Elijah found God not in the earthquake or the fire, but in a sound thinner than wind — a whisper that could only be heard after the loud things had passed. This sonnet listens for that voice, and for the discipline that makes hearing possible.
The Sonnet
The world is loud — and I, too, full of sound, A clamor of opinion, news, demand, Whose endless chatter fills the inner ground Where once a quieter voice might come to stand. I sit, and slowly let the noise subside, And listen for the under-music there, The whisper that the wind cannot deride, The Word that breathes beneath the world's affair. It is not loud. It does not need to be. It does not interrupt or shout or claim, It only waits in patient constancy For ears that finally are still to hear its name. So teach me, Lord, to quiet what is loud, And find Your voice beneath this restless crowd.
Reflection
God’s voice does not compete with the noise of the world. It does not shout to be heard. It speaks at the volume of presence, not performance — and it waits, patiently, for ears that have grown quiet enough to receive it. The work, then, is not getting God to speak. The work is becoming someone who can hear.
This is a hard work in a loud time. Silence has become so foreign to us that even brief encounters with it feel uncomfortable. But beneath the chatter there is a voice older than any of it, a voice that has been speaking since the world began. To learn to listen for it is one of the great disciplines of the contemplative life — and one of its great gifts.
Find a few minutes of silence today. Sit with it longer than is comfortable. The Voice you are listening for has been waiting longer than you have. It does not mind the wait.
