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March 20, 2005
Still Amazing
Matthew 27:1-14
Still amazing. That silence. Jesus says not a word. Pilate presses. Presses harder. Not a word. Amazing. Hard to imagine anyone falsely accused not speaking up. Who is this person who makes no reply? What sort of silence is this? Puzzling? Infuriating? What did Pilate make of this silence? An admission? Contempt? What sort of silence is this? Jesus meditating Buddha-like? What sort of silence is this? What is this silence that left Pilate transfixed in wonder; marveling at this man who was beyond his comprehension; amazed?
How many of us when we ponder the silence of Jesus before Pilate can help but think of Simon and Garfunkle's "Sound of Silence."
Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.
Maybe we don't think silence is always a bad thing. Silence can help us take things in rather than be taken in. Then, there's the folk wisdom that says: "Better to say nothing and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt." Few would dare call Jesus "fool." Jesus had opened his mouth and, foolishly or not, had already gotten more notice than any of his disciples could tolerate.
Consider the silence of the powerless and vulnerable. "Girl with the Pearl Earring," a film based on the novel of the same title, about Johannes Vermeer's painting—the Mona Lisa of the north it has been acclaimed—and how author Tracy Chevalier imagined it might have come to be, shows a young girl, a maid in the Vermeer's home, reduced to silence. She, the subject of Vermeer's painting, is driven from her employment, overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions involving the artist who lives to paint but must paint to live; the artist's wife, cut off by her husband's passion for art and envious of attention lavished on the maid who is his model; and the artist's patron who wants his claim on Vermeer to extend beyond what a commission will buy. And so the girl goes, silently. At story's end she, like the man in Jesus' parable who gave up everything for the surpassing worth of a pearl of great price, receives from the hand of Vermeer's messenger the pearls she is pictured wearing. Not all silences of the vulnerable and powerless are so richly rewarded; indeed most are not. The powerless and vulnerable may not be silent as much as their voices are not heard. They just never get the mike. Silent or not, they go unheard.
Paul recognized Jesus among the powerless and vulnerable. Nothing was forced on him; Jesus took it all on willingly: he "emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness " (Phil. 2:7). What good is it to be powerless and vulnerable? The powerful and invincible don't have to thunder very loudly to override that silence. In one light, Jesus' plight is that of any small-timer caught in power-plays of contending forces. What purpose does Jesus' silence finally serve?
What is the silence here that greeted the second anniversary of the war? In Europe thousands took to the streets in protest. Criticism in the US is mostly muted and couched in caution, lest critics be damned as unpatriotic. What we do hear are sobbing lamentations as families and communities bury their dead; eastern Iowans have heard those sounds. We also hear almost daily patriot voices proclaiming our government's virtue for entangling us in conflict whose beginning has barely begun. But no protests. Critics are in living rooms, not in our streets. What kind of silence is that?
Some silence is guilty. Judas goes silent; hangs himself. The film "Mississippi Burning" exposes the foundations of the guilty silence of an entire community. It's only this year that killers were finally tried and convicted of murdering civil rights workers in the 1960s. The killers were guarded not just by their own silence, but also by the silence of those who knew but would not—did not—speak up. A conspiracy of silence, as people hang together. The crowd in Pilate's court that day had much to say, but was silent on the point that really mattered.
There is unbearable silence. Say something! It's the silence of anger; the silence of things falling apart, breaking down, being done in. The silence that follows betrayal. Wrathful silence. The silence of the fury of the furious. How many women keep silent despite being abused, physically, emotionally, sexually? How can such silence be borne? Jesus' silence was more than Pilate can finally bear. Can we bear it? Silence does not say nothing, but we do not hear, or can bear to hear. Who, finally, can bear such silence?
You and I are hardly above interrogating God. "God, how can you let such terrible things happen?" Any of us could make a long list of "terrible things." Some of us may have had terrible things happen, and is God silent before our questioning prayers? Why, Lord, why? Silence. Terrible, unbreakable silence, hardens. It's Jesus' question, too: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Silence. Do we live in a time of the silence of God? Not just that we no longer hear God's voice as our biblical ancestors testify they did. But that we no longer hear, no longer comprehend, just don't get what God is saying to us. It's not that we cannot hear over the din. We're so full of our own questions, our own accusations, our own demands. It's God's questioning silence.
Who has not come to times when we didn't know what to say? A friend dies. We want to comfort the grieving. "I just didn't know what to say," says it all. Nothing to be said. Nothing to be done. Just be there, be present. Sit with the grieving. Stand with them in face of the violence of hurt. Jesus was silent. Jesus was present; Jesus was a presence. It wasn't a matter of not knowing what to say. It was a matter of not saying what could have been said.
In John Hershey's novel The Child Buyer, a young boy is sworn in court to tell the truth. During questioning he does not answer. "I rather not say," is his only reply. The attorney reminds him of his oath to tell the truth. "Nothing," the boy replies, "could be more true than that 'I'd rather not say.'"
What might Jesus have answered Pilate? What might he have said to and about his accusers? What might he have said in response to the Jewish court that tried him? What might he have said in response to Pilate's exercise of the Roman Empire's might? Could Jesus have broken the silence without forsaking his entire reason for being. Truth to tell, all that could be said to his accusers is to their condemnation. But Jesus is not about condemnation. Jesus is about redemption. Jesus' silence is finally redemptive silence.
They crucified my Lord,
and He never said a mumbalin' word;
They crucified my Lord,
and He never said a mumbalin' word.
Not a word, not a word, not a word.
Jesus' silence is not the last word. But it is the silence that opens to us the redemption that is God's final word. Still amazing.
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First Presbyterian
Church of Cedar Rapids
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Phone: 319-364-6148
E-mail: church@fpccr.org
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