I’ve been thinking a lot about silence. And faith.

During this pandemic, it feels like we’ve been shut indoors, deemed helpless, unable to express ourselves in the usual ways. Silenced.

I got to thinking about the different kinds of silence. 

Silence can save or condemn. It can be active or passive.

There’s silence that’s complicit or self-serving or judgmental or controlling or disapproving or impatient.

Then there’s silence that’s contemplative, mindful, meditative, sacred, prayerful, and thoughtful. This kind of silence allows space to open up. It’s a patient kind of silence.

Silence can be stubborn. It can mean standing your ground. 

Silence can be a demonstration of faith. 

Last week we saw that God was concerned with the survival of the human species, figuring he would give humans one more shot at it through Noah.  

But Noah is silent when God says he will destroy the world. He has faith that God will save him. But in his silence, he also becomes complicit when following God’s commandment and he puts the survival of his family, his personal gain, above all else. He is not concerned with the rest of humanity. 

This week, Abram, like Noah, silently obeys God when he tells him to leave his ancestral home and go out into the world. He, like Noah, has faith that God will take care of him. 

Abram again chooses silence when dealing with Hagar and Sarai, allowing Sarai to treat Hagar with cruelty. 

But he’s not silent when asking Sarai to pretend to be his sister so he can live and profit handsomely in Egypt. 

He is silent when Pharaoh takes Sarai to live in the palace with him as a wife, and when Pharoah discovers the truth and questions him: Why did you tell me she was your sister?? Why did you let me take her as a wife? 

Abram silently leaves with all his newly acquired wealth when Pharoah throws him out. 

Yet he is not at all silent when his nephew Lot is captured in war. He quickly gathers his legions to rescue him.

Back in the spring, during one of many sleepless nights,  I heard a podcast on RadioLab about a momma octopus found deep in the ocean, three or four Empire State Buildings down, so far down that no light comes through. The deep diver scientists discovered her and kept visiting her as years passed. 

They named her Octo-Mom. 

Her head the size of a cantaloupe, she sat there silently in the darkness, her tentacles wrapped around her hundred and fifty or so eggs, warding off all kinds of predators, never moving from her spot--for four and a half years. 

She never ate, and she turned more and more pale as she wasted away, until her babies were born. And then she died. 

Talk about faith!

And her silence was patient and stubborn and steadfast. She was committed to the survival of her species and future generations. She was not self-serving. She knew she wouldn’t be able to see her babies grow up. 

We are at a turning point in American history. People are standing in long lines, waiting silently for hours and hours, in order to vote. For the future generations. Whether they’re here to enjoy them or not. 

It feels like there’s not much we can do right now. This, we can. Silently and steadfastly. It shows that we haven’t lost all faith. 

But this turning point is so much bigger than just the U.S. election. This is a global time of darkness, and we’re going into the darkest time of year. 

We must have faith, like Octo-Mom, that in this time of darkness something new is waiting to be born, whatever the outcome of the election. 

Because even in the depths of darkness, there is life waiting to be born.