Gospel of John

Not So Golden Silence

Audio Block
Double-click here to upload or link to a .mp3. Learn more

John 14:8-7

Philip said to him, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.” Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, ‘Show us the Father’? Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own, but the Father who dwells in me does his works.

Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me, but if you do not, then believe because of the works themselves. Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father.

I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it. “If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him because he abides with you, and he will be in you.


Speech is silver. Silence is golden. That’s the full proverb, not just the part we usually hear. It implies it’s better to listen than to speak, and often I agree. But what about when those three little dots appear on your phone screen—and then vanish? How do we feel then? When you call someone and it goes straight to voicemail? When an email notification reminds you it’s been seven days with no reply? You submit a job application and never hear back.

They promised to call, but the phone stays silent. The calendar pages keep flipping, and you lose track of how many months it’s been since you last heard from your son or daughter, mother or father, family member, or once-close friend. Silence then isn’t golden. When communication stops, the silence isn’t just deafening; it’s devastating. Because we often take silence—an unreturned call, a job application ignored, a text unread—as judgment.

Instead of considering someone might be busy, distracted, or forgot their vacation responder, we assume they changed their mind about us or we offended them. Silence is rarely taken at face value. We struggle with silence because, as humans, we’re wired for communication. It’s how we connect and form bonds. When that connection is cut off, when we are ghosted, (or when we do the ghosting you know who you are) it causes confusion, lack of closure, even discontent. And we don’t function as we should.

Take, for instance, the silent treatment. We’ve all done it. We’ve all been on the receiving end of it. That is silence as punishment. Kipling Williams, emeritus professor of psychological sciences at Purdue University, has studied its effects for over 30 years. The silent treatment is a common tactic in all kinds of relationships: friendships, marriages, family bonds, coworkers—you name it.

Why do we do it? Some say it feels satisfying—like gaining control or making a point.

But psychologists warn it can cause lasting harm. One leading psychiatrist says that for those shut out, intentional silence triggers “anxiety, fear, and feelings of abandonment,”. It often leads to self-doubt, self-blame, and self-criticism.

Worse than that, silence hurts—literally. Purdue’s Dr. Williams found being ignored activates the same brain areas as physical pain. “It’s not just metaphorically painful,” he said, “the brain detects it as pain.” Silence can indeed be violence—or worse, deadly.

I wonder if the disciples felt like they were getting the silent treatment from Jesus. At the end of Luke’s Gospel, the last thing Jesus said to his disciples was, “Stay in the city until you have received power from on high.” In the first chapter of Acts, which continues Luke’s story, Jesus tells them just before his ascension, “You will be baptized with the Holy Spirit not many days from now.” So in Jerusalem, they went back and forth from the temple to where they were staying, praying continually and waiting for the Holy Spirit to come—whatever that would look like.

The first day passed—no big deal.

Day two, more prayers—still nothing.

By day three, their hopes were up—a lot can happen in three days, they told themselves. But again, nothing.

I wonder if the disciples, as they waited for this Holy Ghost, felt like they might have been ghosted? Hours became days, days became a week—and still no sign of the Holy Spirit.

Surely you know how this feels. Is there anyone who hasn’t waited for God to reply to their prayers? To make good on a promise you feel God has made to you, like not forsaking you, or comforting you, healing you, or simply helping you? Anything would be nice—even a no! But instead, you get silence. And just like with people, we take that silence to mean we’ve done something wrong and God is mad, or God doesn’t care, or there is no God at all.

I wonder if on the ninth night after Jesus ascended and promised to send the Holy Spirit, but had yet done nothing, those same thoughts crept into the farthest reaches of the disciples’ minds. But undoubtedly, some of you are thinking: Ten days? I’ve been waiting ten years, twenty years, or more to hear from God—and I’m still waiting today! Talk about the silent treatment—that hurts.

But on the morning of that tenth day, as the disciples were all sitting together in one place— the waiting gave way to a wind. Suddenly a sound like a rushing, gusting wind filled the house. Then tongues, cut in half down the middle, maybe engulfed in flame but not burning—like the bush from Moses—dropped from heaven and landed on each of them. Somehow, the tongues were the bearers of the Holy Spirit that then filled the disciples and allowed them to speak in other languages.

And you know the rest of the story from there. Jews from all around the world understood the disciples. Peter gave a sermon. Nearly 3,000 were baptized that very day.

I think Pentecost has a lot to teach us about the silence we face in this life—both from God and from others.

First, your answer or response from God might—perhaps is even likely—to come in ways you never could have imagined. I’m sure divided tongues of fire weren’t on any of the disciples’ bingo cards for how Jesus would make good on his promise to give the Holy Spirit.

I can’t imagine how frustrating and painful it is—or has been—for those of you who feel like God has altogether forgotten your prayers, your concerns, or simply you. But Pentecost gives us hope—maybe gives you hope—that whatever it is you’re waiting for will come, just in a way you never anticipated. William Cowper, the 18th-century poet, has it right: God moves in a mysterious way.

Second, being in and among a community helps. It helps with discernment and hope. Pentecost wasn’t an individual experience, but a communal one. Everyone had been praying together. Everyone had been waiting together. God moves in a mysterious way, yes; but God also often works in the midst of community. That’s why we, as a community, gather for worship, prayer, fellowship, and more—to help one another in discernment, to offer hope when someone has all but run out, to be the person God is at work through for the other. And if you don’t have that kind of community, I hope Cross of Grace can be that place, that people for you, with you.

Lastly, if the Holy Spirit was able to give words and understanding to people from all over the world on that Pentecost, surely the Holy Spirit can do the same in this time and place. How many of us are experiencing silence with someone we love because we don’t know what to say?

Maybe it’s about politics, or a fight you got into, or a mistake that was made, and you haven’t approached them because you don’t think you have the right words, or you don’t know what to say, or they won’t understand no matter what.

I think that is a dominant feeling for nearly everyone in our culture today. But one thing research tells us is that the silent treatment doesn’t work—and one thing our faith tells us is that the Holy Spirit can do the impossible, like people from Galilee speaking languages from all across the world.

We need a Pentecost today. We need the Holy Spirit to give us words that transcend differences, that repair what has been broken, that grow a community. At a time when we are so dangerously and direly divided, when there is so much pain and misunderstanding, we need the ability to not only speak, but perhaps even more so the ability to understand one another.

Henri Nouwen says, “One of the main tasks of theology [and I would also say of the church] is to find words that do not divide but unite, that do not create conflict but unity, that do not hurt but heal.”

In the days ahead, Reach out to someone with whom you are experiencing silence.

Send a text, make a call, and simply say, ‘I’m thinking of you.’ Let the Spirit move through your words and actions.

In your prayers, lament and be honest with yourself and with God about the silence and pain you’ve experienced from God. And then ask God to work, move, do something! The Psalms, the prophets, even Jesus himself do all of these things, so you’ll be in good company.

Look for moments to listen deeply this week—to a friend, a family member, or someone you normally might not hear. Maybe that's at our Christian Nationalism class or a family gathering or even a different news channel than you normally listen to.

Pentecost is about listening/understanding as much as speaking. These small steps are ways we can practice living in the Spirit’s power now because, we don’t need any more silence, no matter how golden, nor the pain that comes with it.

We need a Pentecost, to break the silence and build community. Come Holy Ghost.

Amen.


Belonging and Believing

John 10:22-30

At that time, the festival of the Dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. So the Jews gathered around him and asked him, “How long will you keep us in the suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us, plainly.”

Jesus answered them, “I have told you and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me, but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them and they follow me. I give them eternal life and they will never perish. No one will snatch them from my hand. What the Father has given me is greater than all else and no one can snatch it from the Father’s hand. The Father and I are one.”


“You do not believe because you do not belong to my sheep.”

“You do not believe because you do not belong.” What if that’s the whole tweet, as they say? What if that’s all we need to hear this morning? And what if you and I are supposed to be convicted by that – as followers of Jesus – rather than use it as some kind of judgement against those who consider themselves not to be followers of the Jesus we claim?

“You do not believe because you do not belong.”

Jesus is talking to the Jews who weren’t on board yet with what he was up to. And, with a little pastoral imagination, I like to think his disciples were within earshot of this conversation; that they were following him around, as usual, and that Jesus knew he was being heard by both at the same time; that he was speaking to both crowds at once – those who belonged and those who didn’t believe.

There are plenty of people in the world who don’t believe in Jesus – or God – or have a Christian faith for all sorts of rational, considered, thoughtful, theological reasons. Maybe they’re deliberately, purposefully atheists. Maybe they’re people of another faith – Jews, Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, pagans. I’m not talking about them, necessarily.

Instead, I found myself wondering this week about those who don’t believe, but who would, could, might believe, if only we – as followers of Jesus – would do better at finding ways for them to BELONG, first. (“You don’t believe because you don’t belong…”)

I heard two stories just this week, in two very different, settings, from two very different sources, about two sets of parents who were struggling with the fact that their gay or lesbian children weren’t people of faith; didn’t go to church; didn’t believe or worship or practice a faith that their parents wished that they would. In one case, the child had been raised in the Church, but had fallen away from an active, practicing life of faith. In the other case, the family wasn’t one who had ever practiced a faith, but the father came to believe in mid-life, and wanted to bring his wife and grown children along with him for the journey. (For what it’s worth, one of these stories came by way of a colleague, here in Indianapolis. The other was from a completely unrelated story I heard on “This American Life.”)

Anyway, what these two sets of parents have in common, is their outspoken disapproval of their children’s sexuality, which is evident to the adult children they want to love, by either the theology they adhere to (“Love the sinner. Hate the Sin.” sort of stuff.), their political persuasion (the politicians and policies they support that do harm to their gay children), or both.

In other words, the children of these parents know that they don’t – and will never – BELONG to their parents’ faith communities or fit into their misguided view of the world, so how could they and why would they ever want to believe in the things their parents professed about a loving, gracious, merciful God?

“…you don’t believe because you don’t belong.”

In my opinion, so many people in so many walks of life are falling away from the faith or throwing it all out with the bath water, because they see Christianity connected with exclusion, judgment, hypocrisy, greed, violence, and more. People don’t believe because they don’t belong – or because they don’t want to belong – to a body that embodies any of those things. And, as hard and as sad and as frustrating as that is, it makes perfect sense to me. And it’s why we have so much work to do.

And I think that work starts with belonging. They don’t believe because they don’t belong.

People long to feel and to experience welcome, love, and affirmation. And when they do, they might begin to wonder about believing and embracing the God who promises it.

If we want people to feel like part of God’s family… If we want people to learn about the grace we proclaim… If we want people to believe in the wideness of God’s mercy, in the amazing love of our creator, in the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and in life everlasting…

I’m convinced that they need to know, trust, and feel like they BELONG, first. And I think our call is to show and to shout and to share the good news of that belonging as loudly and as clearly, as often and in as many ways as we can manage.

I heard another, beautiful story this week – perfect for Mother’s Day – about a different family altogether who proved what belonging can do.

Many years ago, this set of American parents adopted a 7 year-old boy from Romania, who had lived the first 7-and-a-half years of his life in an orphanage where he shared a crib with another boy his age that entire time. As they grew, they stayed in that crib, to the point that they had to sleep sitting up. They didn’t go to school. They didn’t go outside. They only left their crib to eat and to use the bathroom. Daniel, the boy who was adopted by the Americans in South Euclid, Ohio, never even knew the names of the adults who took care of him in that orphanage.

The short of the long is that Daniel came to the states utterly unprepared for the life with which his adoptive parents hoped to give him – he simply wasn’t ready socially, emotionally, or intellectually for a life with people who loved him. After 7 years in a crib, how could he be? And after a six-month honeymoon period with his new family in the states, things went downhill fast and furiously.

Daniel developed an anger and rage over all that he couldn’t process or understand about his experience in the orphanage, his having been put there in the first place by his birth parents, and his place in the world and with his new mom and dad. He threw tantrums they described as “tornadoes of rage … eight hour marathons where he would throw anything he could get his hands on.” There were thousands of holes in his bedroom walls from his violent outbursts.

He abused social workers and specialists. He choked a puppy. He gave his mom, Heidi, a black eye, once. He held a knife to her neck, another time. It got so bad they hired the equivalent of a bodyguard to be in the house, so that Heidi was never alone with her new son.

Finally – and I’m leaving out a lot of the story, mind you – they embarked on a fascinating, controversial treatment for Daniel’s diagnosed Attachment Disorder where they pulled him out of school, Heidi quit her job, and they spent several months side-by-side, literally no farther than three feet apart. If one of them went to the bathroom, the other waited outside the door. They only time they were not next to each other, was when they were sleeping.

They worked to establish the bond that’s supposed to be created between mothers and infants, under normal circumstances, by being very deliberate about eye-contact, for instance, and proximity. Daniel wasn’t allowed to ask for anything – he had to learn, from experience, that Heidi would provide basic needs for him, like food and drink. Daniel’s punishment for not playing along, or for doing something wrong, was called a “Time In,” where he would be subjected to time on the couch, being hugged by his mother.

Ultimately, it worked. After eight weeks of this and a year of “holding therapy” where the family of three cradled each other – holding 13 year-old Daniel like a newborn – for 20 minutes, every night for a year, Daniel began to transform, slowly, but surely, almost imperceptibly, into a boy who believed that he would be and could be and was LOVED by his parents.

Another way to say this, if you ask me, is that Daniel came to believe in that love, because he was finally convinced that he belonged to his new family. He believed because he belonged.

And I think this is our call as people of God in the world. People need to see and to know that they already belong to the good news and grace and eternal life we claim. And I think it’s our job and it should be our joy – even when it’s hard – to show that kind of love and belonging to them.

I think they need to see us marching at PRIDE parades.

I think they need to see us teaching about and practicing anti-racism.

I think they need to see our kids walking against homelessness and they need to see us giving money to their cause.

I think politicians need to receive our letters, our phone calls, and our votes – in the name of Jesus – that speak out on behalf of people who are hungry and homeless and criminalized for that. (Join us for that next Sunday, between services.)

I think the women who are served by our Agape ministry to sex workers need to experience the proximity and generosity of that ministry.

And the list goes on. But I’ve said enough. And, just because it couldn’t be more timely, I’ll close with something from the new Pope Leo that makes me think he’d agree with me. Apparently, he said this once:

“We are often worried about teaching doctrine, but we risk forgetting that our first duty is to communicate the beauty and joy of knowing Jesus.”

They don’t believe, because they don’t belong.

I think those who don’t believe what we claim to know about the grace of God need to experience it, first; they need to see us making room for them, for their doubts, and for their unbelief – whoever “they” may be. And that needs to happen, not because it’s our job to convince them of God’s love, but because we – and the world – will be blessed and better for having shared this love humbly, hopefully, and with a warm welcome of belonging, in Jesus’ name.

Amen

[To hear the full story of Daniel and his family, listen to Episode 317 of This American Life, “Unconditional Love.”]