Some time ago,
a composition that required the orchestra to sit in silence for four minutes
and 33 seconds threw the musical world into controversy. During that time, the
only sound was musicians turning blank pages of their “scores” and, probably,
by the audience shifting uneasily in their seats caused
Hailed by
some as innovative or avant-garde, it was generally dismissed as a piece of musical
fraud. What the “composer” had in mind is not clear. It might have been a
protest against the emptiness of the contemporary world. Perhaps it was a cry
for help against the endless noise that explodes all around us. In that case,
we have some sympathy for him.
In your
local store, you are inevitably immersed in streams of “muzak” flowing down the
aisles; in the street you are deafened by the roar of traffic; seek solace in
the countryside and somebody’s radio invades your private world, or a Boeing
777 roars overhead; turn your TV to a favourite program and a thunderous surge
of “background” music obliterates what you really want to hear.
Enter some
churches and, apart from an interlude called the sermon, the musicians are
hardly ever silent. Perhaps that’s why Matt Redman wrote his insightful song
When the Music Fades, with its thought-provoking lines, “I’ll bring you more
than a song, for a song is not what you have required . . . I’m coming back to
the heart of worship, and it’s all about you, Jesus.”
As a small
boy with an over-active imagination, I overcame fear of going upstairs at night
by stamping on the stairs and singing or whistling loudly, in the belief that
this noisy display would warn whatever dark thing lurked upstairs that I was
not afraid. In later life, I put away this childish notion understanding real
power is not measured in decibels, loudness cannot hide weakness, and very
often “empty vessels make most noise.”
Against the
background of a world in geophysical and political upheaval, Psalm 46 called for
silence, “Be still, and know that I am God” (v 10). Like Elijah on Mount Horeb
(1 Kings 19:11–12), we eventually discover the presence of God is often
revealed not in impressive supernatural manifestations but in a low whisper
heard only by a humble, listening ear.
Maybe we are
afraid of silence because we don’t know how to handle it. We fail to
distinguish between stillness and deadness, and, like Peter on the Mount of
Transfiguration (Mark 9:5–8), feel we must always say or do something to make
the occasion meaningful, when God is actually calling us to listen to Jesus.
To argue
that only times of quietness reveal the presence of God is foolish. The
Scriptures are full of exhortations to praise the Lord with songs and shouts of
praise, trumpets and “loud sounding cymbals” but sometimes we may have over-emphasised
the latter and given ourselves concussion from too much percussion. We need to
get the balance right.
Excerpted from Reflections: Looking at Timeless Truths in a
Changing World, with permission, copyright © John Lancaster 2010
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