It drives me crazy.

It’s the moment in the concert where the strategically placed dynamic-shift occurs: the music slows; the pianos, strings and pads come out; the harmonies grow louder and more vibrant. It’s the moment where lyrics riddled with poetry and studded with metaphors begin to dominate. Beautifully crafted melodies emerge from their hibernation with the joyous sound of spring in their voice. (A little poetic, I’ll admit, but it’s Sunday. I’m allowed.)

And almost instantaneously it’s met by a defensive onslaught from the crowd. An onslaught of idle chatter. Restless, incessant boredom talk.

Just the other night I was at a concert, enjoying every minute of the show, when this very thing happened, just like clockwork, once the quieter moment arrived. The moment where the band relies more on charisma and character than distorted guitars and volume. The hit singles were over, and the audience suddenly didn’t know all the words. Talking literally erupted around me. Someone may as well have announced “Intermission!” from the microphone, it was that much of a contrast. I wanted to grab a seat, stand on it and yell “Shut up!” at the top of my lungs, like a lunatic ripe for the fruitfarm. I kid you not. I was more afraid of the singer hearing and thinking the abrupt verbal command was aimed at them than being hated by the crowd or getting taken away by security in a short bus.

Somewhere amongst the incongruity of the rude crowd grating harshly against the softness of the soft pianos and flowing melodies, I overheard some of what this ceaseless chatter was all about. Two women next to me were engaged in a conversation that went something like this: “We can drop the kids off and then run by the supermarket later.” To which the other woman enthusiastically replied, “Yeah, that could work! What time should I arrive?” Unbelievable. The singer was offering lyrics of awareness for poorer countries and loving the afflicted while these two were talking groceries.

The singer was telling an enlightened story, but nobody was listening. Really listening.

Robert McKee, a famous lecturer on the subject of screenwriting, has a profound thing to say about narrative:

[Narrative] teaches us what is beautiful, profane; what is worth living for, dying for; what is worth sacrificing for.

And it’s not just narrative that does this. It’s music, it’s poetry, it’s art, it’s story through people’s lives. But the thing is—and here’s the rub—these moments more often than not crop up where we are least likely to care to look. Taking the time to talk to an older person and selflessly listening to their story, their wisdom; investing time and effort into another person’s life, which results in them teaching you things where you thought you would teach them; Giving a special needs person the time of day . . .

The trouble is, the incessant chatter is always there, ever present, waiting to drown out the beauty. It’s waiting, so patiently, to tell you, me and the concert-chatterers that doing these things will be boring. Waiting to ruin the profound moment, telling us to keep the image alive, the image that says we have to be somehow better than what is happening around us by not being affected by it. To be better by looking down on it.

And when it comes to God, I find that I am just as bad, if not much worse, than the concert-chatterers, which, really, is rather disquieting. Scripture says, “The Lord your God in your midst, The Mighty One, will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing.”¹ But sometimes I wonder—rather, I know—that I am too bored, too immersed in my own ways, too tired or withdrawn to listen and, *gulp*, maybe even too immersed in myself to care.

Am I waiting for God’s hit single to come on where he answers all my deepest questions, fixes all my problems, and I know all the words He will say before they are spoken? Or am I willing to neglect my selfishness for once and realise that life is mysterious and beautiful, and He made it that way? And if I stop filling every quiet moment with mindless chatter, or rather, anything to stop the gap of silence, then I might just hear Him singing over me.

Or, better still, hear what He is singing over others.

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Stephen Garton is a recreational writer situated in Northland, New Zealand, passionate about digging into Biblical truths and sharing them in creative, easy to understand ways. He has written multiple short stories and a gaggle of poems. He also writes things of a decidedly diverse nature for his personal blog, Assumed Relevance. Read more of Stephen's Delve articles here.