Silence

To my family’s great disappointment, living this far north of the equator is still too far south to ensure a white Christmas.

In fact, in the ten years I’ve lived in southwest Virginia, we’ve only had one. Thankfully, because we at live at a high enough elevation, we do get several good snowfalls a year, just not during the holidays. 

Advances in meteorology usually mean we have fair warning of them, the only downside being that these same advances tend to get our hopes up before a storm actually materializes. What you can count on, however, are natural signs that predict precipitation more locally: blue-gray skies that hang heavy above your head, a drop in temperature and barometric pressure, a ring around the moon, and the sudden flurry of animal activity as deer and junco prepare for the coming weather. 

And then, when the conditions are right, the snow will begin to fall. Unlike rain or sleet that bounces off roofs and strikes against windows, snow’s unique shape and composition mean that it drifts to the earth in an almost unnatural silence. Soon it will cover the grass and pile up along the fence line. The roads will turn from black to white, and if the storm lasts long enough, school will cancel and we’ll settle in for a day of rest. Then, as quietly as it began, it will stop, leaving the world covered in white. 

But the silence continues somehow. In those first few hours after a snowfall, a hush lies over the landscape. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my mind was playing tricks on my ears. As if by covering up the muddy ruts and scattered toys and barren trees, the snow had somehow reduced the sound as well. Has my brain mistaken a visual peace for an auditory one? 

My brain is not playing tricks on me, but the truth is less surprising than if it were. Scientifically speaking, it is quieter after a fresh snowfall. A snowflake’s six-sided crystalline structure creates small spaces—open pockets, you could say—that absorb sound waves. Because of this unique shape, snow dampens noise much the same way foam panels in a recording studio do. And the more accumulation you have, the greater the effect. In fact, some studies show up to a 60 percent reduction in sound with just a few inches.1 At least, at first. 

As the snow crystals begin to melt, they change shape and lose their buffering properties; and as the cycle of “melt and refreeze” settles in, laying snow becomes dense. A thin crust of ice can develop which actually magnifies sound waves as they bounce off the hardened surface. What once absorbed the sound, giving the world an unexpected experience of calm, now amplifies it. 

“What once absorbed the sound, giving the world an unexpected experience of calm, now amplifies it. ”

While it might surprise you, the dynamics of silence and sound are key to understanding the years between the Old Testament and the New Testament. Known by some theologians as “the silent period,” the four hundred years after the end of Malachi and before the beginning of the Gospels was marked by the absence of God’s voice. Like a fresh snowfall blanketing the landscape, a hush had descended. This doesn’t mean God wasn’t present or at work during the inter-testamental period, but that, in the words of 1 Samuel 3:1, “the word of the L was rare and prophetic visions were not widespread.” In fact, Jewish theologians mark Malachi as the last prophet God sent to Israel and believe that he has not spoken since.2

Interestingly, the book of Malachi actually ends with the promise that God will speak again through a prophet who will be like Elijah in his power, authority, and courage: “Look, I am going to send you the prophet Elijah before the great and terrible day of the L comes. And he will turn the hearts of the fathers to their children and the hearts of children to their fathers.”3 

But by the time Zechariah is serving in the temple, it hasn’t happened, and the previous four centuries have been marked by suffering, loss, and a pervasive silence. So when Luke picks up the narrative, the questions have also changed. The question isn’t simply when will the prophet come, but will he come at all? And what happens to hope when you can’t hear God’s voice? What happens to hope when you begin to believe that God can’t hear your voice? 

Returning to Luke 1, we find Zechariah standing beside the altar of incense where suddenly, while in the act of offer- ing up prayers, the angel of the Lord appears to him. At first, Zechariah is terrified, but the angel comforts him, reassuring him that he has good news. Zechariah’s wife, Elizabeth, although elderly and thought to be barren, is going to conceive a son. This son will be named John and be filled with the Holy Spirit even before he is born. He will be the prophet God promised at the end of Malachi, and his life’s work will be to prepare Israel for the coming Promised Son. 

But by the time the angel stops speaking, Zechariah has moved from fear to disbelief. And all the waiting, all the wondering, all the doubt surfaces: “How can I know this?” he blurts out. “For I am an old man, and my wife is well along in years.”4 

At this point, the angel identifies himself as Gabriel, the one who stands in the presence of God, and as he continues, you can almost hear the reproof in his words: “I was sent to speak to you and tell you this good news. Now listen. You will become silent and unable to speak until the day these things take place, because you did not believe my words.”5 

As a person whose vocation depends on my words, I can think of nothing more terrifying than losing them. You press your lips together in protest. You raise your soft pal- ate, opening wide to let an objection escape. The tip of your tongue touches your alveolar ridge. Your face muscles con- tract, and you can feel your vocal cords vibrating. But there is no sound. You have been silenced. Muted and—for all you know—unheard. 

But something more than reproof is happening in this moment. And to understand why Zechariah’s words are taken from him, you must remember Gabriel’s first words to him: “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, because your prayer has been heard.”6 

The irony of Zechariah losing his voice is that he had been using his voice to beg God to intervene. But somewhere along the way, he’d lost hope that God was hearing him. Somewhere along the way, he found himself asking, “If a prayer leaves my lips but God doesn’t answer, does it make a sound?” 

Zechariah was about to learn that our inability to hear God’s words is no measure of his ability to hear ours. Even when he is silent, he hears. He sees. He knows. And even if he works on his own timetable, he still works. So to prove his faithfulness, God takes Zechariah’s voice. He takes it as if to say, “I will be faithful to you with or without your prayers. You just stand there and watch. You just watch.” 

Because when all is said and done, it is God who speaks worlds into existence. It is God whose voice echoes across the void and says, “Let there be light.”7 It is God who fills wombs that stand as silent as space. It is God who answers Hannah’s prayers when “her voice could not be heard.”8 It is God who knows our needs before we express them.9 It is God who himself intercedes when our words fail—who “helps us in our weakness, because we do not know what to pray for as we should.”10 

“Because when all is said and done, it is God who speaks worlds into existence.”

And so perhaps God’s reproof was not a punishment for Zechariah so much as an invitation to experience his strength in a way that could only happen in weakness. Perhaps God’s “now listen” was not silencing Zechariah so much as quieting him, quieting him long enough to restore his hope. Because just as the snow’s icy crust amplifies sound instead of absorb- ing it, our prayers ring loudest in our ears when we believe they are unheard. 

So God is going to prove that he is a God who hears. 

How appropriate then, that when the Father finally speaks, it is to answer a prayer for a child. How appropriate that this child will one day be known as “the Voice” who cries out to prepare the way of the Promised Son. And how appropriate that a story that starts with the silence of God leads to God’s greatest Word ever. 

Because in just a few short months, the One who existed from the beginning would be born. “Long ago,” writes the author of Hebrews, “God spoke to our ancestors by the prophets at different times and in different ways. In these last days, he has spoken to us by his Son.”11 

And so as we wait through our own silent periods, we wait in hope. The One who heard and answered Zechariah is the same One who hears us today. The One who sends snow to quiet the world is the same One who quiets our hearts even when we can’t hear him. And the One who restores our hope is the same One who will open our lips to declare his praise when we finally can. 

From Heaven and Nature Sing, “Day 5. Silence” (B&H, 2022). Used by permission.