Silence and the Spirit

Prophet Elijah in the Desert, by Dieric Bouts, 1464-1468, Oil on Panel, Triptych Altarpiece, St. Peter’s Church, Leuven, Belgium, public domain, click image to link.

Sermon Series “Through the Bible,” № 25, 1 Kings 19:1-15

Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. —1 Kings 19:11b-12

On July 11, Therese and I traveled to the most remote of the remote places we visited this summer. We were on the Isle of Harris, which lies on the northwest edge of Scotland’s Outer Hebrides Islands. The terrain is rocky and undulating. I was driving single-lane roads with little bubble-out passing places, sitting on the right-hand side of the car, with a six-speed manual transmission on the center console to my left. But driving in Scotland is a story for another day.

We ended up at Seilebost Bay, which, at low tide, essentially connects Seilebost Beach with Luskentyre Beach. The names won’t mean much to you unless you start googling the most beautiful beaches in Europe. This area frequently makes the top ten, where white sands meet azure waters.

Many people would have a problem with the top-ten ranking because the weather is often cloudy, and even in the summer may not reach 60 degrees. From my perspective, however, there’s a lot to appreciate. When you exit your car, and look around, you can see structures on distant hills, but you may not see another person in any direction. If you show up at a time of relative calm like low tide, you can walk out onto the sand for miles, no exaggeration. You might hear a seagull in the distance, or the trickling of tidal waters flowing through little rivulets carved in the sand. Otherwise, it is refreshingly quiet.

How do you feel about silence?  It is commonly believed that introverted personalities enjoy silence while extroverted personalities are uncomfortable with it.  I think environment plays a role: silence is a friend when I feel overburdened or exhausted, but if I’m alone too long, I crave the sound of a human voice, even if it’s only the radio or television.  Experience probably plays a part too. Some people who have endured a traumatic experience alone are terrified by silence, preferring the reassuring sounds of family or friends. Other people who have endured battle are started into unpleasant flashbacks by a loud noise.

The sound of sheer silence figures prominently in today’s reading about the way in which God renewed the life and ministry of Elijah, one of the great prophets.

During a particularly troubled time in history, Elijah was God’s agent for sharing good news and accomplishing miracles. When he received help from a poor widow, he prophesied correctly that her one jar of flour and one jug of oil would not run out until rain came to replenish the earth. When the widow’s son died, Elijah cried to the Lord, and the Lord restored the young man’s life.  When Elijah learned the full extent of the evil perpetrated by King Ahab and Queen Jezebel, he was moved to speak out against them. As a sign against Ahab and Jezebel, Elijah correctly prophesied that there would be no rain for the next few years.  In a dramatic scene, Ahab’s prophets call upon the false god Baal to consume their offering. Nothing happens. Elijah drenches his offering with water, immediately the Lord consumes it, and the false prophets are executed. What an amazing triumph this appears to be!

The story continues with a move from the mountaintop to the valley of despair.  When Jezebel threatens retaliation, Elijah loses his nerve, and makes an escape. Walking south for several days, he ends up in a dry, desert area, pulls himself under a scruffy broom tree, and prays that he might die.

But God isn’t done with Elijah. God responds by granting refreshing sleep and nourishing food, then calling Elijah eighty more miles through the desert to Mount Horeb. There, after a long mind-clearing pilgrimage, God is revealed on the mountain.  God “passed by,” the story says. First, there is a tremendous storm and rocks tumble down the mountain, but God is not in the wind. Then there is an earthquake, but God is not in the shaking. Then there is a fire, but God is not in the flame. Then there is silence.  In that silence, God speaks the word that Elijah needs to hear, the word that is for him good news, gives him renewed perspective, and restores him for God’s work.

Elijah’s story is one of my favorites from the Hebrew Testament, because it’s easy to empathize with his experience: the pain of conflict, the exhaustion brought on by a long journey, the relief when all the noise simply stops.  These days, just watching ten minutes of news coverage about looming political or environmental disaster, can leave me tired and disheartened.

I imagine that Jesus, too, felt that way sometimes, after busy days of ministry, teaching, preaching, and healing. At a certain point, he had sent the twelve disciples off with instructions to engage in similar ministry, and to rely upon the generosity of the people they encountered for food and housing. The people were not always welcoming or receptive to the message. It’s not hard to imagine that Jesus must have been tired as Elijah was when he said to the disciples, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.” 

John Buchanan retired after a long ministry at Fourth Presbyterian Chicago. Years ago, he thought aloud in a sermon about the way that we rush to fill quiet spaces with words, and how sometimes we might do better to pause and say little to nothing. He reflected back on a time when his daughter was upset because a good friend was coping with the tragic illness of her father. His daughter’s friend had been summoned to the hospital bedside of her father, who was dying. His daughter wanted to call and comfort her friend, but was struggling with the question, “What should I say?”

Buchanan says that it is a question we all ask ourselves, at one time or another. Sometimes, we ask a minister who, we assume, must have a list of good things to say for every occasion.  But sometimes you can’t say much. Sometimes there aren’t words big enough or appropriate enough. Buchanan writes, “So my answer was, ‘Don’t try to say much. Say, “God loves your father. God loves you and so do I. I’m praying for you. I’m with you.” And tell your friend to read the Twenty-Third Psalm to remind her that she and her father are not alone in this valley.’”[1]

As Buchanan says, sometimes sitting in silence is better than saying anything. You may be sitting under a broom tree in the wilderness, or walking the deserted beach sands of a remote island. You may be holding the hand of someone you love, who is lying in bed sick or dying.  You may be sitting in church on an August Sunday morning.  Sometimes, when you’re quiet not just in voice, but also in mind and spirit, the Spirit speaks in the sound of silence.

NOTES

[1] John M. Buchanan, “Sound of Silence,” a sermon preached at Fourth Presbyterian Church, Chicago, 8 July 2007.

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