Silence Grows Courage

We need sacred silence to prepare ourselves for something more.  

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Transcript

Sermons from 

Mission Hills UCC

San Diego, California

Rev. Dr. David Bahr

david.bahr@missionhillsucc.org

December 7, 2025

“Silence Grows Courage”

Luke 1: 18-20 – Common English Bible

Zechariah said to the angel, “How can I be sure of this? My wife and I are very old.”

19 The angel replied, “I am Gabriel. I stand in God’s presence. I was sent to speak to you and to bring this good news to you. 20 Know this: What I have spoken will come true at the proper time. But because you didn’t believe, you will remain silent, unable to speak until the day when these things happen.”

The story of Jesus begins in Luke with the phrase, “During the rule of King Herod in Judea.”  Just a reminder that Jesus was not born in a fairy-tale. To be specific, Jesus was born during the reign of a particularly cruel and paranoid king.  

As I said last week, it was into a terrified world that Luke introduces two ordinary people, Zechariah and Elizabeth, whose youthful prayers have faded in memory. If you remember, one day while serving his duties in the inner Holiest of Holies in the Temple, the angel Gabriel intrudes on his silence.  Zechariah is frightened with the kind of fear that shakes you to the core.  But Gabriel quickly says: “Don’t be afraid. Your prayer has been heard.”

 And out of nowhere, suddenly a long-forgotten prayer is revived. His wife would conceive a child. But then, unfortunately, Zechariah opens his mouth and protests the impossibility of it – explaining that he and Elizabeth are really old. Gabriel replied, “Because you didn’t believe, you will remain silent, unable to speak until the day these things happen.” And so, when Zechariah’s prayer is finally answered, he immediately can’t say anything about it – even to Elizabeth.

People often jump to the conclusion that Zechariah was obviously being punished.  He should have kept his mouth shut!  But I wonder.  Wasn’t it very fortunate?  I mean, isn’t it wonderful that his mouth was shut so all he could do is just watch his world begin to change.  What a gift it is to sometimes just keep our mouths shut so we can notice what God is doing.

Zechariah was long delayed by his encounter with Gabriel.  When he finally emerges from the Temple, people can see in his face that something astonishing has happened to him.  But he can’t say a word about it.  Whereas Zechariah doubted, when Elizabeth became pregnant, she didn’t doubt at all.  She declared, “This is the Lord’s doing.”  She added, “God has shown favor by removing my disgrace from among other people.”

You know that in that culture, people whispered about women like her. They called barrenness a sign of divine displeasure – which was never true, of course.  She realizes this reality and when she conceives, celebrates liberation from a world that had underestimated her.  But Elizabeth is not a pawn in someone else’s miracle. You see, she is a full partner – the one who carries the promise day by day. For which she prepared by going off by herself for 5 months. Not withdrawal, but for wisdom making.  

Zechariah didn’t have a choice about his silence.  But Elizabeth chooses to give herself space to breathe and to wonder – and prepare.  She chooses sacred silence to prepare herself for something more.  

It did for Zechariah and it did for Robert Graetz.

During the Montgomery Bus Boycott, Rev. Robert Graetz was the one and only white pastor in the entire city who stood publicly with Dr. King and the Black community. Just twenty-eight years old, fresh out of seminary, Robert was a quiet, thoughtful Lutheran pastor serving a Black congregation.

When the boycott began, he realized that his silence would only serve the people who wanted the boycott to fail.  He asked himself a simple question. What does it mean to be a Christian right here, right now?

He once said, “I could not preach the Gospel and look my congregation in the eyes if I stayed quiet.”  So he stood with them. And the white establishment hated him for it.  His house was bombed. Twice.  Once in the middle of the night while his children were sleeping.

 He and his wife Jean would sit at their kitchen table and talk about whether it was worth it. She told him, “If we leave now, we teach our children the wrong lesson.”  So they stayed and drove carpool routes. He spoke at mass meetings and signed his name to public statements. He refused to distance himself or soften his support. But never put himself in the spotlight, which is why most of us have never heard of him.

Pastor Graetz said that before he ever spoke publicly, he spent weeks in silence. To listen. To pray and be sure he was acting out of faith and not out of impulse. He said that holy silence gave him courage, preparing him to speak with clarity and love. It prepared him for the work God was doing – shaping a young pastor into someone who could withstand the fire of fear.

Courage like that is not only found in history.  I think of librarians today in small towns and rural communities around the country standing up against book bans and those who threaten their jobs. They are being harassed, shouted at, even fired. And yet many of them refuse to stay silent because that would protect the wrong people.

One librarian said, “You may fire me, but you will not make me hide knowledge from children. I am a steward of truth.”

Another told her school board, “If I am silent, I am complicit.”  Then she added, “I choose my voice.”

These are not people with power.  They are not activists with microphones.  They are ordinary workers who listened, prayed, and discerned what was right, to find the courage to speak when the moment comes.

And that is what holy silence does:
 It prepares ordinary hearts to confront extraordinary pressure.
 It prepares you to speak with love and conviction.
 It prepares you for the moment silence ends and courage meets us at the doorway.

Like when Elizabeth’s cousin Mary came to visit bringing unexpected news – impossible news – of her own.  But Mary didn’t even have a chance to tell her story.  

The moment she walks into the house, the child within Elizabeth leaps to life. Filled with the Holy Spirit, she says, “How is it that the mother of my Lord has come to visit me?”  How did she know?  

Do you realize she is the first one to recognize the Messiah? Not a priest in the temple. Not a king in a palace. Not a prophet on a mountaintop.  The first preacher of the Gospel is a woman who had been talked about behind her back for years – poor Elizabeth, cursed by God.

 Mary left just before Elizabeth gave birth.  Neighbors and relatives came around to celebrate with her.  On the 8th day they took him to be circumcised, which was also the day to name the child.  The crowd wanted him to be named Zechariah – after his father.  Zechariah couldn’t speak, so Elizabeth said to name him John.  The relatives all looked at each other curiously.  Why John?  There’s no John in your family, so they gestured to Zechariah. He wrote on a tablet: his name is John.  And at that exact moment, he could speak again. He began praising God.  

All the neighbors were filled with awe, asking, “Who will this child grow up to be?!”  We’ll come back to that story another day.  

But my point:  Zechariah was not being punished. God was giving him space so that his heart could catch up with what God is doing and learn how to trust a promise that felt impossible. He was being formed for something much more.  

Can we be silent long enough to listen and then brave enough to speak truth when the moment comes?

Silence is sacred.  But it can also be something else:

Sometimes silence is cowardice.
 Complicity that allows injustice to grow.

Being silent while people with black and brown skin fear going to church or work or court or the hospital or school, that is not the silence God asks of us.

Being silent when leaders call Somali immigrants or anyone “human garbage” or when people who claim the name of Jesus call queer kids deviant or perverse, an abomination, that is not the silence God asks of us.

Being silent when leaders mock the weak, excuse violence, or reward dishonesty. There is nothing sacred about that.

Herod demanded that people stay quiet and ruled by fear. Every empire does.  
 But silence is immoral when we say nothing about cruelty.
 Silence is dishonest when it doesn’t name lies.
 Silence is wrong when it shields the powerful and abandons the vulnerable.

So, how do we know the difference?
 
 Silence is authentic when it clears away the noise so we can hear God again.
 Silence is faithful when it prepares us to be more courageous.

Silence is a blessing when it gets us ready to speak truth.
 
 

Now, sometimes speaking up has a cost. Sometimes talking is easier than facing the truth – using our words to shield us against vulnerability. That is why silence can feel safer, easier.  But if silence only keeps us safe, it is not Advent silence.
 If silence only protects us, it is not Advent peace.

Advent peace is never the quiet of avoidance. Advent invites us into a peace that strengthens us to be honest – not just speaking up for justice, but:

Before finally admit, “I need help,” we need sacred silence.

Before we finally say, “I’m sorry,” we need sacred silence. 

Before we tell a friend truth they don’t want to hear, but need to hear, we need sacred silence.

You and I need this kind of silence to give room for the small voice inside to rise up and declare – “this is not right.”  

Even if it is only to yourself.

And if someone tries to silence you, let it prepare you instead. 

Let Advent silence be the kind that grows your courage in the dark.

So listen.
 Let the promise gestate. Let it grow.
 And when the time is right, your forgotten impossible prayers will rise in ways you could never expect.

So, please don’t give up. 

And let this sacred silence prepare you for something more.