On losing and finding

I can almost predict, with an almost viral precision, when I will lose my voice. Every year, I encounter this situation at least once, sometimes during predictable periods of anxiety and stress (such as Christmas 2006, when I was slated to speak at our Christmas youth service) or, two weeks ago, when everyone else at home was sick.

I like to talk. I believe I am a fairly competent conversationalist. I have strong views, and I enjoy articulating them to the unconvinced. And so, I am a poor listener. I get impatient when people ramble. I get weary of trying to figure out what they're really trying to say, what they want to say but aren't saying. I interrupt, I cut in, I put words in their mouths, or I just don't listen.

And so, when I lose my voice, I lose one of the most potent and arresting pieces of my emotional and intellectual arsenal.

*

It is Lent now, the season of contemplation leading up to the days when we remember the death and resurrection of God. In 1930, T S Eliot published "Ash Wednesday", the first poem he wrote after his conversion to the Church of England. The fifth stanza of this poem contains these accusing lines:

"Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those walking in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice."

In our accustomed, onward rush towards achievements, goals, objectives and targets ("noise", as Eliot puts it), we have no time for silence. "The right time and the right place are not here". We lose our ability to listen, to turn inwards in rest. "Not here, there is not enough silence" -- what an accurate indictment of our world. And so, without silence, without the cultivated discipline of listening, our hold on the things of value, of meaning, of transcendence, slips away. We deny the voice. Why need ears at all?

*

We spent the weekend I lost my voice at Carlsbad, a nice seaside resort town about a 90 minute drive from here. On Monday, we drove to Sea World and spent several happy hours there. This was our fourth visit, so we were quite sure we would not watch the dolphin show. But on our way to lunch, we turned a corner and came across something we hadn't seen before. In a fairly large lagoon just off the main lagoon where the dolphin show takes place, a group of about 12 children were in the midst of Sea World's "Dolphin Interaction Program". They were dressed up in wet suits, in the pool with Sea World's dolphin trainers and several dolphins, and were playing with the dolphins. The dolphins did tricks, jumped out of the water several times, and swam along the delighted children. 10 feet away, we watched, transfixed. For me, the dolphins weren't the show. The children's laughter, joy and surprise with the opportunity to interact so closely with the dolphins drew my attention more. Listening to them, I felt infected with their joy, their delight.

Later that day, E fell asleep. But J, as usual, wanted to see the beluga whales, the penguins and the polar bears in Sea World's excellent penguin encounter and Wild Arctic experience. F took him to see the animals, while I sat outside to watch E in her stroller. In one of my classes, we've been learning a series of meditation exercises designed to strengthen attention and mindfulness, so I decided to use the opportunity to practice one of these exercises. As I deliberately quietened my mind, I had to wrestle my attention away from thoughts such as where we would go for dinner that night, whether I would need coffee for the drive back, the reading I had to do for class that week and so on. As I listened to myself, to the inner cacophony, the voices began to die down. And in those moments, I could hear the breeze rustling through my hair. I could hear Emma's gentle snoring. I could hear children more than 200 feet away asking their parents to buy a toy from a shop. I could hear my heartbeat, my breath. I could hear silence.

And in that silence, the Voice that we truly need to hear speaks to us. For only then do we avoid confusing the Voice with the chattering, brazen and venal voices in our heads, the voices that so often are the only ones we pay any attention to.

*

An act of rapt, meditative listening lies at the redemptive heart of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, which I just finished reading. In The Amber Spyglass, Lyra, the tenacious 12-year-old protagonist, listens to an older woman relate the experience of falling in love (note -- there are no spoilers here):

"As Mary said that, Lyra felt something strange happen to her body. She felt as if she had been handed the key to a great house she hadn't known was there, a house that was somehow inside her, and as she turned the key, she felt other doors opening deep in the darkness, and lights coming on."

I had many points of aesthetic and theological frustration with Pullman. But on this key point I would agree: those who have come to positions of authority do a terrible job of listening. And when any authority stops listening, Hell literally breaks loose. Wisdom dies. Insight fails. We must never stop listening, never stop seeking new stories, new paths, new views of the world. We may get tired of the dolphin show, but the dolphins will still surprise us, if we know where to look.

*

And those moments, those piercing moments of insight, come fleetingly. Blink an eye, take a breath, and we lose those moments, like water slipping through our fingers. Our fingers are wet, but our thirst remains unslaked.

Today, one of those moments visited me.

I was at the end of a long run at the gym. Those who know how I run will know that my mind switches off as I run -- a practice I've cultivated over 20 years of running to get my mind off the complaints of my body. I had my iPod plugged in, as usual, and had been listening to MercyMe's wonderful song, "Bring the Rain".

I can count a million times
People asking me how I can praise You
with all that I’ve gone through
The question just amazes me
Can circumstances possibly
Change who I forever am in You

Maybe since my life was changed
Long before these rainy days
It’s never really ever crossed my mind
To turn my back on you oh Lord
My only shelter from the storms
But instead I draw closer through these times

So I pray, Bring me joy, bring me peace
Bring the chance to be free
Bring me anything that brings You glory
And I know there’ll be days
When this life brings me pain
But if that’s what it takes to praise You,
Jesus, bring the rain

I am Yours regardless of
the dark clouds that may loom above
Because You are much greater than my pain
You who made a way for me
By suffering Your destiny
So tell me what’s a little rain

Holy, Holy, Holy
Is the Lord God Almighty

As the song came to its end ("Holy, Holy, Holy / Is the Lord God Almighty") and I started cooling down, an image floated into my mind: the people of my frail little church, singing those final lines in worship, in hope, in grace. And as they sang, the people of Heaven joined them. Sweaty, panting, my legs burning, I began to cry, my tears mingling with my sweat to run down my face. My heart felt close to bursting but I knew it was not from the running.

God visits us in our most naked moments, when we expect Him least. But what does it matter? We have nothing to offer him anyway, except our nakedness. And when He comes, when we get those fleeting glimpses of His will on earth as it is in Heaven, we'd better be listening with every atom of our being.