Shouting & Silence
Luke 19:29-40
When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, saying, “Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.’” So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, “Why are you untying the colt?” They said, “The Lord needs it.” Then they brought it to Jesus, and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. Now as he was approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!” Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.”
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There is something inherently unsettling about silence. In its stillness, we are left with nothing but the weight of our own thoughts, laid bare in the presence of the Divine. Perhaps this is why, during the silent moments of our liturgy—particularly in the prayer of confession—I often hear the pews come alive with their own kind of orchestral music: the crescendo of shuffling feet, suppressed coughs, and clearing throats. The discomfort grows palpable as if the silence itself has become too heavy to bear, too self-revealing to endure for even a moment longer.
Why are we so afraid of silence? What is it we fear we might uncover in its stillness? Perhaps it is the revelation of what makes up our true selves—the parts we keep buried beneath the noise of routine and ritual. In silence, there is no distraction, no defenses to protect us. And so, we raise our voices—not always in joy, not always in truth—but often in desperation, to drown out the stillness that might expose the vulnerable places of our souls, the places we are called to tend but have neglected.
In our reading today, we find Jesus on the edge of town—silent. He isn’t preaching. He isn’t performing miracles. He is simply riding. Riding on a borrowed colt, making his way down the dusty road into Jerusalem. A crowd begins to form. Word spreads. People come to see him—people who, I imagine, have been told time and again to keep quiet. But this time, as they gather, as they watch, as they hope, something breaks their silence. The crowd erupts into shouts of acclamation. They break out into a raw, unpolished liturgy that rises from those once silenced, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”
But not everyone joins in the shouts of liberation. The religious leaders—the power brokers, the gatekeepers of acceptable praise—are displeased. These are not the voices they are used to hearing. These are not the songs they have sanctioned. They are more comfortable with silence—at least when it comes from the margins. They prefer the kind of noise they can control, the kind that reinforces their authority. And so they turn to Jesus and urge him to intervene. “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” In other words: suppress the sound of hope. Push these voices back into silence. Return them to the edges from where they came.
The tension in this text is not confined to the ancient streets of Jerusalem. It reverberates through time and takes shape in our world today. We, too, grow uneasy when long-silenced voices begin to rise—especially when their cries disrupt our comfort or call our silence what it truly is: complicity. Like the religious leaders, we appeal to civility, to quiet. We say, “This isn’t the right time,” or “That’s not the proper place.” Or perhaps we join in the chorus that cries out for liberation and justice, aligning ourselves with the marginalized—and yet remain unaware of the places within us that still need transformation (and feel discomfort when we are called out). We, too, have growing edges. We, too, have work to do in shouting and in silence.
In the midst of the back-and-forth between the crowd and the religious leaders, Jesus finally breaks his silence. But not to quiet the crowd. Not to appease the religious elite. He speaks to reveal a truth that cannot be ignored, a truth that resists suppression: “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.”
I believe it was the late Howard Thurman who once said, “Despite all the coarseness of life, despite all of the harsh discords of life, life is saved by the singing of angels.” (A Salutation to Christmas). I, for one, find deep comfort in that promise. Because even when we fail to raise our voices—when fear, apathy, or fatigue muffle our witness—God does not let the silence stand. That unjust, unfaithful silence is broken—by the singing of angels, by the shouting of God’s people, and, when necessary, by creation itself. The stones will not stay silent. Justice will find a voice. Hope will rise. Even when we falter, the gospel will not.
Looking back, it's almost shocking how recently we struggled to hear that sacred singing. The March on Washington in 1963 stands as a contemporary echo of this very scene—a procession not led by military parade but by voices long silenced, now rising. It was not polished. It certainly wasn't welcomed by the powerful. But it was holy. The chants, the hymns, the cries for justice—they were not unlike the shouts of the crowds in Jerusalem. And just like then, there were those who called for quiet, who urged them to go back to where they came from, who wanted to restore the silence. But the voices kept rising. Because when liberation is at hand, silence is no longer an option.
God gives voice to the voiceless. The inbreaking of the kin-dom of God into our carefully ordered lives can be loud, disruptive, and unsettling. It dismantles the silence of oppression and makes space for a different kind of silence—a holy pause. A silence not rooted in fear or avoidance, but in reverence. A silence that invites us to reflect on how we live in relationship with one another and with the Divine. It is the kind of silence that listens—truly listens—for the cries we’ve ignored, the truths we’ve resisted, and the Spirit of God we’ve tried to tame.
In a world still wrestling with who gets heard and who gets hushed, we are called to be both bold in our witness of shouting and humble in our listening. Sometimes faith sounds like a shout of defiance and resistance; other times, it sounds like a stillness that refuses to turn away.
The question is no longer whether the stones will cry out—it’s whether we will join them. Will we make room for voices long silenced? Will we confront the places within ourselves that still resist the noise of liberation? Will we sit in the silence that challenges us, instead of running from it? The good news is that God is already moving—through shouts, through songs, through silence—and inviting us to be part of it. We don’t have to have the perfect words. We just have to be willing to listen, to learn, to speak when called, and to stand alongside those whose voices are finally being heard.
So what will you do? In the midst of the hissing static—of hollow shouting and performative silence—how will you carve out space for your soul to grow? To truly listen? To show up with courage and compassion? Because the kin-dom of God does not arrive through noise alone, nor does it dwell in silence born of fear. It comes through those who dare to be present—who resist the urge to drown out discomfort, who make space for the voices that have long been ignored, who choose silence not as retreat, but as reverence, and who lift their voices when it is time to speak. The invitation rests with us: to join in, to pay attention, and to let the sound of justice echo through our lives—not just in the sanctuary, but in the streets, the homes, the places we dare to call holy.