Selective hearing.

Anyone NOT been accused of that? Throughout the course of our lives we all develop a remarkable talent for selective hearing. Dale Carnegie said that hearing one's name is the most beautiful sound to the human ear (and he proved it personally with his gift of libraries, all of which bore his name). But that only applies when the one calling our name isn't a parent or spouse asking us to perform some chore. No matter what decibel level is used, kids can always fail to hear mom calling them away from the basketball game for dinner, just as all of us can keep directives to pick up socks and towels from ever crossing our eardrum's threshold.

One of the most enduring legacies of the raucous 60s rock music is an early onset of hearing problems for the Boomer generation. As Boomers move into their fifties, more and more of them are going to be sporting hearing aid devices of some sort to help them hear the world. As the consummate consumer generation of all time, Boomers' buying trends will spike new R&D in hearing aids. Our parents' and grandparents' clunky squealers that amplify all noise will be replaced by some sophisticated, electronic gadgetry probably with designer logos.

But it's not just our ears that are suffering from too much, too loud. Over the past two decades, research has discovered that excess noise has more impact on the body than just hearing loss. It also contributes to high blood pressure, elevated death rates from diseases of the heart and arteries, and damaged mitochondria (the power-generating structures of cells). Exposure to loud sounds stimulate free radicals throughout heart tissue causing injury to cells' DNA. Too much noise is bad for you. (For more see "Rackets and Radicals," Science News, 163 [01 February 2003], 68.)

The key to turning down the volume and tuning out some of the world's clamor is to find those frequencies and amplitudes that resonate with the truth. Accomplishing that feat takes a special filter, a "hearing aid" that doesn't just make everything louder, but that makes those things we need to hear clearer, while letting the rest of the din surrounding us disappear into a background of white noise.

It takes both horse-sense and refined sensibilities to make these distinctions. Some loud noises are good, bringing joy and lifting spirits with their volume. For example, proposed workplace regulations in the European Union would ban live performances of Beethoven and Mozart. At issue is a rule limiting noise in the workplace to 83 decibels. If the concert hall is deemed a workplace, a single trumpet can hit 130 decibels. The response of E.U. officials to the objection that such rules will make classical music unplayable is "Orchestras should give musicians ear plugs." [Reason, 34 (May 2002], 14.)

Obviously, a good example of a lack of horse sense!

On the other hand, refined sensibilities don't always mean fancy or ornate.

John Killinger tells the legend about "the simple shepherd's pipe once played by Moses when he kept his father-in-law's flocks. When the pipe was discovered, many years after Moses' death, it was decided that it should be put on display for the benefit of his admirers. But it looked far too common for such an important purpose, so someone suggested that it be embellished by an artist. A few centuries later, when the pipe was given a new home in an upscale museum, a committee said it needed improving yet again. So another artist was employed to overlay it in fine gold and silver filigree. The result, in the end, was a breathtaking piece of art, a marvelous sight indeed. It was so beautiful, in fact, that no one ever noticed that it was no longer capable of the clear, seductive notes once played upon it by Moses." (God, the Devil, and Harry Potter [New York: Thomas Dunne, 2002], 162-3.)

How do we tell what voices to listen to, whose advice to take, what directives are important, and what we should just let fall on deaf ears?

In today's gospel text the divine voice from the enshrouding cloud offered Peter, James, and John simple, straightforward words: "This is my Beloved Son, listen to him." The message and mission of Jesus was to guide the disciples, informing all their actions, influencing all else they heard. God's proclamation to those three disciples is the same for all who follow Christ today: Let Jesus be your high-tech hearing aid, filtering and clarifying what you hear and how you respond.

Listen to him. Or as Jesus put it elsewhere, "Learn from me."

The disciples had already heard from Jesus a message they didn't want to hear. Not only did Jesus declare that as Messiah he must suffer, be rejected, even be killed. He dared to intimate that things might not be all that peachy for those who followed him as well. All this talk about taking up crosses and suffering alongside the Messiah sounded more than unpleasant, more than unexpected. It sounded downright dangerous and distasteful.

Finding Jesus' words jarring and discordant, Peter had taken it upon himself to rebuke his master, rejecting his words, shutting his ears to the truth of Jesus' message. Fear kept Peter from hearing the unmistakable ring of truth in Jesus' voice. The transfiguration, that "sneak peak" at Jesus' glory and divinity, was designed to help the disciples stop listening to their fears and open their ears to the new and unexpected deliverance that Jesus preached and lived.

What's keeping us from hearing God's voice? Have you managed to develop you own selective hearing to the point that only a few mealy-mouthed platitudes about generally being "nice" define your Christian identity, your discipleship journey?

When God commanded Jesus' disciples to listen to him, God didn't add "sometimes," or "when it fits into your lifestyle," or "as long as it doesn't disturb the rest of your life."

God's message to us was simple and unadorned: Listen to him.

First and foremost listen to him.

Above all other voices, listen to him.

When everything else is loud and confusing, listen to him.

At the start of each morning and the end of each evening, listen to him.

Before you act, listen to him.

No matter what other languages you must learn, listen to him.

When you're especially busy and harried, listen to him.

When you're especially alone and despondent, listen to him.

In the face of tremendous pressures and temptations, listen to him.

In the aftermath of failures and frustrations, listen to him.

In the midst of celebrations and successes, listen to him.

The voice that informs a disciple's journey may not be recognizable or discernible to others. The world's ears are not attuned to the uncommon, unexpected sounds that accompany Jesus' instructions.

One of Christianity's most interesting desert-dwellers was Richard Rolle whose desert was the West Riding during the 14th century. He heard a singing, not a speaking silence. He liked to sit on the doorstep and listen. He wrote:

"It's the tune that makes the song, not the words. The listener in the silence will be living in splendor and fire, and marvelous music will exalt him. He will pay no respect to anyone, even if they do think he is an oaf or a bumpkin, because in the depths of his being there is praise of God and this jubilant song! For that sweet song is very special, and given only to the most special. It's not an affair of those cadences we listen to in church, not does it blend much with the human voice, nor is it often heard by human ears. But among angel melodies it possesses its own acceptable harmony, and those lucky enough to hear it speak of it with wonder and approval. I used to delight to sit alone, so that away from all the racket of life my song could flow more easily." (Ronald Blythe, The Circling Year [Norwich: The Canterbury Press, 2001], 59.)

What message is your life sending to the rest of the world? Does your life rebuke a suffering Savior, a servant Christ, a crucified Messiah?

Or does your life reveal that you're listening, taking seriously, patterning your own behavior, after the testimony of the crucified Christ?

Another possible ending to your sermon follows. The story is unattributed.

After a few of the usual Sunday evening hymns, the church's pastor slowly stood up, walked over to the pulpit and, before he gave his sermon for the evening, briefly introduced a guest minister who was in the service that evening.

In the introduction, the pastor told the congregation that the guest minister was one of his dearest childhood friends and that he wanted him to have a few moments to greet the church and share whatever he felt would be appropriate for the service. With that, an elderly man stepped up to the pulpit and began to speak.

"A father, his son, and a friend of his son were sailing off the pacific coast," he began. "When a fast approaching storm blocked any attempt to get back to the shore. The waves were so high, that even though the father was an experienced sailor, he could not keep the boat upright and the three were swept into the ocean as the boat capsized."

The old man hesitated for a moment, making eye contact with two teenagers who were, for the first time since the service began, looking somewhat interested in his story.

The aged minister continued with his story, "Grabbing a rescue line, the father had to make the most excruciating decision of his life: to which boy would he throw the other end of the life line. He only had seconds to make the decision. The father knew that his son was a Christian and he also knew that his son's friend was not. The agony of his decision could not be matched by the torrent of waves. As the father yelled out, 'I love you, son!'

He threw out the lifeline to his son's friend. By the time the father had pulled the friend back to the capsized boat, his son had disappeared beneath the raging swells into the black of night.

His body was never recovered. By this time, the two teenagers were sitting up straight in the pew, anxiously waiting for the next words to come out of the old minister's mouth.

"The father," he continued, "knew his son would step into eternity with Jesus and he could not bear the thought of his son's friend stepping into an eternity without Jesus. Therefore, he sacrificed his son to save the son's friend. How great is the love of God that he should do the same for us. Our heavenly father sacrificed his only begotten son that we could be saved. I urge you to accept his offer to rescue you and take a hold of the life line he is throwing out to you in this service."

With that, the old man turned and sat back down in his chair as silence filled the room. The pastor again walked slowly to the pulpit and delivered a brief sermon with an invitation at the end. However, no one responded to the appeal. Within minutes after the service ended, the two teenagers were at the old man's side.

"That was a nice story," politely stated one of them, "but I don't think it was very realistic for a father to give up his only son's life in hopes that the other boy would become a Christian."

"Well, you've got a point there," the old man replied glancing down at his worn bible. A big smile broadened his narrow face. He once again looked up at the boys and said, "It sure isn't very realistic, is it? But I'm standing here today to tell you that story gives me a glimpse of what it must have been like for God to give up his son for me. You see . . . I was that father and your pastor is my son's friend."