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The still, small voice

Bill D. Hallsted

Wally Schmidt

I spoke to you Sunday. I know you didn’t hear me. If I had needed any proof, it was there in your total lack of response.

It wasn’t really your fault. Even so, it is you who must bear the loss. What I had to say to you was important. I meant for Sunday to be a time when your life made one of those small turns that makes everything different from that point onward.

You know how that works, don’t you? Lives don’t often take sudden, drastic turns. Instead, they make very small adjustments. It’s like turning the rudder on a ship just a little. Though hardly noticeable, it changes the direction. The farther the ship travels from that point, the greater the distance from where it would have gone.

Your life would have been different, too. So many things that you will have to deal with now, you would have been spared. Some things that would have presented no great problem to you, will now be major obstacles in your path. If you had made that small change when I spoke to you, it would have been different. Then, by the time those things came along, your course would have removed you from their path. Now you must work your way painfully through them.

As I said, it wasn’t all your fault. I first spoke to you during the minutes just before the beginning of the worship service. I wasn’t surprised that you didn’t hear me then. So many people were milling about, talking, laughing, catching up on what had happened since last week. It was pretty distracting. When the leaders came down the aisle to begin the service, they had to veer around several who were still sharing some last minute words.

Not all of their words got said before the service. Some were still in progress as the worship leader stepped into the pulpit. I spoke to you again through his words. He was reading from my Word. I had arranged, by a small touch on his mind, for him to read those particular words Sunday. I wanted to speak to you through them. Unfortunately, the people sitting right in front of you were still busily sharing something that had happened during the week. Their excited whispers interfered with my Word. You just didn’t hear.

I spoke to you again through the words of one of the praise choruses. Again, I had designed that moment to speak to you. The words of the chorus were also taken directly from my Word. As they were being sung, though, you heard somebody mumbling a complaint about the style of the music. The complaint drowned out my words.

I wanted so badly for you to hear me, I kept trying. I tried yet again during the offertory. I knew that while the offering was being taken, the music I had prompted to have played would touch you in exactly the right way. You knew the words to that song, and they would speak to you. Unfortunately, the people sitting directly behind you thought it was the perfect opportunity to finish their conversation. Because the music made it hard for them to hear one another, they raised their voices to talk above it. Snatches of their conversation snatched away any chance for you to hear my voice.

Once again I tried through the special music. It was the wrong time. Too many people were getting things arranged comfortably in preparation for the sermon. Papers were being shuffled. Books and Bibles were being rearranged. Bulletins were being folded into purses and pockets. Besides being rude to the singer, this created far too much competition for my voice to be heard.

I was pleased to notice you were listening during the message. I touched your mind carefully to prepare you for the moment of decision you needed to make. I planned the right things to be said at the close of the message. It wouldn’t have been dramatic. Nobody but you would have even noticed. But it would have been a decision, a change, that would have made all the rest of your life follow a different course. I knew you would respond. All you needed was to hear my voice.

Just then, the people two pews ahead of you got up. They had plans, and wanted to exit as quickly as possible. They scooted out just as the right words were being spoken. As you watched them scuttle past, your attention was once again diverted. You didn’t hear my voice.

I spoke to you Sunday. I am the still, small voice of the Spirit of God (I Kings 19:12). I’m sorry you didn’t hear.

Bill D. Hallsted is a freelance writer from Griffith, Ind. He adds this postscript to his article: “We must keep carefully in mind, each time we assemble as the body of Christ, that God speaks through the reading of His Word, through songs and choruses, through meditations and prayers, and through the preaching of His Word. Let’s be attentive, not only to hear what He wants to say to us, but also to avoid distracting others to whom He also wants to speak. Instead of using intervals in the worship service as an opportunity to visit, let us use them as a chance to pray. Pray that you will not interfere with His still, small voice. Pray that that voice will be heard by those to whom He speaks.”

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Last modified May 4, 2000.

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