It all began with sound.
A newborn’s cry pierces the silence of the delivery room—
not because they have learned to speak, but because they
are alive. With that first breath and first sound, a newborn
announces to the world: I am here. I exist. Even before we
form words with our mouths, we know deep in our bones:
sound is life. Voice is identity.
So, it’s no surprise, then, that Scripture begins not with
sight, but with sound. “Then God said…” Creation unfolds
through voice. Sound pierces the void and gives shape to
the chaos. Voice calls light into darkness.
And from the very moment we were born, we were
mimicking that first voice, learning to speak, sing, cry, and
in time, to pray.
We were born into a world of sound. So, it’s no wonder that
silence—the absence of sound—can leave us unsettled.
I grew up in a big city in South Korea, where noise was a
constant companion. Siren, footsteps, the buzz of scooters,
the late-night echo of conversations drifting up through
the windows—all of it was part of the soundscape of my
childhood. Even in the still of night, life carried a hum.
Then when I moved to the Philippines, in a small town, at
the age of 17, the silence caught me off guard. It was quiet
in a way that startled me. It felt like someone had turned
the volume of life all the way down.
At first, I didn’t know what to do with that stillness. It felt
awkward like an empty room you are unsure how to
enter. But slowly, like ears adjusting in the dark, I began to
hear new sounds: the wind moving through the trees, the
soft creak of an old house, and even my own breathing.
And strangely, in that silence, I saw not only the familiar
faces around me with new eyes, but also deep currents
moving within me.
The mystery of silence is this: it does not just quiet the
world; it clarifies it. Because it strips away the noise we
hide behind, removes the distractions, and unmasks
our truest selves. In silence, we don’t just hear our
surroundings more clearly. We hear ourselves as well. Our
fears. Our longings. Our doubts. Our indifference. Our
pride. Our pretensions.
We often assume it is light and sound that reveal. But
silence? Silence reveals, too.
Today, we continue our Lenten journey with a story of a
weary prophet in a cave, who also encounters God not in
noise, but in silence. Elijah was not in a good place. Just
days earlier, he had called down fire from heaven. He had
confronted the prophets of Baal. It was a dramatic display
of God’s power that should have settled all doubts.
“God is here. God is victorious. God is clearly on my side.”
But before having the luxury to savor the taste of victory,
Elijah is on the run. Jezebel, the queen of Israel, wanted
him dead. The thrill of Mount Carmel has quickly faded,
and what remains is exhaustion, fear, and confusion.
Elijah runs into the wilderness and finds a cave. It’s dark.
It’s lonely. And in that cave, he says something that may
sound familiar to many of us here: “I have had enough. I
am the only one left.”
Life has taught us that great victories may lift us high,
but they do not always shield us from the emptiness that
follows. Now, God invites Elijah out of the cave—to stand
on the mountain. And then, the drama begins.
A mighty wind tears through the mountains. But God is
not in the wind. Then comes an earthquake. Surely this
must be it? But God is not in the earthquake. Next, a fire.
A symbol often used for God’s presence. But again, God is
not there.
And then a sheer silence. Or as some translations put it, a
gentle whisper. And that’s where God shows up. Not in the
spectacle, but in the stillness. Not in the noise, but in the
hush. Not in the drama, but in the whisper.
This moment shifts everything. Because it reminds us
that God does not always speak loudly. Sometimes, God
whispers. And if God whispers, it means we must learn to
listen differently.
It is no coincidence that silence has been feared by people
throughout the ages. Barbara Brown Taylor, an Episcopal
priest, says it well: “Silence is often God’s last defense
against our idolatry.”
We want noise. We crave clarity. We demand crystal clear
answers. And maybe we long for loud, unmistakable signs
that God is on our side. But isn’t that what Jesus’ own
disciples wanted, too? Isn’t that what the crowds longed
for? Indeed, the teacher Kohelet in Ecclesiastes was right:
there is nothing new under the sun.
So…Silence.
Silence feels like absence. Like defeat. Like cowardice.
Like something has gone wrong. It feels counterintuitive.
And yet, Taylor reminds us, “Only an idol always answers.”
The true God is not a machine or a vending machine or an
algorithm. The true God is not in our control. We cannot
tame God with our self-serving motives and agendas.
Even when God’s own flesh and blood cried on the cross,
the answer came not with thunder but with silence. A
loud cry... and then silence. The earth shook. The rocks
split. Creation itself seemed to mourn. And still, God
remained silent.
One of the hardest and holiest lessons I learned as a
hospital chaplain was how to be present in silence. One
evening, I was called to the bedside of a middle-aged
Asian woman. After years of illness, she was preparing to
take her final breath. Her family gathered around her. And
as I stepped into the room, a sacred stillness wrapped
itself around me. No one spoke, and no one needed to.
And yet, I felt I had to say something. I fumbled for words
and searched for a prayer that would somehow make
sense in the moment. But quickly, I realized: no words
could meet this moment. Not really.
So instead, I approached the grandmother and looked into
her eyes and gently offered a hug. She accepted, and as I
held her, she began to cry in her own language, one I did
not understand. But her grief needed no translation.
And then, the daughter passed. The silence was broken by
the sound of mourning. The grandmother began to chant
in her native tongue, while the entire family wept aloud.
And I wept with them.
It was overwhelming—yet mysteriously holy.
After a moment, I offered a short prayer and then invited
the room into silence again. And as we sat there, I sensed
the Spirit moving. The silence became sacred space. As
the grandmother left the hospital, she held my hand tightly
and looked into my eyes, and simply said, “Thank you.
Thank you.”
That day, silence wasn’t the kind of silence that feels empty
or hollow. It felt alive, full of presence and full of God.
I remember during the early days of the pandemic—when
the world seemed to stop spinning, when the streets were
empty, the churches were closed, and the air itself felt
dangerous—how loudly we were asking, why?
Why did God allow this? What is the meaning of this
suffering? We were like Elijah in the cave, hiding, afraid,
and waiting for God to answer. And across the world,
theologians scrambled to respond. A lot of them reached
back to traditional explanations: punishment, warning,
purification. And I want to believe that these responses
came from a place of deep faith, honest wrestling, and a
sincere desire to make meaning in the midst of suffering.
But among them, one voice stood out—not because he
had the clearest explanation, but because he refused
to give one. N.T. Wright, a former bishop of Duram in
England, in his book God and the Pandemic, boldly
deflects the question. Instead, he invites us to sit in the
space of unknowing, to acknowledge that we do not
always get answers. He then reminds us of what God
asked of the Israelites in the time of crisis, which is not to
explain God, but to reflect God.
So maybe we are not primarily called to explain
suffering. We are called to do what Jesus did in the
face of the crisis. To bring healing, to offer hope, to feed
the hungry, to weep with the grieving. Even in silence.
Especially in silence.
In other words, in the silence of the pandemic—when
there were no easy answers—God’s whisper came in the
form of a call. And the whisper said: Go and serve. Love
and stay faithful.
And isn’t that exactly what God told Elijah? “Elijah, what
are you doing here? You are not alone. In fact, there are still
thousands who remain faithful. Return to where you came
from and continue the work that I have given you.”
Thomas Keating, a catholic priest and monk, once said,
“Silence is God’s first language. Everything else is a poor
translation.” The question is: how do we learn that language?
Maybe it begins with simply stepping away from the noise.
Even for a few moments a day. Putting your phone on silent
mode. Closing the laptop. Because even when our mouths
fall silent, our fingers on the screen keep speaking.
Maybe it means becoming people who value presence
over explanation. When someone is grieving, we often want
to say the right thing and right words. But, sometimes, the
most holy thing we can do is just be with someone.
Not long ago, I was walking through downtown Chicago.
The sound of sirens, again, and I felt like I was back home
in Korea. But that night, it hit me differently. I thought of
how much noise fills my day. How rarely I sit still. How
easy it is for me to miss the whisper. And then, returning
to Indianapolis, the quiet felt like a gift. Well, except for
last night in my little apartment when my team lost in the
Final Four…
Peace appeals to me, but not so much that I’m ready to
rest in peace. I still want to make a little noise. And that’s
how I remind myself that I’m alive. But maybe, just maybe,
we are most alive when we can also rest in silence. When
we can trust that even in silence—especially in silence—
God is present, and God is at work.
So, friends, Lent is a time to learn to walk in the dark. Yes,
with fear, but also with trust. And if we truly listen, we may
hear the still small voice.
So, it’s a season to listen for the whisper. Because the
whisper still speaks. It speaks to the exhausted. It speaks
to the lonely. It speaks to the powerless. It speaks to those
who have seen fire and earthquake and thunderstorm and
wind—and are still waiting for God.
So, may we have the courage to make space for silence.
May we not fear it. May we resist the urge to always
explain, and instead bear witness. I see you. I hear you.
May we continue to learn to walk in the dark, not because
we have all the answers, but because we trust the One
who whispers our name.
The whisper says: You are not alone.
The whisper says: Be still. Know that I am God.
And the whisper says…[silence] Amen.