We continue our Celtic Advent series ‘Songs in the Wasteland’ with an old post. Hannah’s words, penned a year ago, felt even more appropriate for the current times we find ourselves in.
“O little town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.” O Little Town of Bethlehem by Phillips Brooks
This time last year it was a cold, grey day and I sat across from my spiritual director, grappling with my understanding of God. Winter was hard for me last year, and I wanted answers. Wise, insightful, and extremely patient, (did I mention extremely patient? Seriously, the woman has ninja skills…) she looked me in the face and gently admonished me.
“Do not confuse silence with absence. He is still here.”
That sentence has reverberated around my brain for the last year. Silence and absence, two very different things. Not inevitable bedfellows after all, but two distinct entities, in which God occupies the former and not the latter.
It came home to me one night when I found myself in a face off with my three year old. As with most parents I find I cannot quite recall what the particular issue had been that night, but no doubt it had been a long day, and there had been some form of tantrum. In an effort to calm her down, I found myself simply swooping up her protesting angry body and holding her against my chest. Rocking. There were no words; she and I were past that point. I was just there – silent but undoubtedly present. The simple rhythm of her hot body pressed into mine, the sway of our limbs as I soothed her with my presence.
And there – all of a sudden – there He was too. Silence and presence filling every cavity of the room, rocking me, rocking her.
“He is not absent, He is present”, I gasped.
Silence is unnerving. Believe me, I’ve been there. How do we wait? What do we say? When will this vortex of deafening quiet END?! Perplexed and frustrated, angry and irritated, we could easily shake our fists at this silent Father. We itch to be doing something, to be making progress, to in some way be climbing our way out of this darkness. And we, sadly, miss the point.
In the silence we come to terms with our own inability to fix anything. In the silence we discover a God who is far more interested in being with us than in giving us our next assignment. In the silence, we encounter a God who would swoop us up and rock us, gently; our thumping heads pressed into his chest, our beating hearts slowing as we receive his presence. He doesn’t need words for this kind of communion. Silence is not absence. And there, my friends, therein lies the hope. He is still here.
Immanuel, God with us. Happy Advent, one and all.
Hannah Montgomery is wife to Tom, mother to Charlie and Grace, mentor, friend, leader… But most importantly, she is a woman who seeks to know personally the deep heart of God. Her pilgrimage into that deep heart of God has not always been easy, but along the way she has discovered some beautiful truths that provide nourishment to others on their journeys.