Disclaimer & Release of Liability: Reader discretion is advised. May cause involuntary eye-rolling (whatever you’re looking for might be back there), fits of giggles, a raised eyebrow, a chuckle, or an involuntary desire to consult a higher power. Proceed with a sense of humor and wonder. You have been warned. Author not responsible for liability or lost or damaged items or sanity.
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. And on the eighth day, apparently, He created my neighbor, Todd, and bestowed upon him a state-of-the-art sound system with bass powerful enough to liquify internal organs. Now, I'm not saying Todd is the Antichrist, but if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode up to his house, they'd probably ask him to turn it down a notch.
It all started on a peaceful Sunday morning. I was enjoying my coffee, reading the newspaper, and contemplating the meaning of life – or at least trying to remember if I'd put on deodorant. Suddenly, the air was filled with the dulcet tones of "Amazing Grace," cranked up to a volume that would make jet engines jealous.
At first, I thought, "How nice. Todd's getting in touch with his spiritual side." Little did I know that this was merely the opening salvo in what would become known as The Great Hymnal War of Maple Street.
As days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, Todd's playlist expanded. We were treated to a never-ending loop of Christian classics, from "How Great Thou Art" to "I'll Fly Away." And fly away I certainly wanted to do, preferably to a remote island where the only sounds were gentle waves and the occasional coconut bonking me on the head.
Now, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against Christian music. Some of my best friends are Christians. Heck, some of my best friends are music. But there's something about hearing "Jesus Loves Me" for the 47th time in one day that makes you start to question whether Jesus loves you quite as much as the song claims.
I tried to be a good neighbor. I really did. I politely asked Todd if he could maybe, just maybe, consider lowering the volume a smidge. His response? "But brother, don't you want to be filled with the Holy Spirit?" I wanted to tell him that the only spirit I was filled with at that moment was the kind that comes in a bottle and helps you forget that you've heard "Kumbaya" more times than you've blinked.
As the days wore on, I found myself going through the five stages of grief, but with a musical twist:
1. Denial: "This can't be happening. Surely, no one can listen to 'The Old Rugged Cross' on repeat for 12 hours straight."
2. Anger: "If I hear 'Shout to the Lord' one more time, I'm going to shout something that's definitely not in the Bible!"
3. Bargaining: "God, if you're listening – and I know you are because the music is SO LOUD – please make it stop. I'll go to church every Sunday. Heck, I'll even join the choir!"
4. Depression: "What's the point of anything? We're all just dust in the wind... Oh great, now that song's stuck in my head too."
5. Acceptance: "This is my life now. I am one with the hymns. The hymns are one with me. Hallelujah. Pass the earplugs."
I started to notice changes in my behavior. I'd find myself humming "This Little Light of Mine" while doing laundry, only to realize I'd been washing the same shirt for 45 minutes. I caught myself responding to my boss's emails with "Amen!" and signing off as "Your Brother in Christ." I even considered changing my name to Christian Christian, just to really lean into the whole thing.
My friends started to worry. They'd invite me out, and I'd decline, saying I couldn't miss "Worship Hour" – which was really just me sitting in my bathtub with noise-cancelling headphones, trying to remember what silence sounded like.
I tried to fight back. I bought my own speakers and blasted death metal, thinking surely this would drown out the heavenly chorus next door. But no. Somehow, someway, "Onward, Christian Soldiers" cut through the noise like a holy sword, slicing my eardrums with its righteous melody.
In desperation, I turned to the internet for help. I googled "How to make Christian music stop" and "Is liking Nickelback better than this?" The results were... not helpful. Although I did learn some interesting facts about the mating habits of sea cucumbers, which, frankly, seemed more appealing than my current situation.
I even considered converting to another religion, thinking maybe that would grant me some sort of divine intervention. But knowing my luck, I'd probably end up with a neighbor who was really into Gregorian chants or had a thing for Tibetan throat singing.
As my sanity slowly slipped away, I started to see the world differently. Traffic lights became Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. The birds weren't chirping; they were clearly singing backup for a celestial choir. Even my toaster seemed to be popping out bread in time with "Pop Up, Jesus."
I began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this was all part of God's plan. Perhaps Todd was an angel sent to test my faith – or at least my patience. Maybe this was my own personal trial, like Job, but with more cowbell.
In my more lucid moments, I tried to find the silver lining. On the plus side, I now knew all the words to every hymn ever written. I could probably win a Christian music trivia night, if such a thing exists (and if it doesn't, I'm sure Todd is working on organizing one). My knowledge of biblical references was now so extensive that I could probably out-preach a preacher.
But the real breaking point came during what I now refer to as the "72-Hour Hallelujah Marathon." Todd, apparently feeling that his previous efforts had been insufficient, decided to play Handel's "Messiah" on repeat. For three. Straight. Days.
By hour 36, I was convinced that I could see angels dancing on the head of a pin – and they were all doing the Macarena. By hour 48, I had started my own religion, worshipping the God of Blessed Silence. By hour 72, I was fluent in tongues, although it might have just been gibberish brought on by sleep deprivation and an overdose of soprano high notes.
In a last-ditch effort to save my sanity, I decided to fight fire with fire. Or in this case, scripture with scripture. I marched over to Todd's house, armed with a Bible and a determination that would make a missionary proud.
"Todd," I said, trying to make myself heard over the chorus of "Glory, Glory, Hallelujah," "I think we need to talk about your music."
"Isn't it glorious?" Todd beamed, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his hair was vibrating from the bass.
"Oh, it's something alright," I replied. "But you see, I've been doing some reading, and I came across this interesting passage. Ecclesiastes 3:1-8. You know it?"
Todd's eyes lit up. "Of course! 'To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.'"
"Exactly," I nodded sagely. "And you know what it doesn't mention? A time to blast 'I'll Fly Away' at volumes that make birds actually fly away."
Todd looked confused. "But... praising the Lord..."
"Is wonderful," I interjected. "But remember Matthew 6:6? 'But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen.'"
"Yes, but-"
"And let's not forget Proverbs 25:17," I continued, really getting into the swing of things now. "'Seldom set foot in your neighbor's house, lest he become weary of you and hate you.' I think we can extrapolate that to include 'seldom let your music set foot in your neighbor's house.'"
Todd looked thoughtful. "I never thought of it that way."
"Plus," I added, going for the kill, "isn't there something about loving thy neighbor? Because let me tell you, Todd, blasting 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic' at 3 AM is not feeling very loving from where I'm standing."
To my utter amazement, Todd nodded slowly. "You know, you might be right. I got so caught up in praising that I forgot about caring. I'm sorry, neighbor. I'll keep it down from now on."
I stood there, slack-jawed. Had I actually won? Had the power of scripture prevailed where noise complaints and threats of legal action had failed?
As I walked back to my house, basking in the unfamiliar sound of silence, I couldn't help but feel a little smug. I had out-Christianed the Christian. I had bible-thumped the bible-thumper. I had...
"Oh, no," I thought, as a horrifying realization dawned on me. "I've become one of them."
But you know what? As I settled into my quiet house, enjoying the sweet sound of absolutely nothing, I decided that maybe a little divine intervention wasn't so bad after all. And if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, remember: fight psalm with psalm.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go listen to some death metal. You know, for balance.
Please hit that subscribe button like a sugared-up toddler at a birthday party piñata bash. It's still free — I haven't cracked the monetizing madness code yet.
But hurry, this offer is as fleeting as that cold coffee glob slowly forming a skin on your desk, taunting you with reminders of warmth's impermanence and our inevitable doom.