Why is it that some moments and some places just seem to call for quiet? There are times when loud voices just seem out of place, offensive, insensitive. When even speaking at all seems like telling an off-color joke at church, like tromping muddy rain boots across clean white carpets, farm boots in a ballroom. Like ... well, like something that makes you shiver.
There must have been a lot of shivering on the first Holy Saturday. Which, I am sure, felt anything but holy to those who had to endure it. The silence had to weigh upon them, like an unbearable burden that nonetheless had to be borne. Trudging through the hush like waist deep in mud, every movement an effort, every action a strain.
Every beat of their hearts pounded out the wrongness of all that had come to be in the past few days. Every unspoken word that died on their lips shouted at the cruelty of the world they now reluctantly had to inhabit. Every tear that rolled unbidden down numb faces bore silent witness to an inner agony of body and soul.
The hush was a shield that kept the broken reality at arms length. It was a full body armor that shut out those who couldn’t possibly understand; a cave within which to lick wounds too raw to expose to the elements. It was protection as well as the pain of emptiness, it was small comfort in an experience of discomfort.
We are uncomfortable with silence, even when that is all we have. We feel inadequate in the face of the hush. “I just didn’t know what to say,” we complain, we confess. We wanted to fill the silence, but didn’t have any words.
On the other hand, there is silence and there is silence. There is silence that hurts, the beats down, that reveals inadequacies and there is silence that heals, that gathers up, that binds hearts. Easter comes in silence. Don’t think so? Take a look.
Matthew 28:1-10 After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. 2 And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. 3 His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. 4 For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. 5 But the angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. 6 He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. 7 Then go quickly and tell his disciples, 'He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.' This is my message for you." 8 So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. 9 Suddenly Jesus met them and said, "Greetings!" And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. 10 Then Jesus said to them, "Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me."
Matthew says the women went to see. No, carrying of baskets of spices, no task awaiting them, no conversation about the weight of the stone that covered the entrance to his tomb. They went, with silence clinging to them, to see. To see if this terrible dream was in fact reality. To see if all they had come to believe in was now rubble. To see the stone of death and darkness so that they could dash their hopes against those rocks.
Matthew the seismologist says there was yet another earthquake. Were they standing there before the tomb weeping in the silence when the ground began to shake? Did they see that figure, that embodied light, roll back the stone as though it had no more substance than a dream? And did he, she, it then proceed to sit on it like a wrestler announcing victory over vanquished foes? When he spoke did it sound like lightning slashing through the air? Did her voice make their hair stand on end?
“I know you are looking for Jesus who was crucified.” Were they? Were they looking for him? Or were they hoping not to see him? Or were they just putting one foot in front of the other, trying to find a starting point for the rest of their lives? But then you can see their brows furrow in confusion as the glowing figure announces that they’ve come to the wrong place. There’s no one here by that description, he tells them. No one lying decaying on a slab of stone that you might have at one time recognized, that you might have at one time loved with your whole being. No, not at this address.
But wait, he grins into their confusion, he left a forwarding order. He left an invitation, she smiles toward them. First of all, take a look, since I can tell you aren’t with me yet, then go, gather up the gang, and get on the road. He’s on his way. The one you came to pay your respects to, the one you thought was lying on a stone slab behind a rock door, that one is up and about and on his way.
And they haven’t said a word. Did you notice that? In all this wondrous encounter, the silence still grips them. They stumble away from the lightning clad being and start to hightail it out of there. Going to tell, as they were told, perhaps. But just getting away from a place of death that wasn’t anymore toward a place of hope they thought they’d lost. But they didn’t take two steps, maybe three, who’s counting? And a suddenly happened. Suddenly Jesus. Suddenly death no longer had the last word. Suddenly the end wasn’t the end. Suddenly the certainties of living in this world were no longer so certain. So they did the only thing that made any sense in that moment. They fell down. No, wait, there’s more. They fell down and grabbed hold and they held on for dear life. Or they held on to dear life. The life that had been with them until it was nailed so cruelly to a cross and left to die along the side of a road. The life that had defined them, had remade them, had claimed them. That’s the life they clung to on that dusty road that first Easter morning. And they worshiped. Him, they worshiped Him.
But what did they say? What hymns did they sing, what prayers did they pray? What anthems rang out on that cemetery road, what sermons were proclaimed to the feet of one who died yet lives? Nothing. Well, nothing was recorded. It could have been babbling, or it could have eloquent. It could have been remembered psalms and prayers, it could have been impromptu praise. Or, it could have been silence. The hush of wonder and awe.
Why is it that some moments and some places just seem to call for quiet? Because words fail us. As much as we rely on them, as much as we need them to put shape to our experiences and to invite others to know us and be with us, there are times when they fail us. When there aren’t words to define, to border, to shape our experience so all we are left with is silence. But not a silence that drags us down, that burdens our hearts. This is a silence, this is a hush that lifts our spirits and ushers us into the presence - no, the Presence - of the Holy.
Oh, there is a time for shouting, and it is right around the corner. They will get to their feet in a moment and will run with the wind shouting the disciples’ names and the news they’ve been given. But for now, in this moment... be still and know. Hush.
Shalom,
Derek
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