April 6 – Fifth Sunday in Lent
Isaiah 53.7-9
Mark 15.1-5
Words Fail Me
Fifth Sunday of Lent
A few months ago I watched a film I hadn’t seen for nearly forty years, Walt Disney’s Fantasia. You’ll remember it is a Disney animated production that features visualizations of some of classical music’s greatest hits, including Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain, and a stunning and semi-psychedelic rendering of Johann Sebatian Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in d Minor. One of my favorite moments in the film is when, after the Bach, which introduces the film, Mickey Mouse strides to the podium and shakes the hand of the conductor of the Philadelphia Orchestra, Leopold Stokowski, who conducted the piece. I found myself thinking about Stokowski the other day because of something he once said that has been repeated by nearly every conductor I’ve ever played for. Stokowski said, “A painter paints pictures on canvas. But musicians paint their pictures in silence.” We get what he means: when the concert hall draws to a silence, when the cell phones are muted and the candy wrappers are put away and the chatty folks in row C are finished with their conversation, the musical painting can begin. I like to think preachers do the same to paint a picture on the blank canvas of silence, but it is in the world of music that Stokowski hits the nail on the head. Silence is the canvas upon which the masterpiece is painted.
A generation later jazz trumpeter Miles Davis practiced the same notion. “In music,” Davis once said, “silence is more important than sound.” If you’ve ever listened to Davis’s music, you’ll hear exactly what he means. “It’s not the notes you play,” he said, “it’s the notes you don’t play.” Indeed, one of his best known albums, “In a Silent Way,” is a master class in his use of contrast and partnership between music and silence. One of his contemporaries said of Davis, “He coaxes more music out of his rests than most musicians are able to get out of their notes.” Silence is more important than sound.
Jesus, for all his memorable sayings, also knew how to employ the power of silence effectively. Diane read one of the most memorable instances for us just a moment ago. On the morning following his betrayal and arrest, Jesus stood before Pontius Pilate, who, we need to remember, was largely ambivalent about him. Pilate held no grudge against Jesus, and was only forced into this position when the chief priests, elders and scribes bound Jesus up and presented him to the Roman governor of Judea. Pilate knew of the accusations against him and questioned him. “Are you the King of the Jews?” And Jesus, in a classic non-answer answer replied, “You say so.” What is that even supposed to mean? It was not Pilate saying so, it was Jesus’ accusers, but Jesus’ terse response left Pilate momentary off-balance. The accusers, the chief priests then piped in and peppered Jesus with a flurry of accusations, hoping at least some of them would stick. But Pilate knew a non-answer when he heard one and pressed his captive, “Have you no answer? See how many charges they bring against you!” But Jesus was silent, or as Mark tells us, “Jesus made no further reply, so that Pilate was amazed.”
We live in cacophonous times. Cacophony: from the Latin, meaning ill-sounding or in the vernacular, bad noise. Bad noise. As Karli played/sang for us this morning, it is the noise of “people talking without speaking, people hearing without listening… but the words in silent raindrops fell, and echoed in the wells of silence.” And how often do we feel so uncomfortable with silence, that we try to fill it with noise. We have all experienced that awkward pause in a conversation, when suddenly you’ve run out of things to say, and feel like you need to fill the moment with something. And it’s hard. It is hard. One of the earliest lessons I needed to learn, and relearn, when I was growing into my role as a minister was when to speak, but more important, when to remain silent. When I was about to walk into a difficult situation – into a hospital room, into a funeral home, into a difficult meeting, I fell into the trap of thinking that if only I could find the right words, then I could pour the calming oil over troubled waters. But sometimes – more than sometimes – words just get in the way, as Peter, Paul and Mary sang. Sometimes the loudest and strongest presence is known in silence.
I shared the following story with our Search Committee back in the days when the church and I were courting, but I don’t think I’ve shared it with all of you. I was working at the pizza tent at the Bridgewater Fair one summer Saturday afternoon, serving cheese and pepperoni slices and sausage and meatball grinders. My apron was a tomatoey mess and I smelled like Moravela’s when a member of the ambulance crew ran over to me and said I had an urgent message from the local hospital; a young family was there with their two year old son who had fallen into their pool and did not survive. I had no time to change, and I looked and smelled like anything but a minister, but I made it to the hospital in record time and found the family. When I walked into the room, the young mom held her two-year-old’s lifeless body out to me and whispered, “A miracle?” I did not know the family and the family did not know me, and my reflexive thought was, “What do I say? What can I say? What can I possibly say to this young mother and father who are holding their hearts in their hands and asking me for a word of hope?” Friends, words failed me. There were no words. And yet somehow, I was able to walk with this small family though one of the most difficult journeys a family can make. It was one of the most challenging weeks of my career. But experience impressed upon me a lesson I need to keep learning and relearning: sometimes there are no words, and because there are none, they are not important. What matters so much more than words is presence. To be present, to be there for someone in their time of need – and yes, in their time of joy as well – says more than a thousand words ever could.
Think again of Jesus before Pilate. The governor has the weight, authority and power of the Roman Empire by dint of his office. Yet who held the upper hand in the encounter? The Roman Empire or the silent Galilean? “Have you no answer?” Pilate demanded, half mockingly, half powerlessly. And Jesus stood there mute, knowing the Empire which trafficked in words and decrees and laws and pronouncements was a house of cards. “Like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth.” He did not need to. Jesus’ quiet presence trumped the might of those who thought they had the power, but were powerless before him.
Yesterday was one of those days I wanted to make my presence count more than my words. I stood with more than one hundred fifty folks in front of the Deep River Town Hall to bear witness for justice, for fairness, for the rule of law, and for the life of our democracy. A friend of mine invited me to begin the morning at his home right across the street from Town Hall to make posters to wave for passers-by, but I declined. Not only am I lousy at anything that resembles art, but I knew others would be waving signs that I could agree with, others would be shouting slogans, but it was enough for me to stand and bear quiet witness. I saw a lot of folks I know, met a few more I didn’t, and just smiled and waved at the cars honking their solidarity as they drove past. To me – and this is just me, it doesn’t need to be true of anyone else – but to me, it was enough to stand and bear quiet witness what I believe is right and true, a quiet that I think slices through the bad noise, the cacophony of our day, like a razor.
None of this is to say that people of faith should be silent, or quiet, in order to be true to what we believe. There are times we need to speak out, and loudly, in order to stand for our faith. I think this is especially true when we have the opportunity to lend our voices to those who have no voice, on behalf of the marginalized, the silenced, the unheard and unseen among us. It is the writer of Ecclesiastes who reminds us, “There is a time to keep silence – and a time to speak.” Our faith calls us to these times as well. And – not but, rather, And, there is also much truth to the quotation attributed to St Francis of Assisi, “Preach the gospel at all times,” he said, “and when necessary, use words.” May God give us the wisdom to discern the right time for each.