The 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

–        Paul Simon

A few months ago I attended Paul Simon’s concert in Glasgow which was part of his ‘farewell’ tour. At the very end of what was a wonderful and moving concert, Simon sang ‘The Sound of Silence’ as the last song of the performance. For me it was an intensely emotional moment. I cried freely as he sang.  In part that was because of the beauty of the song, in part because it felt like it was taking me back to my childhood when I first heard Simon and Garfunkel sing it, in part because it was likely the last song I would ever hear Paul Simon sing live – the end of an era. But also it was partly because the idea of ‘darkness’ and ‘silence’ resonated with me just at that point. The difficulties that have afflicted our family these past months had just descended upon us, and two of the four bereavements we have experienced this past year had only just occurred.

I was in a fragile state.

I did feel engulfed by ‘darkness’ and in response to all of my requests, pleadings and railings at God, heaven remained silent. In a time of extremity, when a word of comfort or guidance is so desperately desired, silence is anything but ‘golden’.

Now, I know that the ‘darkness’ in Simon’s lyrics is greeted as a friend, and there is an ambiguity about the nature of the silence. But for me as I listened to him sing, the darkness was anything but a welcome companion and heaven’s silence felt like an assault upon me.

This is not a new experience for me and it is far from unusual for people of faith to experience darkness and silence.

Job said ‘I cry to you for help and you do not answer me; I stand, and you only look at me.’ (Job 30: 20).

And the Psalmist writes ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but I find no rest.’ (Psalm 22: 1-2)

For generations God’s people cried out to God for deliverance, prayed for Messiah to come, waited and listened...

...it was a long wait.

Why does God seem silent in times when we feel we need to hear him speak? Well, I am not sure. I still struggle a bit with that, I confess. Any suggested answers I could offer would end up sounding like a load of pious platitudes. Perhaps I don’t need to attempt an answer. Perhaps acknowledging the reality is enough.

But this is not the only reality. During these months of apparent darkness and silence there have been moments – brief, barely perceived, swiftly passing – when in the gloom, out of the corner of my eye, I think I have glimpsed God – just fleetingly; I have caught sight of his smile for a second. There have been moments when I wonder if I may have heard a quiet whisper of reassurance, then I have strained to hear it again, and it is no longer there. But these passing moments have been enough.... just.

Perhaps we are more likely to meet God in the silence, and when we come to the end of ourselves. It was true for Elijah when he encountered God in the sound of sheer silence after he had fled in fear, despair and defeat. God was not in the earthquake or fire, but in the silence. (See 1 Kings chapter 19).

Someone said ‘God’s silence is how it feels, not how it is’. And that may be true, but let’s not pretend that silence is not how it feels! Our feelings are not unimportant, our experience is not to be dismissed, our struggles are not to be ignored.

But keep alert too. For even in the darkness you may still glimpse him for a moment. Even in the silence, you may – like Elijah – hear a word.

There is an old hymn which once comforted me many years ago when I felt in a place of darkness and God seemed very silent.

‘Somewhere in the shadows, you’ll see Jesus,

and you’ll know him by the nail prints in his hands’