Hush: The Lost Art of Hearing God in a Noisy, Scrolling World
From my home in Akasia, Pretoria, I watch the purple haze of the Jacaranda blossoms give way to the stark, bright screens of a new age. My city, this beautiful, bruised Jacaranda City, is a microcosm of our global moment. We are more connected than ever, yet profoundly disconnected. Our pockets hum with the power of AI, promising seamless productivity, while our souls ache with a silence no algorithm can fill. We have curated feeds, but forgotten how to heed a voice. We have mastered communication, but lost the sacred discipline of listening.
This is not merely a social observation; it is a spiritual crisis of the highest order. And I believe the ancient, prophetic warning from the book of Proverbs speaks directly to our 2026 reality: “To answer before listening— that is folly and shame” (Proverbs 18:13). Haste slams the door to wisdom. To speak before you fully hear is to prescribe medicine before diagnosing the disease.
Let me tell you a story from last week. I was in a bustling coffee shop in Hatfield, waiting for the Gautrain. All around me, the theatre of modern isolation played out: students with AirPods sealing their ears, businessmen conducting meetings through cold screens, the gentle swish-swish of a thousand social media scrolls. My own phone buzzed with an article about the great AI hardware shortage of 2026, detailing how our relentless pursuit of faster processors is driving up the cost of the very tools we worship. And then, I saw him. An elderly man, perhaps in his eighties, sitting alone at a small table. He wasn't looking at a phone. His hands, gnarled and beautiful, were simply folded. His eyes were closed. For a full ten minutes, he just sat. In the cacophony of digital chatter and espresso machines, he was an island of profound, intentional quiet. He was listening. Not to a podcast, but to the space between sounds. To the memory, perhaps, of a loved one's voice. To the whisper of his own heart. To the still, small voice of God that is so often drowned out by our internal processors. In that moment, he was the wisest person in the room.
This, my friends, is our first, greatest error: We have confused data consumption for spiritual receptivity.
We scroll through verses on an app, mistaking the absorption of text for communion with the Author. We listen to sermons as podcasts while multitasking, believing the sound in our ears is the same as truth in our spirit. This is what the philosopher-theologians would call a categorical error. We treat the Word of God like another stream of content to be managed, rather than a living voice to be encountered. We have, as the scholar Dru Johnson might frame it, abandoned the Hebraic, "networked" philosophy of patient, pixelated listening taught in Scripture—where understanding comes through narrative, community, and ritual—for a Hellenistic, "linear" philosophy that demands immediate, autonomous answers. We want God’s wisdom as a downloadable report, not as a relationship cultivated in the quiet.
The consequence is a faith that is broad as the internet but shallow as a smartphone screen. We know about God, but we struggle to know Him. Our prayers become monologues launched into a cosmic void, rather than the second part of a conversation whose first part requires our silent, humble attention.
So, let us define our terms with biblical and logical precision, for clarity is the first step to repentance.
· Biblical Hearing (Shama in Hebrew): This is not auditory processing. It is a posture of the entire being—a compound act of attending, understanding, internalizing, and ultimately, obeying. When Deuteronomy 6:4 commands, “Hear, O Israel,” it is a summons to total engagement. It is the heron, still and focused, knowing the ripple beneath the surface signals the coming fish.
· Worldly Noise: This is the constant, curated barrage of information, opinion, anxiety, and entertainment that actively scrambles our spiritual frequency. It is the “haste” that Proverbs warns us about. In 2026, it is the fear of missing out on the next AI trend, the anxiety over global chip shortages, the pressure to perform and optimize. It is the inner clamor of our own unresolved fears and desires.
The logical argument for reclaiming this discipline can be formulated thus:
Premise 1: God is a speaking God who reveals His character, will, and wisdom through His Word and His Spirit (John 10:27; Hebrews 1:1-2).
Premise 2: Human beings, as His image-bearers, are created with the capacity to receive, understand, and respond to this communication.
Premise 3: Any capacity, when flooded by competing signals, becomes distorted and dysfunctional.
Conclusion: Therefore, to function as designed—to know God and walk in wisdom—we must systematically filter the noise and attune ourselves to His signal.
A common objection arises: “But my life is unavoidably noisy! I have responsibilities, a job in this frantic economy, a family to care for. I cannot retreat to a monastery.” And to this, I say a hearty Amen. I am not calling for monasticism, but for mission. The challenge is not to escape the noise, but to establish a beachhead of holy silence within it. You do not need a month in the desert; you need ten minutes on your balcony before the house awakes. You need the discipline to turn your car into a sanctuary of prayerful quiet instead of a news podcast chamber. You need to practice the “ritualized conviction” that Johnson describes—making a skilled, regular practice of turning down the world’s volume to hear heaven’s whisper.
Here in South Africa, we face a unique cultural syncretism. We blend a surface-level Christian vocabulary with a deep, underlying spirit of ubuntu that can sometimes be reshaped by postmodern thinking. Ubuntu says, “I am because we are.” But a twisted, modern version whispers, “My truth is because our circle affirms it.” This hyper-personalization of interpretation, as noted by thinkers like Nancy Pearcey, places authority in the hands of the reader, not the Divine Author. We listen to the Bible not to be shaped by it, but to find verses that support what we, and our community, already want to believe. This is not listening to God; this is using God’s words as an echo chamber for our own desires. It is the ultimate folly Proverbs condemns.
So, what is the way forward? How do we, in the age of AI integration and economic caution, become people of shama?
First, we must declare a personal information fast. Just as your body needs clean food, your spirit needs clean silence. Start small. For fifteen minutes a day, let your phone be a brick. Let your mind be un-entertained. Sit with the unsettling quiet until it becomes a welcoming sanctuary.
Second, we must practice reading Scripture with our ears, not just our eyes. Read a passage aloud. Slowly. Then read it again. And then, just as my friend in the coffee shop did, sit in the silence that follows. Let the words sink from your head to your heart. Ask not, “What does this mean for me?” but first, “What does this reveal about God?” This is the “ectypal” theology the Reformed scholastics championed—receiving knowledge as God graciously accommodates it to our finite capacity.
Third, we must listen to others as an act of worship. When your spouse speaks, your child chatters, your colleague explains—truly listen. Not just to solve their problem, but to honour the image of God in them. Listen to the heart-cry beneath their words. In doing so, you practice the very character of Christ, who always heard the plea others missed.
The convergence we need in 2026 is not between AI and IoT. It is the convergence of our distracted hearts with the attentive heart of God. Wisdom is not found in the next trending update. It is found in the eternal, quiet voice that spoke galaxies into existence and yet deigns to whisper to you in your quiet room.
Your ear is indeed the doorway. But Christ is the gatekeeper. He said, “My sheep hear my voice” (John 10:27). The promise is not for the brilliant, the tech-savvy, or the powerfully connected. It is for the humble, the still, and the listening. In a world shouting for your attention, dare to be quiet. Dare to be a heron by the water. Dare to be the elderly man in the coffee shop, folding your hands and closing your eyes to the frenzy, to open the soul to the only Voice that can say, “Peace, be still.”
The future may be built on silicon chips, but your soul, your family, your purpose—your very life—is built on hearing and heeding the words of the One who made you. Let 2026 be the year you stop scrolling for answers, and start listening for the Answer.
https://podcasts.apple.com/gh/podcast/the-discipline-of-listening/id1506692775?i=1000744938075
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