Once the kids are in bed, we adults stay up late laughing, shouting, talking politics and religion. The Homepod plays competing song lists.
But not this year. My house will be silent. Tonight, Irene and I will sit, a little sad, glad for each other’s company, in a living room lit by candles, alone.
Now, I understand that this year’s quiet, especially at Christmas, is not what any of us wanted. It is a disappointment. For some of us it is worse—what with the worry of infection, and the depression that goes on and on due to isolation or financial stress. All of these ills are ours this Christmas. But for me, there is also another angle, the one suggested by the carol, “Silent Night.”
You see, in normal circumstances, I love the silence. I cope with busy commutes by turning off the car radio. I get ready for the day by taking the dog for a long walk. I used to listen to podcasts on those walks. Now I just trudge in silence. No one calls out to me. I daydream.
I love the silence. Max Picard, a Roman Catholic philosopher, writes in his book, The World of Silence, "Outside the forest, the flowers are like silence that has thawed, and glistens in the sunlight." I like that—“outside . . . the flowers are like silence that has thawed.” One of my favorite Bible texts—an important one for ministers, especially, to take to heart—is Ecclesiastes 6:11. "The more the words, the less the meaning, and how does that profit anyone?"
In my heart I'm an introvert. I know how to be with people, how to get my oar in during conversations at a party, how to do a “meet and greet at church.” And I enjoy all that. But I get my energy from being alone and silence is my reward.
What about you? I know that we can’t all be introverts. We need both extroverts and introverts to make the world go round. But just as introverts need to learn to make their peace with noise, I think extroverts can learn to appreciate the gift of silence.
Here is why. We all have a secret place of refuge, a sanctuary, in our souls, that most of us don’t visit often enough. It is where we go to ponder the most difficult questions life throws at us. It is where we construct the meaning we spend our lives achieving. This sanctuary in our souls is where we cultivate gratitude for the good others have done for us and nourish the good will we need to love our neighbors.
And that sanctuary in our souls, since it is ours alone, is a place that can only be entered alone. It is therefore a place of silence: a speechless silence full of awe on account the miracle of the universe; a prayerful silence that yearns for peace on earth; a respectful silence that honors the mysteries of other—other people, other loves, other choices. The silent sanctuary of our souls is a refuge for those tossed to and fro on the violent and unpredictable currents of time and civilization—especially now, during Covid time. The silent sanctuary in our souls is one of the few places we can hear the still, quiet voice of God, if Her voice is to be heard at all.
And in the end, that is how I take the Christmas carol, Silent Night. Not silent because the animals really were, or the angels lost their voice. But the song sings of a silent night because the story of Jesus’ birth takes are dumbfounds us with its suggestion that God is not just notion, not merely the answer to a philosophical puzzle, but God is really here, with us and in us, enlivening us, even now.
And so, we whisper, in response, this year to ourselves alone, “let all the earth keep silence, before him.”
