I've been conditioned to believe that most of what I do in worship is all about filling up empty space. A sanctuary is just an empty building until we gather together to fill it. Silence is barren and devoid of meaning until we play our music and sing our songs. Time is wasted and significance is lost if I don't conscientiously invest my personal energy to redeem it through some kind of meaningful activity.
In some ways, all those things are true...but they are not the whole story. Scripture often encourages us to just stop, as if God is gently shushing us to peacefulness despite our restless anxiety and nervous activity. It's quiet and it's calm and it's tender and it's kind, but I imagine that sometimes the still, small voice of 1 Kings 19:12 is simply pleading, 'Enough, already!'.
I admit, I like to hear the sound of my own voice. I get to teach philosophy to college students during an average of 6+ hours of class time per week, and if I'm not careful I can fill up that whole time all by myself. I get to sing in church every Sunday, and most of the time mine is the only voice that gets to be artificially amplified via microphone. Or, just ask my wife how often I lecture her or the kids, or try to get in the last word, or justify some excuse, or defend myself and my choices, or try to prove that I'm right.
Perhaps it's strange to say so, especially as a Pastor of Worship Life, but I think there is much more to worship than just what I say and do. It matters, of course, not just what I say and do but how and why I say and do it. Jesus is the way, not just the what.
But I think there is much to be said for what I don't say and do that is important for worship as well. I don't think Jesus was encouraging silence on Palm Sunday when he told the grumpy Pharisees to stop complaining about the disciples' theological 'noise': “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.” But I think it might be a good idea for us to slow down and listen to the silence of rocks every once in a while.
I guess that's why I love the promise of Easter and the shocking emptiness of the empty tomb. As we read the stories of Easter morning and appropriate its images -- the quiet empty early morning garden, the silent stone that had been rolled away, the dark empty tomb where no body could be found -- we are confronted with emptiness. We are forced to listen to the deathly stillness of those silent stones, empty spaces, and shadows.
The question that challenges my faith is: how will I respond to the emptiness, the stillness, the absence, the silence?
I can take the evidence of my eyes and ears as final, and come to the conclusion that the meaning of this emptiness is that something is dreadfully wrong, no one is there, I am utterly alone, and my so-called God has disappeared into a void of lies and broken promises.
Or, by an exercise of faith, I can receive the emptiness as good news. My Savior lives, He is risen just as he said, and He is present whether I can see and hear him with my eyes and ears or not.
I think most of what I call 'worship' comes down to trying to live my life with just that kind of exercise. Some might call it 'whistling in the dark'. Some might call it 'wishful thinking'. Some might call it 'denial' or 'self-deception'. Some might call it 'foolishness'.
Scripture calls it faith.
