When Mr. Rogers walked out to accept a lifetime achievement award, at the 1997 Emmys, he wasn’t wearing a zippered sweater but a crisp, black tuxedo. He looked very handsome.
He graciously accepted, but then he did something remarkable.
He stopped. He paused.
So many people have helped me to come here to this night. Some of you are here, some are far away, and some are even in heaven. All of us have special ones who loved us into being. Would you just take, along with me, 10 seconds to think of the people who have helped you become who you are, those who cared about you and wanted what was best for you in life? 10 seconds. I’ll watch the time.
And he did. Ten seconds is a long time in the world of television. It’s an eternity. But Mr. Rogers kept it, and the camera panned to the famous people in the audience, the great stars, tears rolling down their cheeks. The silence seemed to go on and on.
1997 is a long time ago now, and Hollywood is just as glitzy and corrupt as it ever was. But that was a moment, and it happened, and it was beautiful, and we remember it now. Mr. Rogers is gone, but that moment remains.
Whomever you’ve been thinking about, he said, how pleased they must be to know the difference you feel they have made.
And then, as a Christian, as in fact an ordained Presbyterian minister, Mr. Rogers blessed them:
May God be with you.
What can we do? Remember. Bless.
A second silence.
In 2020, during the pandemic, after the German government announced that the Berlin Philharmonic would be closed indefinitely, their conductor Kirill Petrenko added one more work to their final concert, John Cage’s masterpiece 4’33”—a work comprised entirely of silence, four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence, as the musicians in the orchestra sat there in their tuxedos and black gowns, as the audience sat there in the darkened hall. Silence.
Petrenko stood on the podium, all in black, raised his arms, and as if there really was music playing, as if this was like any other orchestral work, began to conduct, his hands waving back and forth with the baton. He leaned in with his body. He looked intently at the horns, then the strings. His muscles strained. His tempo changed, now fast, now slow. He was like a dancer. And the musicians were leaning in and looking, too, just as intense, just as poised as their conductor. Their eyes never left him, they were holding their instruments with purpose, with intention, and the silence began to rise and fall, to reach a crescendo.
What can we say? What can be said? What can we do in the face of illness and dread?
We can open our arms. We can sit together in silence.
The third silence.
Jesus, hanging on the cross. He speaks several times—he cries out, my God my God why have you forsaken me—but for most of those agonizing hours, he simply hangs there, in silence, arms wide.
And God is silent, too. He doesn’t answer the one great question—his son’s great question.
God is in the question. He is the question.
God is in the silence.
He is the silence.