop nearby. Someone spilled coffee and cursed under their breath. A pair of coworkers argued in whispers that weren’t quiet enough.
Solomon nodded toward the street. “Right here.”
He opened his weathered leather notebook and slid it toward me. Inside were two columns. One labeled Straight. The other, Crooked. The crooked column zigzagged, bending back on itself.
“In earlier proverbs,” he said, “I talked about what wisdom does for you. Protection. Stability. Life. But here, I make a deeper claim.”
He looked at me and quoted it slowly, clearly:
“My advice is wholesome. There is nothing devious or crooked in it.”
“Wholesome,” he said. “Meaning: no hidden leverage. No fine print. No moral distortion.”
I leaned back. “That feels idealistic.”
He smiled—not offended. “It always sounds that way to people who live in a world driven by manipulative words and buried conditions. ”
He flipped the page and sketched a quick crown. “Let me give you an example from my own family line.”
I had no idea where this was going.
“My son Rehoboam,” he said, voice steady but edged with sadness. “He inherited a kingdom that was strained but still united. The people came asking for tax relief. Reasonable request.”
Solomon drew two speech bubbles.
“He first listened to the older, more experienced counselors—the ones who urged humility and restraint. Their advice was straight. Hard, but clean. Give them the relief they are requesting. If you do, they will be loyal to you.”
“But he preferred the words of his younger peers. Flashy. Aggressive. Promising control. Appealing to his ego: impose higher taxes! Don't let the people control you.”
He shut the notebook.
“That advice sounded strong,” Solomon said. “But it was crooked. It required pride to function. And the result?”
He didn’t dramatize it. He didn’t need to.
“The kingdom split. Overnight.”
I felt that land heavier than I expected.
“Crooked advice often sounds empowering,” he continued. “Until you live inside the consequences.”
A pause.
Then he added, “Now let’s bring it closer.”
Across the café, a guy about my age sat hunched over a laptop, jaw tight, eyes darting between emails and texts. His phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, smirked, and typed fast.
Solomon followed my gaze. “I’ve seen that look,” he said. “Someone told him how to get ahead—cut a corner, frame a narrative, bury a truth. Not illegal. Just… bent.”
The man snapped his laptop shut and left without finishing his drink.
“The modern version of crooked counsel,” Solomon said, “rarely tells you to do something obviously evil. It just teaches you how to justify it.”
That hit closer than I liked.
I crossed my arms. “But if you don’t play that game, you lose.”
Solomon leaned in. The city noise seemed to soften, like someone turned the volume knob down a notch.
“I used to believe that,” he said quietly. “I thought wisdom had to compete with manipulation. I was wrong.”
He tapped the Straight column in his notebook.
“Words that are upright don’t need darkness to succeed. They don’t reshape your conscience over time. They don’t make you smaller to make you safe.”
I exhaled slowly.
“So how do you tell?” I asked. “In real time.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Ask what the advice requires of you. Does it ask you to hide?
Does it depend on someone else staying ignorant? Does it slowly teach you to excuse what you once resisted?”
He met my eyes again—that uncanny clarity, like he was reading my browser history and my thoughts.
“If it does,” he said, “it isn’t true Wisdom. Because her words are straight enough to walk on.”
The chair across from us scraped back as another patron left. The empty space felt louder than the conversation around us.
Solomon closed his notebook and summarized, voice calm but firm:
“Wisdom speaks openly. Her words are morally clean. They don’t twist you to work. If advice reshapes your character in secret, it isn’t worth the result.”
I left the café thinking about how often I’ve asked, Will this work? And how rarely I’ve asked, What will this make me?
What? Wisdom declares that her words are honest, upright, and free from manipulation or deceit.
So What? Crooked advice often sounds practical or powerful, but it quietly shapes your character—and the cost shows up later.
Now What? Before accepting advice today, ask: Would this still be good if everyone knew I followed it? If the answer is no, pause and listen for a straighter voice.
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