The holiday season is full of sound, magnificent sounds. Choirs lift their voices in resonant harmonies, singing the songs of the season, and our spirits soar on the wings of every note. Orchestras, with their unique musical eloquence, stir our hearts with their irresistible richness as they offer the timeless masterpieces of the holidays.
Earlier this month, an array of Mercer University musicians presented the 29th annual Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols. To say that it was wonderful is like saying the “Mona Lisa” is a pretty picture. The sound of voices and instruments blending together so smoothly and elegantly sent chills through the audience that filled St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. All the saints, living and sculpted, were caught up together in another plane.
Not all the sounds of the season are quite so magnificent. For the only time in the year, I turn on a local FM station just to hear again Santa plaintively beg Rudolf, “Won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?” I sing along, wanting to put my faith in Bing Cosby’s forlorn dream of a “White Christmas” — even in Macon, Georgia. And, though I am not a dancer, I shamelessly belt out “Rockin’ around the Christmas Tree” with Brenda Lee.
The sounds of the season extend beyond musical notes. The holiday air swells with words, the chit-chat of parties, the scripted lines of Dickens’s Scrooge and O. Henry’s Della and Buddy the Elf. And, of course, there are the more spiritual orations that come at this time of year, hoping to inspire and guide as one year ends and another begins.
Together, all this sound, sung and spoken, “makes the season bright.”
But, isn’t there just as much a gift in silence as there is in sound? The constant bombardment of our hearing leaves precious little space for listening, deep listening to the world around us and the world within us. The old quip, “I can’t hear myself think,” is seldom truer than during the holidays.
And, maybe, just maybe, this is the one time of year when we need some moments of silence. The holidays have a way of awakening sleeping memories, some too painful, some too precious, for the clunky doggery of words. There is something about silence that molds our mortal clay into vessels, capable of carrying the unspeakably and indescribably sacred moments of life. Only the expansive openness of silence can hold these experiences.
Socrates observed that the unexamined life isn’t worth living. I would add that a too noisy life isn’t much better. It is in the silence that we remember who we are and chose who we will become. It is in the light of silence that we find our way through the darkness. It is in silence that we can hear the tears falling down our cheeks and attend kindly to them. It is in silence that we take stock of all the glad gifts that are ours. It is in silence that we move from the edges of our lives back into our center. It is only in silence that we can hear the whisper of our soul and welcome the holy love that binds all together.
I enjoy hiking with my 9-year-old grandsons, Silas and Luke, during this time of the year. As we begin our short trek, there is usually a lot of talking. Not too far into the woods, I will ask them to stand still with me and listen (neither of which comes very easily to 9-year-old boys). They oblige. After some time, I ask them what they heard. A woodpecker. The stream. A deer — well, maybe. Cars on the not-too-distant highway.
“Doc, how long should we listen?” comes their ready-to-move-on question. I answer. “Until you can hear your heart beating.” “Until you can hear the owl’s feather fall into a pile of leaves.” “Until you can hear the rocks breath.”
We walk on, just a bit more aware of who we are and where we are, of all the gifts around us and the great love that holds us.
Happy, holy silence!
