Have you noticed the absence of silence in public places these days? It seems like most of them can’t hold silence, except for libraries and churches. And even those are becoming louder. But there are certain places where you’re guaranteed to be held hostage to a blaring TV with endless news reports from anxious news sources. I’m thinking of the waiting rooms of doctors’ offices and airport terminals and car dealerships.
Why are they such apt venues for nonstop television broadcasts? I suspect that those are the places in which people are terrified of being alone with their thoughts. We might say that most of the time we’re afraid of keeping company with just our thoughts and ourselves, but that usual fear is exacerbated when waiting for medical results or when we’re about to board a flight that might be delayed or, worse yet, crash. And of course, in the car dealerships, everyone is afraid of what the price tag will be on the oil change and battery replacement. Most of us, at least in this nation, seem to be woefully afraid of silence.
It pervades even the Church. I once served as an organist in a deeply troubled parish. At some point, parishioners made it quite clear that I was to fill every second of silence in the liturgy with music, what we often call “traveling music” or “noodling.” There was to be no silence. A seminarian stationed at the parish wisely observed one day that the parishioners were scared of silence. And in hindsight, I wonder if that explained much of the parish’s difficulties.
But why are we so petrified of being alone with our thoughts? Are we fearful of being besieged by haunted memories from our past? Are we too frightened to look deep within ourselves to see where we might need to change? And most chilling of all, are we uneasy about what God will say to us if we can manage to be silent for a time? Will God ask us to repent and seek forgiveness? Will we be transformed?
One way of looking at the story of Jesus’s transfiguration on Mount Tabor is to see it as a moment of glory, a mountaintop experience of compelling drama. It is, of course, all those things. Jesus’s transfiguration is nothing less than an earthly glimpse beyond time and space, through the thin veil between this world and the next. On that mountaintop, Peter, James, and John begin to see who Jesus really is. The experience itself is a Christological statement. This man isn’t just their teacher and friend; he’s the Son of God. This man will not just work miracles, feed the hungry, and heal the sick; this man will go to a gory death on the cross. Indeed, his glory will be in that moment of suffering and complete self-offering on the cross. This is uncomfortable news that should elicit sheer silence.
And this brings up a second way of looking at the transfiguration account. The transfiguration is a moment so mysterious and transcendent that it takes away the speech of Jesus’s disciples. But they appear to struggle with silence. Their experience in ministry with Jesus until this moment has been exhilarating and fast-paced, and despite all those hours spent with their Lord, they’re still not clear about what kind of Messiah he is. They’ve brought too much baggage onto that mountain. All their hopes, dreams, and presuppositions follow them up the mountainside. They’re convinced that they understand what discipleship really is, but they have no clue.
They’re so weary from ministry and being with Jesus that they can hardly keep their eyes open on the mountaintop. And when they finally do open their eyes, they’re bewildered. So, Peter in his usual impetuous way, starts talking. Peter can never keep his mouth shut, can he? He immediately wants to do something. He wants to encapsulate for all time this incredible experience.
But just as he does, a cloud overshadows the disciples. It’s as if God is telling Peter to be quiet. Stop talking. And then, the disciples are afraid and confounded, in the throes of a situation over which they have no control. They can hardly see two feet in front of their faces because the enveloping cloud is so dense, and it’s at this moment that God finally speaks, audibly. God not only tells them who Jesus is. He tells them to listen to Jesus. And when the cloud dissipates and God has finished speaking, they’re left alone with their Lord. And finally, there’s a beautiful moment of breathtaking silence.
There’s no other proper response to the epiphany they’ve just witnessed. Talk would be too cheap. Action would be too hasty. They’ve now been invited into the silence in which God speaks most clearly. Their world has been reduced to nothing so that Jesus can be everything to them.
But there remains a dilemma for those of us over two thousand years later who inhabit a noisy, chaotic world. Our task of keeping silence has been made more difficult by technology and social media, which add to the chattering voices in our heads. Text messages with their nagging dings intrude on our lives unless we choose to silence them. The obsessive urge to scroll through social media is an addiction that assails us in the grocery store line or even at a restaurant dinner table. We know we can’t tune out the world, for to do so would be irresponsible, a shirking of our civic duty to respond to injustice. To ignore the world would be a neglect of our Christian obligation to be mindful of the needs surrounding us. What is there to do?
One obvious response lies right before our eyes. We are, in fact, availing ourselves of it right now. In coming to this Mass, we’ve allowed ourselves to be silenced for a time. We’ve come here, dragging along all that weighs us down from Monday to Saturday. We bring our unshakable anxieties, small and large. We carry on our shoulders the weight of a world being frayed apart. We lug behind us the sadness for family and friends in distress. We come, trudging up the side of the mountain, weary and afraid.
And we enter a cloud, as it were. Here in this church, our concerns and our lives matter deeply, but we bring them here mindful that there’s nothing we alone can do to change our circumstances. We feel the unbearable weight of wanting the world to be transformed but vexed by our paltry efforts. We come to the mountaintop, wanting desperately to follow Jesus obediently and yet not fully comprehending the mystery of his presence or knowing what we are to do.
And as the Mass proceeds, we realize that we’re not in control. We submit ourselves to a time-tested rhythm, as ancient as the Church herself. We listen to Scripture readings selected by others, readings that comfort but often challenge and bewilder us. We sit next to individuals we know well, some with whom we disagree, and others we’ve never laid eyes on before. Now, God is the host and we’re the guests, and it’s supposed to be that way.
The closer we get to Communion, the more we seem to be losing our grip on life. All our human projects and aspirations are rendered futile, like Peter’s hasty words on Mount Tabor. In the Mass, our worldly chatter and pride are reduced to silence. All the certainties that we had outside the Church flee away. All our stubborn refusals to hear God’s voice are softened. All our attempts to separate our religious lives from our secular ones are judged. All our attempts to hear only what we want to hear are chastened. We must leave everything at the foot of the mountain to come close to God.
This is the paschal mystery at the heart of our salvation. We simply can’t run from almighty God, from whom no secrets are hid. God is drawing us closer and inviting us into silence. And so, we stop speaking. We stop doing. And we listen. We give up all that has defined and enslaved us before, and we submit to the unfathomable silence of God’s love. And we listen to God’s chosen Son, the only One worth listening to. We’re reduced to nothing so that he can be everything to us.
Before our eyes, on the altar, ordinary bread and wine, are transfigured before our eyes, a supreme gift that eludes our manipulation, which we can only receive with thanksgiving. The Bread is broken, and we keep silence because this gift is beyond our imagining. Suddenly, we’re awake—truly awake—and we can leave the mountain with ears better sharpened and hearts better tuned to the grace of God.
To survive in the ceaseless, chaotic chatter of our world, we need to learn to listen again, and there’s only one voice that can help us become better listeners to God and one another. We need to learn to sift through an excess of speech to find the still, small voice of Christ speaking to us. He’s the One who will teach us. He’s the One who will help us respond with courage, wisdom, and grace to all that we want to see transformed in the world around us. If we can enter the silence, below the wildly conflicting and lying voices of our world, there’s always a steady, constant voice speaking ultimate truth to us. If we listen to it, we, too, shall be “changed into his likeness from one degree of glory to another.” And before the unspeakable loveliness of our Savior’s voice, we have no words of our own. His words have become ours.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Last Sunday after the Epiphany
March 2, 2025