I will begin with three little scenes, and one song verse, about silence. Silence in its many forms.
After the fire, [there was] a sound of sheer silence. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.
From the works of Simon and Garfunkel:
Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
From the novel “Franny and Zooey,” by J.D. Salinger:
You’ve even both been up here on many a weekend [since Seymour killed himself], and though we’ve talked and talked and talked, we’ve all agreed not to say a word.
After Jesus had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone.
Here in this room, we attract an uncommonly large number of people who enjoy silence. They — we — might say that we find God in the silence. Or we hear God (ironically enough) in the silence. But if you don’t hear God in the silence, and especially if you feel anxious about that, as if you’re missing out, well, come sit by me. Often, often in our long liturgical silences, I need at least the first full minute to simply let my mind and heart catch up with my body. In our long silence after the second reading, my body has been in this room for some time — what, about twenty minutes? But my mind and heart are anywhere but here.
They are wandering downstairs, where there is always one thing or another thing to do. Or they are obstinately holed up in my office, fretting about who knows what, and honestly, who cares? The mundane worries and headaches of a working priest. Or my mind and heart haven’t even entered the building yet, because they are hovering in the skies over Minnesota, wondering about a member of my family, or they are poking around in my past, trying to find one of my parents, and tell them something I couldn’t tell them when they were in this mortal arena.
But then they finally catch up, my mind and heart, and they find me sitting over on that bench, in the silence; and they integrate with my body again, usually when I am gazing through those little clear windows at the tree branches in our labyrinth garden, or when I’m trying to breathe a little prayer for whoever is causing the blaring emergency vehicle to tear around the corner of First and Roy.
I wonder (I admit, with some envy) if some of you are masters of silence, old pros, able to gather mind, body, and heart into one cohesive being, right from the moment the silence begins. Maybe you are silence artisans, almost immediately tuning in. (Or is it tuning out? Do you expertly tune out all that is not relevant, all that does not matter, and listen in the silence for the life-giving heartbeat of your companion in the pew?)
I pray that each of us, the silence amateurs and the silence professionals alike, will be blessed by the experience the prophet Elijah enjoyed: he “heard” the sheer silence of God’s ineffable presence. He wasn’t daydreaming, or fretting. He was savvy: Elijah was not shocked that God wasn’t in all the expectable, dramatic places, the hurricane and the earthquake and the fire. Surely the terrible God of the Flaming Thornbush would, or should, thunder down upon us in a deafening and blinding theophany! But Elijah seemed instinctively to know better. He heard God in the sound of sheer silence.
Another translation says God was present in “a still, small voice.”
Then, in the wake of that silence, Elijah repeated his prayer to God, word for word. He may not have been changed or transformed by the divine encounter, but neither was he daunted. He stayed on point. Perhaps the silence gave him fortitude and courage.
I think Simon and Garfunkel would have gotten along with Elijah. In perhaps their most famous song, they do not celebrate silence itself, as if all we need to feel better about the world is some quiet time, but rather they lament how our noisy human world cannot hear the wisdom of the prophets, because that wisdom is whispered in the sound of silence, and we are too disconnected and distracted to hear it. We need to hear important things in the silence.
And as for J.D. Salinger, in his novel about a busy, brilliant, and traumatized family, he notes that they don’t talk about the devastating suicide of their eldest son and brother. Instead they “talk and talk and talk, and agree not to say a word.” They keep a dull and numbing form of silence you and I know well: the silence of idle chatter, the silence of our preoccupation with anything and everything except the thing we should really be talking about. An unconscious silence; a mulish or obstinate silence; an anxious silence. If God’s voice is in that silence, we will have a hard time hearing it over the white noise of our restlessness.
And finally today we step into a tossing boat, buffeted by high winds, and we see coming toward us that greatest master of silence, Jesus himself. Utterly in control, Jesus had dismissed the crowds and compelled his close friends to put out to sea, while he withdrew to pray in silence and solitude. Then, when he heard in his holy silence the cry of his friends, he brought his silence to them.
Set aside for a moment the wondrous and bizarre part of the experience, when Jesus walks on water. More on that soon. Notice this first: when Jesus rescues Peter and they clamber back into the boat, this happens:
When they got into the boat, the wind ceased.
So: he had been alone on the mountain, where his compassionate ears heard their cry. Then he came to their aid, and brought his lonely mountain into their boat, a penetrating and calming silence. A silence that helped them settle, and listen, and move forward with confidence and purpose.
But he had to carry that silence over terribly rough seas. The bit about walking on water: Let’s consider that part of the Good News now. To our modern, practical ears, walking on water sounds absurd and fanciful, a fairy tale. But I encourage you to get quiet. Listen. Wonder about what’s being said here. Let go of literalism (as if this passage is a news article or a history piece), but also try to let go of your skepticism and cynicism. As you reflect, try to hear and see that Jesus is crossing the stormy seas of their doubts, their fears, their dashed hopes, their despair.
And as for Peter, once again the patron of fools who rush in where angels fear to tread: Peter actually demonstrates not just foolishness, but great courage by stepping onto the water himself, teaching us that even someone Jesus says has “little faith” can do brave and difficult things. This story of silence and storms, then, can reveal our own faith and courage, not just our weaknesses and our doubts. Today’s Good News reassures us that even if we have little faith, even if we feel weak, small, and afraid, with God’s help we will have enough. We will be enough.
Imagine someone crossing over the storms that rage in your anxious heart, and reassuring you that there is hope, and meaning, and a promise of a good future. Imagine him convincing you that your faith is enough, and your courage is enough, to meet and master the high winds of this troubled and traumatic age.
If someone actually got through to you and helped you calm down, and breathe, and dare to hope again, dare to trust yourself again, dare to trust the rest of us again, and dare to trust God again, well, that merciful gift might seem as improbable and miraculous as walking on water. But Jesus does it: he got through to them. He reached them. He sheltered them within his great silence. And today he walks over our own stormy waters, and shelters us.
Many years ago, Mother Catharine said something I remember quite fondly. Her words might illuminate all of this in a helpful way. We were talking about introverts and extraverts, as people in our time and place so often do. I prefer extraversion. Catharine prefers introversion. We were discussing how everyone needs silence for reflection, for balance, for insight, for courage. Not just introverts: we extraverts need the silence too. And Catharine said, “I actually think extraverts need it more, because introverts carry it around with us.” Yes, I like this. I quite agree.
Many of us (whatever our introvert/extravert preferences) have trouble carrying around the holy silence of God. God is with us all the same; I know Jesus loves me; I know the Lord is near. But sometimes we need the Silent One to come to us, and bring his silence with him.
Then, oh great relief, the wind ceases, and we receive all that we need to navigate this windy and storming world.
May the holy silence of God reach you. And may you have the presence of mind and heart to hear it, and wrap your face in your mantle, and stand at the entrance of your cave.
***
Preached on the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 14A), August 9, 2026, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.
1 Kings 19:9-18
Psalm 85:8-13
Romans 10:5-15
Matthew 14:22-33