The Redemption Project - Silence

And after a day of such tragedy and sadness, there is silence.

After the horror, the painful screams of Good Friday, Scripture falls silent; because, everyone has gone to their homes, taking their Sabbath rest and fearing what might come next.

Silence punctuates these days in which we find ourselves. The traffic on the highway and interstate, normally a low hum in the background is barely a whisper. After dark, there are few cars out driving. It is, almost, peaceful.

But it's an illusion. Not far away are hospitals that are anything but silent. The sound of labored breathing and coughing, the beep and hum of machines fills the rooms. Behind the locked doors of the grocery stores, pallets drop, boxes are opened, shelves are refilled as rags brush every surface in an attempt to scrub away this virus.

And behind the locked doors of every house we pass on our evening walks, there is noise. For some, it is the noise of movies or games that pass the hours before bedtime. But in many there is that internal noise, the noise of fear and anxiety, which is louder than a jet engine and cannot be turned down with a knob or a remote. What will happen now? What might happen to us?

Those are the disciples' questions this day. Scattered, separated from one another, they wait and wonder if the Romans would come for them next. Would that woman from the courtyard, Peter thinks, mention me to someone? If caught up in a harassing crowd of soldiers, will she offer me up as trade? I know where you can find one of that man's, that messiah's followers.

Any moment the door could open and the threat that had killed their friend would find its way into their homes.

Throughout the day, even Jesus is silent. He, too, is locked away. In darkness, alone, behind a great stone, Jesus says nothing. The reverberations of his cries yesterday have faded. His voice, God's voice has been muted. The same throat that could bring galaxies into being has been suffocated and stolen.

But that, too, is an illusion.

Christians are an Easter people. Our faith is grounded in the reality that love is more powerful than any force on earth, even death. We proclaim that all things are already being made new, and the dawn is coming. But, we live in Holy Saturday. We live in the silent, anxious moments where death appears to be so powerful, and we have no idea what might happen.

It can seem that God has fallen silent. It can seem that we are all alone, locked behind our doors hoping that this plague does not discover us, that we are not betrayed into its hands. It can feel that Christ is locked away as well, silenced behind stone.

But even in darkness, that voice, the Voice is not silent. And if we listen, into the apparent silence, we find love is there, speaking.

Trinity Sunday

John 16:12-15


"There's so much left I want to tell you," Jesus says, "but you can't handle it right now." You see, Jesus is going away. And before he goes, there are things he wants to tell his friends. But looking into their faces, seeing their eyes, he knows that to say all the things that he wants to say would crush them beneath the weight of the words.


Originally, when reading this week's selection from John's Gospel, I thought that these words were very appropriate for Trinity Sunday. Most of us cannot bear the difficult concept of this mysterious God who is one but at the same time is three. That Jesus was this one but was also in relationship with the one. Indeed, we say, we can't bear that right now especially during a holiday weekend.


But as I thought about it, I began to think about this statement in the context of Jesus' goodbye. I've so often thought of these words as implying some teaching or point of faith or revelation of the mystery of the Divine that Jesus knew would blow the disciples' (and probably our) minds. However, listening to those words while I am in the midst of saying my own goodbyes to the people and places that have made up this chapter in my life, I hear them differently.


I think about the moments of late when I have stood face to face with a friend who, for reasons of geography, I may never see again. Standing there, usually with some chaos going on around, I find myself wanting to cram in months and years worth of words. I want to say how much they've meant to my journey, to my life. I want to tell them that they've been important to me and been a part of the changes I've undertaken during my time here. I want to say how hard it is to imagine that between here and the next world I may not see them again. I want to tell them that they are loved.


Yet, as I begin to say some of these things I can see in their eyes and written upon their face perhaps the same thing that Jesus saw in his friends. I see shoulders that cannot bear the weight. I see tears on the edge of falling. I see a heart fragile enough to break. And, out of caution, I know that though there are things that I want to say they cannot handle them right now.


Perhaps Jesus still holds back the words sometimes. Maybe those moments when it seems the Heavens respond only with silence are like those moments I've experienced of late. Rather than there being nothing to say, Christ has too much to tell us. And no matter how much Our Beloved longs to tell us, Jesus knows that we are not ready, at that moment, to hear how wonderfully we are loved.


One God who is also three, teach us to live in communion as you live amongst yourself. And help us to love as we are loved.