December 25, 2008 at Saint Mark in Norman, OPK
I can remember it as clearly as if it were this morning: April 19, 1995. More than anything else on that terrible day, more than the site of debris blowing on the downtown streets, more than the image of that ragged, torn, and twisted building, more than the faces of confused and frantic workers, I remember the silence. I remember running into Presbyterian Hospital and the strange silence that had settled into those hallways. A voice from somewhere was saying: “Code Black, Code Black, Code Black.” I remember the odd silence as I stood where a policeman had taken me to the corner of 5th and Harvey; and the next day, I remember again the silence as I stood inside that mess on a lower level. The only sound was a strange groaning as the building shifted and settled a bit on unsteady beams. I could see buckets of hand moved debris moving around as men literally dug through walls of broken concrete; but all I remember is the silence in that place.
I remember another silence that settled into a hospital emergency room when beeping monitors were switched off because the life signs they recorded from my parents were no longer there. It was silent in those rooms, and it was a silence I did not want to break.
And there was another time not so long ago when I was standing outside a hospital room with my sister listening through a partially opened door to sounds from inside. We could hear a doctor giving instructions as my niece gave birth to her first child. “Push once more.” a voice said, and then there was silence. It seemed to last an hour. Long enough for my sister and I to look at each other in surprise wonder, and alarm, but then the silence was broken by a baby’s cry followed by the most wonderful Joy.
I want you to think of times in your lives when silence has been memorable because we’re not too comfortable in silence.
I live alone in a big house, and I’ve gotten quite accustomed silence, but every now and then I realize that without thinking I have turned on something: the TV, the stereo, the radio, or I find myself humming. Late last night I was in the elevator at Norman Regional Hospital, and there were several people in with me, but no one said a word. When one of the passengers broke the silence, the others looked for just a brief moment with caution at each other, and then the silence resumed. I thought later that the person who spoke out did so because the silence was simply too much for them. Either that, or the sound of piped in “Joy to the World” was just wrong in a place of such lonely suffering.
Silence is hard for us, at least for very long. Car radios are on all the time. If yours isn’t chances are on any given day someone will pull up beside you with a thumb/thumb, thumb/thumb pulsating loudly enough to hear on the moon. People walk through the streets and ride airplanes with their ears stuffed with tiny speakers. Cell phones beep, jingle and screech rock music adding to the noise of our lives. Only the most rural of settings is free of the whine and whoosh of traffic sounds in the middle of the night.
Even in here, it seems impossible to keep quiet. If I sit for more than ten seconds after communion in silent prayer, half of you wonder what’s wrong, and you get restless because you think we should “get on with it” or that we’re wasting valuable time.
I have come to suspect that the reason we can not get comfortable with prolonged silence is that we are afraid to be alone. It must have some roots in our childhood – and something to do with an innate fear of being alone, and so we cry out to see if anyone is there, turn on the radio or the TV to make sure that someone somewhere is out there.
All of which of course, is why we are here and will soon share a song of this night called Silent. Into the frantic noise of this world, a single, simple Word has been spoken, but this world so deafened by its own noise must struggle to hear. It is the Word Made Flesh, the Word of God, the Word of love, of peace, of healing forgiveness. It is Word for which we must listen, a Word spoken in the silence of the night, at a time when the “world was at peace”, says Luke. Probably until we restore that kind of silence we shall not be able to hear that Word again, and find joy in its promise.
New parents must understand this best of all. In the night or in the day, the silence of your sleep is broken by the sound of a baby in your home, and suddenly you know and you remember that you are not alone. This is the wonder, the mystery, and the message of this night. When we become silent, when we are anxious about being alone, there is a baby that cries out to us. If we feel alone because our job is in danger, our savings are shrinking, our future is troubled, there is news in this long anxious night. We are not alone. “Immanuel is the Word: God is with us it means.”
But my friends, the Incarnation is not something we celebrate, it is something must become. Christmas is not a feast. It is a way of life: a way of life to which we have been called and empowered to follow. At Bethlehem everything we are has been claimed by God, and no matter how much noise there is from Washington, Wall Street, and Baghdad, there must still silence in the Bethlehem of our hearts so that we may hear that soft spoken word, and let our fears be calmed, for we are not now, never have been, and never will be alone. So the message of an angel is real: “Fear Not.” The message of the God who sent the angel is: “I love you.” And in the stillness of this night, the message we must share with each other is: “Peace be with you.”