The sound of silence. . .

In the depths of the pandemic, the cities were quiet, the streets empty, the sidewalks deserted, the shops and restaurants abandoned, and even the churches were uninhabited.  For some it was a welcome silence.  The world is, to be sure, filled with noise.  But it should also be filled with the sounds of life.  It was this sound of life that was missing as people confined themselves to their homes.  Buildings which once hummed with the sound of business, industry, and academia were left unoccupied as people not only lived at home but worked from home and their children went to school online.

I thought I would enjoy the quiet but the truth is it drove me crazy.  Especially the quiet at the church.  I found the absence of the preschoolers, study groups, scout troops, meetings, and people stifling.  It was as if the world had come to a stop.  The biggest casualty of this unplanned silence and unwelcome quiet was joy.  Maybe you found also that interaction with people (both good and frustrating) was part of what filled your day with meaning, joy, and comfort.  Instead, I was alone with my fears, stresses, anxieties, and angst.

It got me thinking a bit.  In the past I have longed for more silence in the liturgy.  Now, with fewer people in person in worship and people not coming early and leaving right on time, there is more silence.  But the silence is not the helpful silence in the face of something awesome and mysterious.  It is the silence of loss as we reflect on what was before the pandemic and what is now.  This silence is more a mark of what was but should not have been than the silence that fits the liturgy.  Within all of this, I recalled a passage from Revelation.

“Babylon, the great city, is cast down with violence, and will never be found again. And the voice of harpists, musicians, flute players, and trumpeters will never be heard in you again; and no craftsman of any craft will ever be found in you again; and the voice of the mill will never be heard in you again; and the light of a lamp will never shine in you again; and the voice of the groom and bride will never be heard in you again” (Revelation 18:21-23).

This silence was a mark of judgement not of blessing.  How aptly it described what happened within the churches during the long haul of lock downs and restrictions!  Then it occurred to me that the Church is meant to be a place where the voice of harpist, musicians, flutists, trumpeters, organs, and choirs sound out before the world the song of faith, of Christ's death and resurrection, and of the life that is His gift to the unworthy, undeserving, and guilty.  Maybe I have longed too much for the sound of silence and only realized the blessing of the sound of joy and thanksgiving when the sanctuaries were closed and silent.  Maybe the Church is not meant to offer the world the contemplative life.  Maybe the whole point of the Church is to offer the sounds of new life filled with joy and thanksgiving because Christ is among us, bestowing His gifts, and delivering grace and mercy to a people surprised by God's love.

It has made me wonder about how solemnity and joy can work together.  Solemnity before the mysteries of God is not somber, drab, dull, austere, or severe.  It is not restrained but exuberant joy.  This joy is not chaotic but ordered by God and it is not confused but clear -- drawing from Christ and pointing to Him.  This joy is not in conflict with an ordo or liturgy but flourishes in the songs that the faithful learn to sing.  

Worship is always defiant -- it defies the silence of death and shame, the confinement of life to the moment, and the condemnation of death.  The risen Christ is defiant and triumphant and even within the most somber moments of Ash Wednesday or Good Friday we do not forget this.  Before the world, this is our gift.  We are a people of joy, a people who celebrate (in an orderly manner) how God has broken into the noise and the silence with an ordered joy, with a cause for music, and a reason for song.  The silence that needs to take place before God is not quiet but the silence of our voices presuming to be righteous, covering our sin with noise, and demanding of God what cannot be demanded.

As much as sometimes we love silence, Christian worship is less about contemplation in quietude but about joy expressed in the Church's song accompanied by the many voices of instruments.  God gave us music for this purpose and we stole it from Him to make it ours but in worship He claims it back again and we, by faith, see the wisdom of it.  More than this, the Spirit works to open our hearts and minds to this sound and gives our voices to join its song, today, tomorrow, and forever.