On Christmas Eve, I had the gift of sharing a reflection on the readings for the night Mass with a virtual liturgical community in which I have participated since late March. That reflection is below. A merry and blessed Christmas to you, reader!
Merry Christmas, everyone! What a gift it is to be here with each of you celebrating this feast, this particularly bright and deafening manifestation of God’s love for each and all of us. I have a gift – and a bit of a challenge – for each of you, and it’s not just because I want to take up time. I’m going to ask us to remain in silence for one minute. Yep, a full minute: set a timer on your phone, computer, or other device. Wherever you are, settle yourself into as comfortable a position as possible, breathe deeply in, hold, and slowly breathe out. Keep breathing, and keep silence as best you can.
…
Alright, that’s one minute. Now, one more request. Think about that silence: how did it make you feel? Did you hear anything in it? What do you want to say about it?
From the moment our universe burst into existence, it has been in some way raising its voice and shaking its stuff. Far from inert, still, or silent, it is teeming with particles and waves. In fact, it took 380,000 years for the universe to cool down enough for radiation like Cosmic Microwave Background, the oldest noise we can pick up on radio telescopes, to appear and be detectable by human instruments. From its birth, creation has been imitating and praising in its imitation the greatest singer and dancer this universe has known and will never fully know: God.
Flash forward about 14 billion years, and the universe is still making noise, this time on the planet earth outside a small village called Bethlehem. “Be not afraid!” the announcement shattered the somnolent sounds of the breeze and slumbering sheep. It likely did nothing to comfort the shepherds. Though a rough-and-tumble lot, they probably hadn’t encountered an otherworldly being described in other scriptural passages as on fire, covered with eyes, and/or some chimerical combination of bird and beast while they were tending their flocks. Luke does not record any response from the shepherds in this moment, perhaps because any words they might have managed to stutter out would have reddened sensitive ears.
Then a whole host of angels joins the first, doing what I like to imagine as a conga or, forgive me, Electric Slide, attractive enough to get the shepherds to jump in line, get to their bodies to the stable in time, and in some way say “Oh yeah! I believe you!” to what they had heard. Now they were the messengers. These unkempt men (and often women and children) viewed with suspicion because they could not observe every article of the Law became the bearers of glad tidings, good news, the gospel. The margins became the center.
The margins and center had already converged in the Holy Family, and there had been cacophony on their end even before the shepherds arrived. Imagine the commotion of labor: panting, grunting, screaming, and crying from the mother and child and perhaps some sounds of comfort and concern from the father.This was no totally still or silent night. And still…
Still…we know that there are depths and heights where our words, even our thoughts, reach their limit. They peter out in vast spaces that can be as startling, unsettling, and terrifying as any angelic appearance, this time with no reassuring “Be not afraid!” These are the silences that have dominated 2020: loss, fear, weariness, outrage, sorrow, shock more profound and gut-wrenching than prayer, petition, conference paper, or social media post can describe. Pandemic, police brutality, political machinations, poverty, systemic racism name just a few of the most prominent phenomena. Words fail; we have failed many times, too. Keeping silence can honor the immensity of these events, but some names must be said repeatedly. George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, Elijah McClain, Sandra Bland, and so many others must not remain unsaid or hushed up. So too must this be said clearly: Black lives matter.
How many lives have been lost in this year alone with no one to hear or say last words? How many times have our leaders – and have we – refrained from crying against injustice? How many laws and lawsuits to silence the voice of the oppressed masses in the United States been launched? How many days have we not been able to laugh, cry, sing, and even argue in communities of friends, family, or church? How many times have we sat down or stood up or knelt down to pray and found ourselves unable to muster anything to say to a God who seems distant and mute? These silences are deafening; these mysteries are baffling; these days are troubling.
Sometimes all we can do is what Job’s friends do in Chapter 2: sit in silence, knowing that we and those near and far from us are in pain. We wait for the suffering to speak. Unlike Job’s friends in the rest of the book, we cannot rush to cover their words with a quick fix or pat advice that quickly turn to criticism when they dare to speak up. We need to listen.
Not all silences are terrible. Some humble and mystify us into speechlessness through the magnitude of their beauty, goodness, and truth rather than horror or sorrow. These are the quiet moments shared between a mother and her child after the tumult of birth, between spouses when “I love you” does not express the depth of their devotion, between a wayward sheep and the steadfast shepherd to whom it has returned sheepishly (you knew that baaad pun was coming). More than the most resounding clash of thunder, it is the still, small voice just beyond the grasp of our hand and the comprehension of our heart that draws us out of hiding and into wonder, courage, peace, and wisdom.
In many cases, where international, national, or corporate systems have failed this year, pushing out or shutting up the stranger or the sinner, communities and individuals have made room, have listened, have shown courage, have shared the good news, have loved. These stories of caremongering, as some wonderful souls in Canada call it, leave me, at least, speechless with joy. They bring us back to the story we’re talking about now, the story of a birth in a distant time and place that feels so familiar to us and also, if we take the time to really listen, astounds us into silence. “Be not afraid,” or rather do not let your understandable fear (remember: wings, eyes, fire) keep you from listening. Who would believe this news or believe the person telling it? In the moment or proclamation, who cares who believes it? You’re listening to this symphony without words yourself; you know it is true beyond doubt.
Still…you are asked one thing more as the music sets your heart on fire, your toes tapping, and your spirit shaking. You are asked to join the chorus, to step in the line, to add your inimitable riff to the universal song of love.
How can this be? Ask God, yes, and ask too the galaxies, stars, sun, planets, moon, winds, ocean, rivers, volcanoes, birds, bats, dogs, cats, stands of pine, shrubs of thyme, rocks, hills, and plains. Creation has been willed, loved, into existence from the very start and asked at the same time to speak back to its Creator. Speak, sing, dance it does. God has desired to speak a Word to us, speak that Word through us, and hear that Word from us from that first big BANG! Incarnation was Plan A and is Plan O (or Z, if we’re using the English alphabet). We can dare to say a syllable or sing a note because God has put Her music in our DNA, impressed His image on our souls – in a cruder analogy, has called on us, given us the divine telephone number, and said “So call me maybe?”
God has done this repeatedly and keeps doing so today, but this night we recognize and celebrate the most dumbfounding way of all God has been and is with us: the birth of Jesus, son of Mary, Son of God. Unassuming birth, baby, and carpenter – fully assumed materiality and humanity that shows definitively that God wants us to join the heavenly chorus, the divine dance. We are children of God: that news is certain yet perpetually startling and undoubtedly good.
So what is our response to be? What notes should we hit as we let the Spirit sing through us? Our ballad depends a lot on the circumstances of our lives, and it falls to us to discern with God’s help in solitude and in communities of family, friends, and church which variation on the divine theme we’ll make. I can tell you this much, however: it will not be only a lullaby to the baby Jesus we can now safely place in our Nativity sets.
This season in the church and in the rest of society is filled with songs of softness, sweetness, and – yes – silence. Silent Night (written by a Gruber), Still, Still, Still, Away in a Manger: all these hymns reverence the infinite mystery of God contained in a burping, tooting, crying baby (even if they leave out those bits), as they and we should. We cannot keep Jesus a baby, however; we cannot infantilize Wisdom made flesh or our relationship with Her. The Lamb of God, remember, is also the Paschal Lamb; the Son of God is the Son of Humanity who was to be mocked, handed over to the religious and political authorities, humiliated, crucified, buried, and resurrected. We are children of God, but our faith cannot be childish. Jesus is not supposed to dance to our flutes or mourn to our dirges. We are called to harmonize with his tune, his life of silence and song, listening and responding, joy and sorrow.
We need to grow up as a church and as a nation. We need to listen to God singing through the shepherds: the people who are on the streets, migrating, imprisoned, Black, brown, Indigenous, queer, unbelieving, sinful, suffering, and even incorrigible. We must also respond with our own song of hope, solidarity, and trust. We need to write letters, make phone calls, have those tense conversations, burn the cloaks rolled in blood, perhaps even say we’re sorry. We need to go tell it on the mountain, in the streets, and every other place that Jesus Christ is born. Then we need to listen again, to pray without words or expectations, waiting on God, knowing that no human word gives us worth, only the constant Word of God at the core of our being. Song and silence must dance together day in and day out.
Even when we sing the lyrics of Silent Night in our quietest whisper, we’re still singing. We’re not going to do this perfectly, not even once. We will be out of tune, come in late, come in early, act like we’re the lead tenor when we’re not, you name it. Jesus, the star of Bethlehem, is the star of the show. We’re not the Messiah, thank God. We’re not Mary, and we’re often not Joseph. But we’re never out of the symphony, even if we’re not first chair. To deny our place (or the place of anyone else) in the music is to still make a statement, one that leaves us or others isolated and the song emptier, more incomplete.
As we reserve space for silence and sorrow this feast day, we also do our duty of reveling in God’s presence (and yes, I mean that in both senses). After the expectation and preparation of Advent, the journey with Mary, Elizabeth, Hannah, Isaiah, John, and the other prophets, we have come to this milestone, the guarantee from God that our hopes have been and will be fulfilled, even though we must keep asking for this fulfillment to come. Tomorrow shall be our dancing and singing day, and this is tomorrow. This is the Incarnation.
The dawn from on high has broken upon a shattered world, the reign of God has showered on a parched earth. We sing; we shout; we make a joyful noise with all creation. And we still keep silence, dancing between listening and answering, call and response, letting God take the lead and carry us forward while knowing we still have a lot of room for improvisation.
Let us rest in silence, then, friends, and let us exult in song.
Silent night, Holy night / Shepherds quake, at the sight. / Glories stream from heaven above / Heavenly hosts sing Hallelujah. / Christ the Savior is born, / Christ the Savior is born.
The Catholic Errant 