In Defense of Sound

Sirens, Funerals, and a Still Small Voice

“‘Go out, and stand on the mountain before the LORD.’ And behold, the LORD passed by.”

~ 1 Kings 19:11a ~

My Bible was loud this morning. It isn’t always, I’m afraid. Each word or phrase of sacrosanct text must compete, on occasion, with unfinished tasks or unreasonable worry. A sentence or two passes without much awareness. The will to listen is regathered only for the disjointed rumble of the garbage truck’s early morning route to disturb the scene that needs to be pristine in order for me to hear. In order for me to listen.

Which is infuriating. That I need total quiet to discern God’s Word. That I need stillness as sterile as a cemetery to receive God’s voice. On some level, I guess, I’m starting to accept that as long as my relationship with sound, internal or otherwise, persists in disrepair, God will always be hard to hear.

But this morning, my Bible was loud. Quite boorish, really. Rudely screaming eight silent words, “Be still and know that I am God” (Ps. 46:10).

Right now, I’m sitting in Bryant Park in the heart of New York City reading a book and sipping on a fruit smoothie with the delightful name “Pick me up.” To my left, a siren wheezes to life, echoing off buildings that rise out of sight beyond the treetop canopy. As its intensity increases, my mind begins to wander: “Every siren contains a story. An emergency. Something world-altering. A birth. A heart’s arrest. One last drive. Well, before a hearse I guess.”

On my way here, I saw a hearse on Fifth Avenue, just outside St. Patrick’s cathedral. The church is a gothic beauty adorned with competing steeples piercing the city skyline like mountainous peaks among pure opulence. I stood transfixed; statued by the sight. Not enamored by the architectural wonder but by the scene and the sounds unfolding.

Several priests, some young, some old, all ornately dressed, processed to the back of the hearse where the door was held ajar by a man who could pass as secret service. With wands in hand, each priest seeded this carriage of death with holy water, muttering what was undoubtedly some version of final rites.

Each move was meaningful. Each prayer powerful. And every sound of the city street blanketed the somber scene with chaos and beauty.

The siren shook me back to Bryant Park, dissolving this recent memory. Not due to its volume, but because of its peculiarity. Most sirens pulsate almost politely. Announcing their presence with urgency but without intent to deafen, disturb, or startle. This one, though, screeched like the child to my right as her mother collected her meal among the garbage, callously announcing, “You’ve had enough!”

The siren concentrated its force on a particularly high pitch, an operatic note that tremored the glass in the surrounding skyscrapers. Refusing to relent, the siren gripped the singular pitch with such vigor that even the busiest paused and turned their heads, or at least raised an eyebrow in marvel.

The man next to me removed his noise-canceling earbuds with a smile and a hint of disbelief. “My gracious!” he blazoned with a thick European accent, “that’s bloody loud!”

Without warning, he swiveled the screen of his laptop in my direction, “Look what I’m reading!”

Filling the display was a chart with jagged, EKG-like lines radiating up and down like compressed steeples. He fired off a stilted laugh, startling me a bit. The “Ha!” exploding like the uncontrollable sound I made as a child when a soccer ball slammed into my stomach forcing all air from my lungs.

“It’s a study,” he accented, “about how to manage noise in a city.”

A feral smile invaded his face, “We hear you!” he shrieked over his shoulder toward the receding siren. “We bloody hear you!”

I laughed. Politely nodded. And settled back into my book, smoothie in hand.

It didn’t take long, though, to realize I was reading but I wasn’t receiving the words. Paragraphs passed with little to no comprehension. Re-reading what I just read did little to help. It was the loud voice of my Bible piercing my present, haunting me with its simple command: “Be still and know…”

So, surrendering to the Psalms suggestion, I let the book close on my thumb as I became oddly attuned to the noise now baptizing me.

There’s always a subtle stirring in the city. A resilient murmur without repose. Like persistent white-noise composed from city soundscapes. A woman nearby inquires over the phone about a doctor specializing in TMJ. Just paces away a walkie-talkie affixed to a hip erupts on the sidewalk as a pigeon flaps desperately overhead to escape the angst of an impatient patron. Plates rattle in the distance, pinging this way and that, as dishes are stacked and unstacked in preparation for the fast-approaching lunch hour under the umbrellaed terrace. Wheels of a garbage can chatter back and forth between the grout and each brick paving the trafficked path. Puckered lips smack incessantly to garner the attention of the unleashed dog following the scent in their snout instead of the sound of their master. A nearby conversation ebbs and flows like lackluster waves at the base of a cliff speaking a language unfamiliar. And then. Another siren. Rising. And falling. Both in pitch. And in volume. Now swirling. Desperate for attention.

So much of sound is taken for granted. Endured; not appreciated. Like most art. At least these days. Efficiency doesn’t blend well with sound. A truth that lines the pockets of audio engineers creating the latest noise-cancelling contraption. Sound just requires too much attention. Demands too much energy. Disrupts what we deem important. What we find valuable.

Yet sound doesn’t seem as offended as I. Doesn’t ask for my defense. Even still, I feel compelled to write its apology. A reasoned exploration of its value. Its importance. Its beauty.

The sound of rushing water, science argues, has medicinal properties. The sound of a mother’s voice, babies attest, has soothing power. The sound of a well-crafted jingle, marketers prove, has siren-like qualities, drawing us closer and closer still, even if our credit card announces impending calamity. A sound in the night haunts our slumber. An alarm in the morning beckons a new day. A stove’s piercing beep signals a recipe’s transformation. A garage door’s jolt is a delightful declaration that “Mom’s home!” Doctors don’t relax until they hear the sound of a child’s first cry. Athletes don’t quit until they hear the sound of a game’s final buzzer. Audiences don’t applaud until they hear the sound of silence after a symphony’s masterful cantata.

Sound creates intrigue in cinematic scenes, invites contemplation in liturgical settings, adds ambience to select social gatherings, and even gives sight to sonar-dependent, winged terrors of the night. Sound guides, comforts, cautions, beckons, heals, steadies, soothes.

All of which is missed—disregarded if not discarded, ignored if not maligned—if we simply don’t know how to “Be still.”

To simply “be.”

In God’s presence.

In God’s Word.

In his beloved creation.

Saturated with sound that carries a cadence as predictable as a pulse and as whimsical as the wind itself.

To hear God’s voice, we must repair our relationship with sound by learning to “Be still and know.”

I agree, sound needs no defense. It gets by just fine without one. But I wonder if sound still deserves it.

At least from someone.

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