Silent Fly

I couldn't hear it make a sound.

Under the light of my desk lamp, between it and my open bible, I saw a fly. Not a housefly, but some sort of flying insect. It was tiny and brown, with quick little wings. It flew rather well. The lone light in the room beckoned it, and as the fly would meet the siren, it would quickly bounce away; the landing was too hot to handle.

I saw the fly. Oddly, I couldn't hear the fly. I listened close. I even leaned in. I heard the passing cars on the street below, through a closed window. I heard my roommates down the hall, through a closed door. I heard the air conditioner blow, through an open vent. But I couldn't hear the fly. I could see it right in front of me, but I couldn't believe I couldn't hear it. It was strange.

Psalm 119 silently watched as I watched the silent fly. Eventually, my attention returned to the task at hand - reading Scripture. I would read a few verses, then, again, there's that fly. I would watch it float.

Read a verse.

Watch the fly.

Read.

Watch.

Verse.

Fly.

Listen.

How often do I read Scripture, but not hear it? The whole point of (devotionally) reading the Bible is to hear God speak through it. So, do I hear anything?

I started to think that, like the fly, the whispers of God can be drowned out by cars, roommates, air conditioning and a million other things. It takes a certain discipline to listen, and to hear through the noise what God might wish to say in that moment.

I didn't have any special revelation from Psalm 119, though I did enjoy meditating on it. This morning I was lying on my floor, as is my prayer custom every once in a while, listening for the whisper of God. I was challenged with the word I preached a few weeks ago, that Christ bids us to come and die. That calling can be for anyone, at any point. It could be for me. That's a scary thought.

I heard the words spoken to Paul echo in my memory, "I will show him how much he must suffer for my name." Those aren't comforting words. But if Jesus wasn't spared the terror, why should his disciples expect any different? As one smart guy once said, "Jesus lived in the tension of the confidence in his calling, and the terror of where that would take him." Again, why should his disciples expect any different?

I figure there's an easy way to avoid that end: I could stop listening for God. But then like Peter I think, "Where else would I go? Only you have the words of eternal life." Ironically, life and death are bedfellows in kingdom economics.

Where will this crazy thing called faith take me? Only God knows. Is it scary? A little bit. But it's scary to think I could live an entire life not walking into the works I've been prepared in advance to do. I don't want to live like that. I want to listen to the whisper to ensure I take each step I need to take.

In the midst of the noise, I want to hear the sound.