listening heart, The

Spiritual Life, Fall 1998 by Doran, Austin

I WAS A TWENTY-FOUR-YEAR-OLD SEMINARIAN IN 1976 when I noticed that I was quickly losing my hearing. It was a realization which I stoutly resisted. I overlooked the evidence of my hearing loss for as long as possible, and I began painfully to accept it only as it became undeniable. At the end of a theology lecture, during which I had strained and struggled to hear the professor, I turned in my exasperation to a classmate to complain: "For Pete's sake, why doesn't that man speak up?" Puzzled by my vehemence, my fellow student could only respond, "I can hear him OK." His answer surprised me and left me wondering about other times I had trouble hearing.

Soon thereafter I was in my seminary dormitory room caught up in the beautiful sounds of Chopin on my radio. I presumed the music was playing at a moderate volume, but in fact it must have been blaring because my neighbor, normally friendly enough, descended on me to announce with righteous anger, "I'm sick of your loud music! You're annoying everyone on the hall; you must stop it!" Slowly it was dawning on me that I could not hear as others could. Still, I managed to put aside this thought and go on with normal life.

Hearing: Lost and Regained

In those days, as part of my pastoral training, I was assigned to minister to the sick once a week at a large downtown hospital. My frustration mounted as more and more frequently I misheard the patients whose voices were often softened by weakness, hushed so as to confide, or overpowered by background din. At times I could only guess at what the patients were talking to me about. The acute discomfort of those pastoral encounters, with so much depending upon careful listening, began to pierce my denial. By the time I was ready to share my unhappy conclusions about my hearing loss with others, I found that some of those closest to me had noticed my problem and were awaiting the opportunity to share their concern with me.

I went to talk it over with the seminary Rector. A tall, authoritative, deep-voiced Bible scholar, he was caring and perceptive. After listening to me and offering me encouragement, he read my anxious face and asked, "Austin, are you finding this hearing problem hard to accept? Does it feel to you like some kind of disaster or personal failure? Are you blaming yourself as if you'd done something wrong?" I squirmed and admitted, "Well, maybe a little," unable right then to tell the Rector that he had put into words my exact feelings. I realized that I had a hearing loss, but was still far from accepting it. I was anything but peaceful.

My biggest help in coming to grips with this problem was my older brother, Brian. Brian had been ordained to the priesthood several years earlier after having lost much of his hearing while a seminarian. When he lost his hearing, there were some difficult months for Brian when it seemed that he would not be permitted to become a priest. In time, Brian had allowed his hearing problem to become an occasion of spiritual help for others. As a priest he devoted himself to the pastoral care of deaf people, a ministry in which he continues to this day. My brother counseled me with great compassion. From his own experience he knew the sense of doom and inner turmoil I was feeling. With his help, I began to feel hopeful.

Though still deeply troubled about losing my hearing, I found I could "borrow" some of my brother's peace while searching for my own. Brian also got me into the hands of an excellent ear specialist. The doctor determined that my hearing problem had expressed itself a bit differently from my brother's, and that I was a candidate for a newly developed surgery which was likely to restore my hearing. It seemed that no sooner had I begun to accept the loss of my hearing than it was being handed back to me through this medical miracle. Over the Easter vacation I went into the hospital overnight for the surgery and was told that it would take several days before the hearing would return.

Some six days later my hearing returned, not little by little but all in an instant as I was visiting the seminary chapel for Sunday evening benediction. My newly opened ear found the sound of the organ a shocking blast, and the singing of my fellow seminarians was frighteningly loud to me. The sheer intensity of noise forced me to leave the chapel, and, as I walked to my room, my own footsteps seemed to ring out like violent cracks of thunder. The moment was exciting, but also scary and not particularly pleasant. It was only in the days that followed, as the novelty and the sensation of sudden intensity passed, that I felt the joy of being able to hear well. I discovered that the restoration of my hearing was no mere convenience, but transformed the emotional atmosphere in which I lived. I found that I could relax in the classroom and in casual conversation. I did not have to be in charge, constantly vigilant lest I miss something. I no longer had to try to be in control and always on the alert. I was free to just be there and participate. I now felt at home in places where I used to feel threatened and defeated.