Where were you last Friday at noon? I was privileged to stand with some of the lovely people from our community as we observed the national minute of silence to remember the victims of the massacre in Sousse, Tunisia. Our flags flew at half-mast; some of us prayed to God. Some shed a tear or two and some just reflected ruefully on the horrors of this world. All of us stood in silence.
As I write this, I think about the times I have sunbathed on holiday – by a pool or on a beach. I’ve been privileged to take foreign holidays – once in Tunisia itself. The calmness of the scene is usually interrupted only by the laughter of children playing, the splashes of bathers or the sound of waves lapping on the shore.
We don’t anticipate automatic weapons; we don't expect screams of fear or cries of pain. Holidays are for rest and recreation, not torture and terror. Why should such peace be so brutalised by fear and how can our society be invaded by such wanton and inexplicable carnage? Tough questions to try and answer.
Simon and Garfunkel sang that the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and in tenement halls. The prophets I read tell me much can be learned in times of darkness and desolation, when peoples tremble and long for hope. One such prophet, Elijah by name, gripped by despair in a time of national crisis, cried out to God for purpose as he struggled alone. And, in a still small voice, God spoke to him.
Sometimes, silent refection can be our only response or at least a beginning to change. In the sound of silence we too might hear a still small voice of hope.
Take a minute …
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