He Speaks and the Sound of His Voice...

I attended the memorial service last week of a good friend, Mertie.  She had requested for her funeral a number of the old hymns that I recall from childhood but don’t get to sing much anymore because they are not in the Presbyterian hymnal.  The memorial service led off with a song I used to play on a 45rpm record almost every night as I drifted off to sleep as a child.  I found great comfort in these words as George Beverly Shea would sing them in his deep baritone voice:

I come to the garden alone,

while the dew is still on the roses,

and the voice I hear, falling on my ear,

the Son of God discloses.

And, He walks with me, and He talks with me,

and He tells me I am His own.

And the joy we share as we tarry there,

none other has ever known.

I believe that we come into this world with an ear far more attuned to His voice than we remember as we get older.  My grandson Drew, when he was very young (3ish) was fearful when going to bed one evening.  His Dad, my son Mark, told him that if he was afraid he should talk to Jesus.  Drew soon went quietly to sleep.  Mark asked him the next morning if he had talked to Jesus about His fears, to which Drew responded, “Yes.”  “What did he say?” Mark asked.  “He told me He loved me,” said Drew.

As I grew older and no longer went to sleep listening to my 45 recordings, I was influenced by some who doubt the simplicity of the words of this song and frowned at the thought that God might actually speak directly to me or that I might actually recognize His voice.  A pastor friend once even made fun of the words and scoffed that one could expect to hear His voice.  “God only speaks through His written word,” I was told, and the implication that follows is that what He says will follow a particular theological construct.  I’m afraid that I bought in to this line of thinking for a season and as a result began losing the ability to hear.  Thankfully, the One who speaks was  not intimidated by that assertion and was not inclined to discontinue the conversation or limit Himself to written words and a particular theology, but continued to pursue and to quietly whisper His words in my ear.

I was nearly forty before the hollowness of pure theology and my inadequate attempts to be a good Christian man were intercepted by the persistence of the One who speaks.  I began to learn with and through others (Robert, Jim, Buddy, Harold, Eugene, Phil, Lee, John, I love you guys.) the importance and the joy of silence, solitude, the prayers, Sabbath, and other disciplines for hearing.  I am a slow learner but I am rediscovering the sound of His voice...

He speaks and the sound of His voice,

is so sweet the birds hush their singing.

And the melody, that He gave to me,

within my heart is ringing.

Hardness of hearing does not go away easily and I find that the One who speaks seldom shouts or raises His voice.  Noise and business will invariably drown out any chance of hearing the whisper of His voice.  He is persistent, but He is not intrusive.  He is always present, even when I am not.  He speaks into desire not obligation.

I don’t have a garden like the song describes, but my neighbor has 85 acres of field and woods across the way. (See 8/8/11 post)  He has been gracious to allow me to mow a path around the field where I walk regularly, usually in the cool of the morning. It is quiet except for the birds, the flowers blooming and the mist of the early morning which makes the rays of the rising sun streak as they wind through the trees...

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,

and He tells me I am His own.

And the joy we share as we walk out there,

is as sweet as I have ever known.