Voices
from Silence
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Personal stories of engaging in silence by practitioners from the Global Majority Heritage (GMH) or Black and Indigenous Peoples of Colour (BIPOC) communities.* |
A quarter of the way into the new millennium the reality for many people from this community is that their lives and stories are sidelined. Their voices are silenced.
Although many people from GMH/ BIPOC communities have a spiritual practice of silence, authors from these communities have tended to write more about their experiences of silencing than of their engagement with silence-based prayer.
This new series is a way to bring some voices from the GMH/ BIPOC communities into the conversations and resources about silence on the Seeds of Silence website.
Although many people from GMH/ BIPOC communities have a spiritual practice of silence, authors from these communities have tended to write more about their experiences of silencing than of their engagement with silence-based prayer.
This new series is a way to bring some voices from the GMH/ BIPOC communities into the conversations and resources about silence on the Seeds of Silence website.
January 2026: José Humphreys III
'Silence and the sounds of the sacred in NYC'
Image: José Humphreys III
José Humphreys III,
Harlem, New York, USA. |
Listen to José reading his text, 'Silence and the sounds of the sacred in New York City'
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Silence and the sounds of the sacred in New York City
I’ve always held a conflicted relationship with silence.
I live in New York City where our decibel levels rank among the highest in the world. Our city even publishes a color-coded noise map, with 'light purple' marking the mildly noisy zones. Meanwhile, my neighborhood of East Harlem sits squarely in the deep purple, the places where sirens, motors, and everyday life accumulate into a constant hum.
In a place like this, silence can feel almost impossible; something reserved for people who live near mountains, not subway lines.
Yet as a contemplative, I’ve learned to hold two truths together: silence isn’t necessarily the absence of sound, but an attunement to the sounds of the sacred. A way the body and spirit learn to sift through the excess, soften the static, and reorient toward something deeper.
Like the noise-canceling headphones my teenage son wears to tune me out, silence teaches us to quiet the outer world just enough so we can tune into oneness with everything.
This attunement is not automatic. It asks the nervous system, which is often braced, vigilant, or overstimulated—to loosen just enough to notice what’s been there all along.
Being in this state of silence allows me to tune into things easily drowned out. For me, it’s listening to the birds of my barrio. After all, taking notice and considering birds is a monumental challenge in these NYC streets.
As a novice birder, I’m curious about my creaturely relatives in my neighborhood. Listening to birds has become a kind of training, not to escape the city, but to hear it differently, to search for the non-obvious within the obvious. The research shows that it can lessen anxiety and hypervigilance, which we New Yorkers have in abundance.
In Harlem, when I walk my dog down East 119th Street at dusk, I hear the chorus of chirps from small birds huddling together on one tree. These are House Sparrows, topping off their day during happy hour in Harlem.
My favorite to notice is the Blue Jay, although I’m not crazy about its screechy call. The screeching is a sign they feel safe because predators have migrated, and can now communicate freely with one another. In Harlem we call that 'hood knowledge'.
These everyday moments remind me that the sacred doesn’t always shout; often it speaks from the edges, asking only that we tune in.
There are holy sounds all around us. Some are obvious. Others take more listening and more intention to receive. But once we attune to it, we can encounter the divine amidst the sounds that get easily drowned out. Namely, through silence.
I sometimes think: the Divine could choose to go decibel for decibel with the noise around us to get our attention but instead chooses silence so we can attune to the sounds of the sacred.
And in that choice, something shifts in me too. Silence teaches me that the city’s noise doesn’t define the soundscape of my soul.
I live in New York City where our decibel levels rank among the highest in the world. Our city even publishes a color-coded noise map, with 'light purple' marking the mildly noisy zones. Meanwhile, my neighborhood of East Harlem sits squarely in the deep purple, the places where sirens, motors, and everyday life accumulate into a constant hum.
In a place like this, silence can feel almost impossible; something reserved for people who live near mountains, not subway lines.
Yet as a contemplative, I’ve learned to hold two truths together: silence isn’t necessarily the absence of sound, but an attunement to the sounds of the sacred. A way the body and spirit learn to sift through the excess, soften the static, and reorient toward something deeper.
Like the noise-canceling headphones my teenage son wears to tune me out, silence teaches us to quiet the outer world just enough so we can tune into oneness with everything.
This attunement is not automatic. It asks the nervous system, which is often braced, vigilant, or overstimulated—to loosen just enough to notice what’s been there all along.
Being in this state of silence allows me to tune into things easily drowned out. For me, it’s listening to the birds of my barrio. After all, taking notice and considering birds is a monumental challenge in these NYC streets.
As a novice birder, I’m curious about my creaturely relatives in my neighborhood. Listening to birds has become a kind of training, not to escape the city, but to hear it differently, to search for the non-obvious within the obvious. The research shows that it can lessen anxiety and hypervigilance, which we New Yorkers have in abundance.
In Harlem, when I walk my dog down East 119th Street at dusk, I hear the chorus of chirps from small birds huddling together on one tree. These are House Sparrows, topping off their day during happy hour in Harlem.
My favorite to notice is the Blue Jay, although I’m not crazy about its screechy call. The screeching is a sign they feel safe because predators have migrated, and can now communicate freely with one another. In Harlem we call that 'hood knowledge'.
These everyday moments remind me that the sacred doesn’t always shout; often it speaks from the edges, asking only that we tune in.
There are holy sounds all around us. Some are obvious. Others take more listening and more intention to receive. But once we attune to it, we can encounter the divine amidst the sounds that get easily drowned out. Namely, through silence.
I sometimes think: the Divine could choose to go decibel for decibel with the noise around us to get our attention but instead chooses silence so we can attune to the sounds of the sacred.
And in that choice, something shifts in me too. Silence teaches me that the city’s noise doesn’t define the soundscape of my soul.
José Humphreys III, January, 2026.
Alongside his ministry as pastor emeritus at Metro Hope Covenant Church, José is Founder of the Mosaic Collaborative, which works with organizations to bring contemplative leadership practices into everyday workplace rhythms: see here. This is a leadership consulting group committed to fostering transformation, growth, equity, and authenticity in leaders and organizations. It provides tailored coaching, strategic guidance, and organizational assessments that help clients navigate and thrive in today’s complex world.
* The terms 'Global Majority Heritage' (GMH) and 'Black and Indigenous Peoples of Colour' (BIPOC) refers to people whose backgrounds are from non-Western, non-White ethnic and cultural groups, reflecting the fact that the majority of the world’s population comes from Africa, Asia, Latin America, and the Middle East. These terms acknowledge the rich heritage of ancient Indigenous communities and challenge the traditional framing of racial and ethnic minorities by emphasizing that these populations are, in fact, the global majority.
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