Hush

Why is it that some moments and some places just seem to call for quiet? There are times when loud voices just seem out of place, offensive, insensitive. There are times when even speaking at all seems like telling an off-color joke at church, like tromping muddy rain boots across clean white carpets – farm boots in a ballroom. Like ... well, like something that makes you shiver.

There must have been a lot of shivering on the first Holy Saturday, which, I am sure, felt anything but holy to those who had to endure it. The silence had to weigh upon them like an unbearable burden that nonetheless had to be borne. Trudging through the hush was like being waist deep in mud, every movement an effort, every action a strain.

Every beat of their hearts pounded out the wrongness of all that had come to be in the past few days. Every unspoken word that died on their lips shouted at the cruelty of the world they now reluctantly had to inhabit. Every tear that rolled unbidden down numb faces bore silent witness to an inner agony of body and soul.

The hush was a shield that kept the broken reality at arm’s length. It was a full body armor that shut out those who couldn't possibly understand; a cave within which to lick wounds too raw to expose to the elements. It was protection as well as the pain of emptiness; it was small comfort in an experience of discomfort.

We are uncomfortable with silence, even when that is all we have. We feel inadequate in the face of the hush. “I just didn't know what to say,” we complain, we confess. We wanted to fill the silence but didn’t have any words.

Yes, there were words spoken on this day. The silence was broken, but not by the followers of this one who was crucified. At least that Matthew records. Even at the end of that terrible, yet somehow Good Friday, the words are muted. In the Gospel text assigned for Holy Saturday (Matthew 27:57-66), we read of Joseph asking for the body. But there is no quote. It is almost as if he mimed it or whispered it under his breath, afraid to make complete sentences out of his request. Even Pilate’s response doesn’t get words, just a nod, perhaps, a wave of the governor’s hand giving permission and dismissal both.

But then there is Saturday. Was it really Saturday? The Sabbath day? A special Sabbath day coming in the midst of the Passover celebration? Did the leaders, the Jewish leaders, actually go to Pilate, the Gentile governor, and speak of conspiracy? Surely these words were whispered in the back channels of governmental communication. Conspiracies concocted and promoted on this holy day. These words get spoken, Matthew records, behind closed doors, in the hallways of power. But the final word spoken is a bluster of power in the face of powerlessness. Use your guards, use your power, make it as secure as you can. This silence is stronger that your speech. This hush is more powerful than your words. Do what you can against the conspiracies of your own mind, but be ready to be disappointed. They went out in the silence of the grave to seal the tomb against powers they couldn’t comprehend. And we are left with nothing but silence.

On the other hand, there is silence and there is silence. There is silence that hurts, that beats down, that reveals inadequacies; and there is silence that heals, that gathers up, that binds hearts. Easter comes in silence. Don’t think so? Re-read Matthew’s Easter story in preparation for tomorrow of course, but also to live into the silence of Holy Saturday. As we suggest in the Planning Notes, maybe this is homework, family time, something that happens away from the sanctuary in the quietness of each heart. Maybe there isn’t preaching on this day; maybe the silence preaches. Maybe you print a message out, this message, or one you write yourself, and email it or post it on your church’s website or Facebook page and invite folks to read it in their silence. The hush of Holy Saturday. As we prepare. As we get into the mindset that drives us to the cemetery on Easter morning. Why did they go? What were they hoping to do?

Matthew says the women went to see. There was no carrying of baskets of spices, no task awaiting them, no conversation about the weight of the stone that covered the entrance to his tomb. They went, with silence clinging to them, to see. To see if this terrible dream was, in fact, reality. To see if all they had come to believe in was now rubble. To see the stone of death and darkness so that they could dash their hopes against those rocks.

Matthew, the seismologist, says there was yet another earthquake. Were they standing there before the tomb, weeping in the silence, when the ground began to shake? Did they see that figure, that embodied light, roll back the stone as though it had no more substance than a dream? And did he/she/it then proceed to sit on it like a wrestler announcing victory over vanquished foes? When he spoke, did it sound like lightning slashing through the air? Did her voice make their hair stand on end?

“I know you are looking for Jesus who was crucified.” Were they? Were they looking for him? Or were they hoping not to see him? Or were they just putting one foot in front of the other, trying to find a starting point for the rest of their lives? But then you can see their brows furrow in confusion as the glowing figure announces that they've come to the wrong place. There’s no one here by that description, he tells them. There is no one lying decaying on a slab of stone that you might have, at one time, recognized, that you might have, at one time, loved with your whole being. No, not at this address.

But wait, he grins into their confusion, he left a forwarding order. He left an invitation; she smiles toward them. First of all, take a look, since I can tell you aren't with me yet, then go, gather up the gang, and get on the road. He’s on his way. The one you came to pay your respects to, the one you thought was lying on a stone slab behind a rock door, that one is up and about and on his way.

And they haven’t said a word. Did you notice that? In all this wondrous encounter, the silence still grips them. They stumble away from the lightning clad being and start to hightail it out of there. Going to tell, as they were told, perhaps. But just getting away from a place of death that wasn't any more toward a place of hope they thought they’d lost. But they didn't take two steps, maybe three; who’s counting? And suddenly it happened. Suddenly Jesus. Suddenly, death no longer had the last word. Suddenly, the end wasn't the end. Suddenly, the certainties of living in this world were no longer so certain. So, they did the only thing that made any sense at that moment. They fell down. No, wait, there’s more. They fell down and grabbed hold, and they held on for dear life. Or they held on to dear life—the life that had been with them until it was nailed so cruelly to a cross and left to die along the side of a road. The life that had defined them, had remade them, had claimed them. That’s the life they clung to on that dusty road that first Easter morning. And they worshiped. Him, they worshiped Him.

But what did they say? What hymns did they sing? What prayers did they pray? What anthems rang out on that cemetery road; what sermons were proclaimed to the feet of one who died yet lives? Nothing. Well, nothing was recorded. It could have been babbling, or it could have been eloquent. It could have been remembered psalms and prayers; it could have been impromptu praise. Or, it could have been silence. The hush of wonder and awe.

Why is it that some moments and some places just seem to call for quiet? Because words fail us. As much as we rely on them, as much as we need them to put shape to our experiences and to invite others to know us and be with us, there are times when they fail us. When there aren't words to define, to border, to shape our experience, all we are left with is silence. But not a silence that drags us down, that burdens our hearts. This is a silence, this is a hush, that lifts our spirits and ushers us into the presence - no, the Presence - of the Holy.

Oh, there is a time for shouting, and it is right around the corner. They will get to their feet in a moment and will run with the wind, shouting the disciples’ names and the news they've been given. But for now, in this moment... be still and know. Hush.