Weary Bodies, Worn Spirits: A Still Small Voice
“I can’t do this work if I don’t pray.”
Luke Lorentzen’s A Still Small Voice garnered a fair amount of attention at the 2023 Sundance Film Festival, and rightly so. The documentary is a hard sit for its ninety minutes, but it’s one that’s worth enduring. The film follows a chaplaincy program at a New York City hospital, depicting not only the interactions of the chaplains with patients, family members, and staff; but also showing their discussions together as they confront the emotional, mental, physical, and spiritual cost of this work. Any hospital sees its fair share of sorrow and death, but that was especially the case for a crowded city hospital in the throes of COVID-19. There’s been so much to grieve, and A Still Small Voice gives that grief center stage.
If that’s a bit of a hard sell for an audience, it’s a nearly unimaginable one for the chaplains and patients of Mount Sinai Hospital. A Still Small Voice primarily focuses on Mati, a resident in the program, as she meets with patients and families and as she conducts reviews and meetings with her supervisor, David, and others in her program.
Lorentzen worked closely with Mati and David to establish an intimate yet respectful way to bring this vocation to audiences. Mati’s patients were given the option of allowing Lorentzen to film as a complement to the chaplaincy care they were receiving. Surely many rejected the offer, but we see a glimpse of the lives of those who chose to incorporate it.
As we watch Mati provide care, we see the way small acts of compassion and understanding can reverberate. Mati is honest about the limits of her empathy, telling one patient, “I have no understanding of what your body is going through.”
It’s an astounding level of access—even troubling at times. We hear family members weep for the blame they feel, the regrets they can’t do anything about anymore. We watch a couple mourn the death of their newborn daughter, whose lifeless body they hold in their hands.
The grief devastates. And that’s partly what Lorentzen wants us to see, to understand: the grief is immense for patients, family, friends, and even for Mati. As time passes and exhaustion mounts, Mati’s grip on her own physical and emotional health starts to slip. Rather than blame her, we can’t help but wonder how she’s lasted this long bearing the weight of humanity’s pain each and every day. As David reveals during an open moment, “Well… it hurts. And I want to stop hurting.”
The documentary raises dozens of questions, many of which it can’t answer. But it seems much more curious about some than others, leaving potentially interesting threads unwoven. Another chaplain resident laments that their job is all they can do in a “system that creates a shitty experience at the end of life.” But that damning thought isn’t given any additional space.
There’s also little space for engaging use of the camera. While the intimacy of the scenes is stunning, there’s little for the camera to do except sit still, often removed from the room and with the subjects obstructed. On one hand, it’s an admirable posture of deference to those in crises; however, it feels like there’s a better use of the artform to be found here.
Thematically, the film is deeply intrigued by what faith can offer the patient and caretaker alike. Is faith a psychological crutch or a nourishing force? Many of the chaplains, Mati included, are animated by their religious belief, even as they wrestle with doubts. Even with such pain and doubts, however, the film identifies the vitality to faith—especially when faced with such suffering. As death is confronted on a daily basis, something must provide these men and women with strength to bear the burdens of the injured and dying.
The very title is a key here. The still small voice hearkens to Elijah’s encounter with God in the wilderness (1 Kings 19). At the point of exhaustion and desperation, Elijah cries out for respite, even for death. God’s response is empty of any bombast or judgment. God’s response is one that not only meets Elijah, but cares for his embodied nature and calms his troubled spirit.
Despite the weight, there are small breaths of grace throughout A Still Small Voice. Moments of levity with weary hospital staff. Times of celebration and affirmation. Prayers of rekindled hope. Even as Mati clashes with David, the point isn’t to cast either of them as the offending party. They are both flawed people responding emotionally to being pushed far beyond their physical, mental, and emotional limits.
A Still Small Voice is a film about worn down bodies and worn down spirits. We are moved to compassion not only for the patients of Mount Sinai, but also for Mati. And also for David. The villains in this story are only those that have been with us from time immemorial: disease, death, loss, grief, injustice. For those living and suffering the woes of such villains, how can we respond but with compassion?
