I want to talk today about two
of the things we fear about this season: Silence and darkness. Both of these
things that seem at first like things to be avoided at all costs are also necessary
to give this season the depth of meaning that it has.
I’m not just talking about silent moments, either. I was editing
this sermon last night after watching the kids all day, and I was desperate for
silence, but Elias was still awake, Kate was watching TV, I was overwhelmed by
noise and touch. Seriously, why do the kids have to always be touching me? I mean, I love snuggling on the couch for an
hour, but why does one of them need to be sitting on my chest for the next
five?
Anyway, that reprieve of silence at the end of the day is
obviously good, but there is something even more meaningful about silence that takes
us from relief into uncertainty before encroaching even upon discomfort.
Silence, like darkness, provides depth to the human experience, it forces us to
confront things as they really are; it turns our autopilot off and forces us to
think, to feel, and to live in the uncertainty.
Yesterday was the shortest day of the year—the winter
solstice. For six months, things have been getting darker and darker. With the
encroaching darkness comes a weightiness to the season, a certain gravitas that
we can feel whenever we wrest ourselves away from the shiny lights of commercialism
and the busy-ness of responsibility. Perhaps this is why we fill our lives with so much this time of year. We fear the
heaviness of the dark and the pregnant silence that comes with it. It is a
season that bears the hopes and fears of all the years, as the hymn (O Little
Town of Bethlehem) says.
God doesn’t show up in a light, airy moment. The Gospel
accounts of the lead up to Jesus’ birth, the birth itself, and its
repercussions all bear witness to a world in the throes of a long night. A
petulant king fights back against a dangerous child—it sounds like The
Mandalorian… or America 2019; history just circles back in on itself. The hopes and fears of all the years are met
in thee tonight.
Today we read about Zechariah, the father of the John,
who would become known as John the Baptist, cousin to Jesus. Zechariah receives
a promise from an angel that he and his wife will have a son in their old age.
Sound familiar? History circles back around—Abraham and Sarah become Zechariah
and Elizabeth. But she couldn’t have been that
old; after all, her sister, Mary, must have only been a teenager. So, in
Zechariah’s case, his lack of belief seems like it has less to do with
biological impossibility and more to do with mistrust of the unknown. Who doesn’t,
really? Whose first reaction to angels wouldn’t be that they were being punked?
Who doesn’t doubt?
Still, because of his response, Zechariah is rendered
mute. He can’t speak from the time the angel proclaims the coming child to the
moment of his naming. That silence is itself a theological statement on how we
are to wait. Zechariah is not being punished. He is being forced, like so many
before and after him, to experience the silence between words where God moves.
We massively undervalue silence. I caught a few minutes
of the Democratic debate on Thursday. I actually watched it on mute on my
computer for a minute and could tell who was yelling, who was desperately
trying to get their talking points in, and who was trying to stay
composed—hint: it’s always the women who have to act composed—shocker. But whether
they were a ranting lunatic or cool and composed, everybody was looking to get
their share of speaking. There are trackers nowadays who count the words each
candidate speaks in each debate as a way of measuring influence. More words,
more power. Nobody exemplifies this more than the president, who says plenty of
words, plenty loudly, often in all caps on Twitter. It hardly seems to matter
what the words are—words are power in a world of politics.
But the kingdom of God is nothing like this. God’s living
Word, the Christ-child born in that manger in Bethlehem, enters the world in silence—Silent Night, we sing—just as Jesus’
uncle, Zechariah, spends Elizabeth’s pregnancy forcibly engaged in that spiritual
practice. And what is it that jars him back into speech? The name of John. The
simple ritual of a name. It is the crescendo of meaning wrapped up in the gifts
we are all waiting for—the somedays that are made manifest on Christmas Day.
We need to blast through all the trappings, all the
tinsel, and even the music and the lights. This is the time of year to linger
in the dark, to remain thoughtful and present, to turn off the news, to shut
out the opinions you disagree with and the opinions you are agree with, and to wait
in silence. Or you are going to miss it. Only if you are like Zechariah will
the Gospel hope reveal itself to you.
Zechariah’s
song is often forgotten because of Mary’s Magnificat, which has become the
anthem of faith for downtrodden people the world over, and for good reason. Yet,
Zechariah’s song is nearly as brilliant, just as poignant, and may be as
meaningful for all of you who carry any weight of grief or anxiety with you
this holiday season. The whole thing is worth reading again, but I’m just going
to pull out my favorite line from v. 78: “By the tender mercy of our God, the
dawn from on high will break upon us.”
The
birth of John and the forthcoming birth of Jesus are moments where the reign of
God breaks into our world, but it does so not in the dramatic Avengers or Star
Wars way that we tend to wish it would. The
dawn from on high will break upon us. That is a startlingly soft image. By the tender mercy of our God. These
are not words from a place of power. They are words that belie a powerlessness
in the face of an empire that seems to hold all the cards. Even as they are
being spoken, Herod is plotting to have the child killed.
The
dawn appears fragile, but it is persistent and irresistible. You can’t stop it.
The light is coming. But far from telling us then that darkness is bad, we are
called to linger in the darkness for a time, to sit in silence, because all
those fears that speak to you when you shut off the news and have nothing but
your conscience to keep you company—all those fears—are nothing compared to irresistible
word of grace that is incarnated each Christmas Day. The dawn from on high will
break upon us, and it won’t just be revealing you for the broken creature you
are—it will show you a Savior who comes into the space between the silence and
brings hope.
There is a subtle lie we have been told about darkness
and silence. We’ve been told that darkness is bad, that silence is bad, and that
we are to fill our lives with as much light and noise as we can. And the reason
we have been told this is because preachers have hijacked these metaphors,
which have their place, but darkness is not only about sin, and silence is not
only the place where God is absent. In fact, just as often, it’s the opposite.
Our desire to constantly live in the
light has real, profound implications for those of us who feel the darkness
of grief, and the sadness of loss, and for those who see signs of joy in the
midst of it all. You cannot solve your grief by turning to the light; to some
extent, you have to linger in the darkness. The darkness is the canvas on which
God paints the universe. I’m reminded of Bob Ross, doing those Joy of Painting
episodes, which I watch on YouTube more than I should probably admit, and who
said time and again this little bit of wisdom: You need darkness so that you
can enjoy the happy times, too.
We need silence as well. We have grown up afraid of
leaving too much silence between one another, and our unspoken words betray a
world where God speaks to us not in the earthquakes or in thunder or by fire
but in the utter silence that follows. God meets us only when we stop talking. Some
people need to hear that most desperately.
Even John, born with the expressed purpose of preparing the
way for Jesus, begins this preparation by heading off into the wilderness. He
literally takes off into the darkness—the place that everyone fears. We don’t
need to leave people behind to live our faith like John, but we do need to
create space for God between us. The silence has a gravity to it, but it is
this silence that makes the ultimate bursting into song more powerful.
Musicians know that the space between notes is what gives the music its
meeting.
So, whether today you feel trapped in the dark or you are
reveling in the light, whether you feel like bursting into song or can’t even
begin to put things into words, whether you see or cannot see the path in front
of you, and whether you want to or not, God meets you here.
In silence—in darkness—in all the places the world isn’t
looking, God meets us.
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