A Still Small Voice

 “And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind tore the mountains and broke in pieces the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire the sound of a low whisper.” 1 Kings 9:11-12 (NIV) (In other versions called a “still small voice.”)

Newspaper headlines after
the tornado that ripped through Hesston.

In March of 1990 I was living in Hesston, Kansas, when a powerful F5 tornado ripped through, destroying a third of the town. I watched from my basement window as debris whirled around the black cloud that passed only two blocks to the north west of my house. Although only one life was lost, many people suffered significant damage to their properties and the psychological scars cut deep. It was an extremely frightening event.

Torre Latinoamericana in Mexico City
from the sidewalk.

In April of 2012, I was with a group of students in Mexico City looking at the street below from the observation deck on the 44th story of La Torre Latinoamericana, one of the tallest building in the city. Suddenly the building began to rock significantly. It was more than the gentle sway when a strong wind buffets such a building. Below, people were scurrying out of buildings like rats fleeing a sinking ship. We were stuck in a skyscraper in the middle of a major earthquake. Even though there was little damage nor loss of life from the earthquake, it was an extremely frightening event.

In June of 1994, my family had just moved to Harrisonburg, VA. Esther had bread in the oven while we all were huddled in the family room in the basement watching a TV show. Suddenly, the smoke alarm in the kitchen went off. We hurried to the kitchen to see smoke billowing out of the oven. Soon the whole upstairs was engulfed with smoke. We called 911, and miraculously our neighbor was monitoring his scanner and rushed over to our house long before the fire trucks arrived. He was a volunteer firefighter and knew exactly what to do to contain the blaze to our oven. Apparently accumulated grease in the oven by the former owners caught fire and except for the quick action of our neighbor, our house could have been burned to the ground. It was an extremely frightening event.  

I was at a silent retreat in rural Pennsylvania. A group of about 40 contemplatives huddled in a small room practicing centering prayer for 20 minutes. I was used to practicing silence alone, in an isolated place, not with a group of people. I expected lots of distractions with so many people in the room. However, the silence in the room, despite the presence of so many people, was so thick you could slice it with a knife. Time stood still. The hunger for God in that small space was palpable. I was moved to tears. When the chimes sounded signaling the end of the twenty minutes, I could hardly believe it. I wanted to remain in silence, united with forty other souls basking in the eternal embrace of God’s love. It was an extremely rewarding event.

My personal life has not only gone through literal tornados, earthquakes and fires, as described above, but also many emotional upheavals. I often wished I could hear the voice of God speak to me in dramatic forms like in the wind, an earthquake or a fire. Like Elijah, I needed a direct message from God telling me what to do during my times of emotional stress and uncertainty. In spite of the wake-up calls that God gave me in the literal winds, earthquake and fire, they were not events that helped me to find the message I needed to hear from God. Indeed, the fear those events produced made me aware of the awesomeness of God’s presence in nature and sovereignty, but not the inner voice I needed to hear to assure me that I was indeed made in “God’s image and likeness,” and that I was “beloved of God.”

The event that spoke to me more directly was the “sound of sheer silence” (NRSV) experienced at the silent retreat I also described above. What is “sheer silence?” It is: utter silence, complete silence, total silence, and absolute silence, to use synonyms from the dictionary.

Few of us ever experience such silence. We are surrounded by noise. We are scared of silence. When we enter a room and are alone, we turn on the TV, a radio or a streaming music service to keep us company. “Sheer silence” makes us afraid. We are afraid that we must face the inner demons that surface in silence. Our culture supplies us with many noisemakers beyond those used to celebrate the New Year.

Throughout the silence that I experienced during the centering prayer exercise, I felt a unity with those around me that I had never experienced before in the same way. There were numerous denominations in attendance, and I’m sure many different interpretations of scripture and political persuasions. That didn’t keep us from being one in silence, and I believe in mind.

The “still small voice” that I heard in silence challenged me not only to spend more time in silence, but also to find unity within myself and with others. There are myriad voices within our psyches from our socialization that pull us in many different directions. In fact, when we are tormented by them, they could easily be represented symbolically by the wind, the earthquake and the fire. To still those voices, and to try to attain wholeness within (unity), we need silence.

Perhaps God speaks to us through a storm or some earth-shattering event. In my experience, however, God has spoken most clearly and at the same time most enigmatically, through the “sheer silence,” or the “still small voice.”

A True Friend

The summer I turned three, my family moved off the family farm (now Greenfield Restaurant and Bar for those familiar with Lancaster Co., PA) to become town dwellers in New Holland, PA. We lived on Locust Street in the first house (click on the link) in a duplex. Except for the fact that the duplexes weren’t connected together, our block comprised of what could be described as row houses on both sides of the street.

We were the only Mennonite family to live on the street, so we met quite a few interesting families in the neighborhood, including a Hawaiian family whom my father befriended. The man had just been released from jail for involuntary manslaughter due to an automobile accident, and my dad took him under his wing to help the transition back to life on the outside.

One of the other diverse families lived eight doors down the block from us. They were Catholic. They had a son Paul who was my age. If you grew up in the 50’s, I probably don’t need to define for you how most non-Catholic evangelicals, including Mennonites, viewed Catholics.

Paul and I became inseparable friends. He was an only child and his parents doted him with all the wordily goods children our age wanted. Our family consisted of four and grew to seven before we moved. Needless to say, there weren’t many extras at our house, so I spent all my time at Paul’s house. I remember my brother desperately wanting a baseball glove like all the other neighborhood boys. Since we couldn’t afford such a luxury, my mom sewed together a glove out of old material. My brother was so proud of the glove he ran right out to play, slapping his fist to form a pocket to catch a ball in. The other boys laughed him right off the field.

Paul had a sand box in his back yard, and we moved endless amounts of dirt with his front loader and dump truck. We played cowboys and Indians. He wore the chaps and strapped his pistol around his waist and he gave me the bows and arrows. He had a tent, so we spent a number of summer nights sleeping outside. I do remember the first night was a bit frightening. We heard a noise and got scared and ran home.

I can still visualize and smell his house. It was a mixture of cigarette smoke and beer—two smells totally foreign to me. Upstairs there were statues scattered around. In their basement was a workshop where his dad spent his free time working on various projects. And they had a TV! Of course, Mennonites didn’t have TV, so I would go over to his house to watch cartoons on Saturday mornings.

Other that a few Western shows, where we learned how to authentically play cowboys and Indians, we didn’t spend much time watching TV. We were too busy playing. The wide expanse of land on the other side of our house gave plenty of space for exploring. In the summer, the empty field was usually filled with corn. In and out of that we would run, inventing games as we went.

On the top of the hill behind my house was a church and a large graveyard. We remember Memorial Day ceremonies, where a troop of soldiers would come and after playing some patriotic songs, would shoot their guns into the air. Once we sneaked into the church basement through an open window. We played hide-and-seek in the Sunday school rooms.

In spite of the differences between Mennonites and Catholics, my parents never forbade our activities and friendship. Perhaps they warned me about the dangers of TV, or other things, but I don’t remember.

Our first separation came when school began. I went to the local elementary school for first grade, and he went to a private Catholic school. We could handle that, because we still had afternoons and summers together.

Our biggest separation came before I entered the third grade. Our family, having grown out of the little row-house, bought a house and moved to Goodville, some five miles to the east of New Holland. It was the summer that I turned eight. This was a bigger challenge. I was devastated. I can still vividly remember a dream I had that we had returned to New Holland, and when I woke up I was distraught. I wanted my dream to be real. I missed my friend Paul more than anything else.

One day, about a month after our move and just before school began, there was a knock at our side door. It was my friend Paul! He had ridden his bicycle, without his parents’ permission, all the way to Goodville to visit me! Five miles on a 20” wheel bicycle was quite a feat for an eight-year old. This was how much our friendship meant to him!

My mother, half in shock, called his mother to tell her where her son was. Paul’s mother was also in shock. They came in their car to retrieve him and the bicycle. I don’t know what punishment he received for his little excursion, but I can imagine it wasn’t pleasant.

Illustration by Maurice Sendak from a vintage ode to friendship
by Janice May Udry

I don’t remember having any contact with Paul after that incident. I returned to New Holland for high school, but he continued attending a Catholic school.

I’ve had many friends since Paul. But I don’t remember ever being as devoted to any other male friend as with Paul. This despite huge differences in upbringing and faith traditions. The innocence of childhood with the lack of socialized prejudices—what a refreshing reminder for an adult.

Have you had a best friend?

No Permanent Home

"For this world is not our permanent home; we are looking forward to a home yet to come.” (Heb. 13:14 NLT)

I have lived a privileged life. I have been able to work and study in places around the world, and have learned to communicate in various languages in the process.

In Latin America, I have lived for extended periods of time (for at least a year) in Honduras, Guatemala and Mexico. In addition, I have visited all but three Spanish-speaking countries as well as Brazil. I calculate that in all I have spent the equivalent of seven years in the region.

In Europe, I have spent significant time in Switzerland, the homeland of my spouse, and recently returned from a year there. In all, with our summer visits included, I’ve spent nearly four years in Switzerland. I studied for four months in Germany, and visited eight other European countries.

There are many things that I have learned from these diverse places and have incorporated significant lessons from each of them into my world view. I have also developed significant relationships with beautiful people from these places. In addition, people from all around the world have been in my classes; from Iraq and Kurdistan, from Paraguay to Puerto Rico; from Japan and China to India and many parts of the former Soviet Union. I keep in contact with them years after they were my students. Their understanding of the world expands my own.

Because of these varied experiences, I have often asked myself the question, “Where is home?” This difficult for me to answer, because even having been born in the USA, I often don’t feel at home here. Nor do I feel at home in any of the other places I’ve lived. I feel like a “stranger[ ] and alien[ ] on the earth” (Heb. 11:13) with no “permanent home.”

After we’ve returned to the USA from our various adventures overseas, many well-intentioned people ask us, “Aren’t you glad to be home?” assuming that things are much better in the USA than anywhere else in the world. First of all, the USA is not my wife Esther’s home. She was born in Switzerland, and all of her family still live there. Second of all, I have discovered that things aren’t always better in the USA. In fact, there are many things that are worse. But I can say this only because I have experienced other ways of doing and being.

So where IS home? The scripture I quoted above from Hebrews, says that we have no permanent home. Other versions say: “no continuing/ enduring/ lasting city.” I like the German “Hoffnung für Alle” version the best. (Loosely translated by me) “For on this earth there is no city where we can always feel at home.” This has been my experience.

Valley where the Emma River cuts through the Alps
to form the Emmental, where many Anabaptists lived before
being pushed out of Switzerland.

300 years ago, my ancestors were pushed out of their homeland in Switzerland. The Bernese government was so eager to get rid of them, they paid their passage on a river boat down the Rhine to Holland. Some tried to resettle in Germany, but were still considered second class citizens with lots of push-back from the locals, both neighbors and government officials. Many eventually emigrated to the USA when they learned of the invitation of William Penn and received aid from Dutch Mennonites for the passage across the ocean.

When they arrived in the USA, they were almost immediately confronted with the American Revolution, along with skirmishes with local Native Americans. Some moved farther west or to Canada. They understood better than we do the concept of “no permanent home.” They were refugees, “strangers and aliens” for several generations. This lack of permanence made them more dependent on God.

I am seven generations removed from those refugees. Most of their descendants have chosen an “enduring city,” and have become settled and self-satisfied where they live. It is easy to fall into this trap. I am not immune to these tendencies.

How do we avoid the propensity to build ourselves “permanent cities,” where we “always feel at home,” where we become smug and self-satisfied? Where we become less dependent on God?

1.     Move to another country and live for a year or more doing some sort of service with a mission agency or NGO.

2.     Get to know some refugees in your town, county or state. Listen to their stories, prepare them a meal, walk with them in their daily struggles.

3.     Get to know anyone who lives at the margins of your town. Every town has them, and if you don’t know who they are, you are living in a bubble.  

4.     Volunteer at a food pantry, soup kitchen, or social service agency in your town.

So where is home? Our home is not a permanent city in a particular geographical location. Our home is where we find our authentic selves apart from what our culture tells us to be—our true God-imageness.  Our home is where we meet with others who are also searching for their authentic selves. Our home is where we reach out to others to help them find their own God-imageness/ belovedness/ goodness. Our home is in Jesus’ kingdom that knows no geographical boundaries, political system, or cultural preference.

As a wise former student wrote, “Home is anywhere our soul finds rest.”