Recently I flew home from a speaking event in Southern California.  The airline routed me through Phoenix in a flight that felt like a practice in turning circles, correcting and then over-correcting. The Far Side comic stuck in my head where a pilot and co-pilot with their hands on the throttle, spinning then stabilizing the plane, announcing with snicker and grins, "Well, ladies and gentlemen, it looks like we have some more turbulence coming up ahead."

I could not read or watch a movie.  I could not do anything but focus on keeping my lunch down where it belonged.  As we approached the landing, it felt like the end of roller coasters at Magic Mountain, giving new meaning to whoopty-whoops.  Would we never hit that tarmac? I wasn't the only one suffering.  The eight year old in front of me unsuccessfully kept her meal down.  If you’ve been in a nauseating environment and are then met with the unexpected sound and smell of someone else being ill (directly in front of you), it makes your own nausea all the worse. 

When we finally landed, I leaned out to see if the flight attendant was available for some constructive criticism to pass along to the pilot.

"Have you flown with this pilot before?" I bellowed down five rows of seats, in what I hoped was a kind and interested voice.

"Yes," she smiled.

"Well, I don't want to be mean-spirited," I began, "But I've flown quite a bit and this has been one of the most unpleasant, rocky flights I've ever experienced.  I had to concentrate for most of the flight to keep myself from ending up where this young girl did." I motioned to the child in front of me.

The flight attendant looked uncomfortably surprised for a brief moment, then rushed into a long list of reasons for the unsteady flight.  At this point it would have been wise of me to discontinue my engagement, to see that she was not accustomed to having her pilot criticized and that she had no intention of relaying my message.  But when she said, "The hot air of Phoenix makes the descent difficult to navigate," I couldn't help but point out both the take-off in Long Beach and the whip-lashing brakes at the end of the runway.

But it didn't matter what I said.  She was convinced the pilot had done his best.  An awkward silence hung over us as I pursed my lips and slid back to my seat so I'd be out of her line of vision. I'd say we were both about the same age, used to being in control. Everyone within ear shot waited for the seat-belt light to go off. 

I mused over my decision to confront her.  The mother of the child in front of me turned around and thanked me with her eyes. "She flies a lot, too," motioning to her daughter, "But she's never gotten sick before."  We talked and shared where we were headed.  And right as we passed that stubborn stewardess I was saying, "I live in Colorado."  A comment the flight attendant exploited by announcing authoritatively,

"Oh, you'll have a lot more turbulence coming up, if you’re going to Colorado."  I wanted to say, "Lady, look, I've been on tiny planes, much smaller than this, in horrible storms and I can tell when the plane is being turned in circles and when it's being tossed by the wind!"  But I managed to keep my mouth tightly shut while I glanced at her. 

Let me be quick to say I'm not proud of my behavior. Something snaps in me when I see anyone trampled, more so when they don't have a voice.  It goaded me further that she was not willing to relay a message. 

The exchange with this flight attendant reminded me of something I'd rather not talk about: the power of silence.  The very phrase conjures up both the manipulative, hurtful silent treatment as well as the behavior of the Lamb of God, Jesus, refusing to answer the ones who accuse him.  Silence can be louder and more courageous than any smarty-pants retort.  Yet silence can also indicate a fearful spirit, a lack of courage.  When do we know when to speak and when to be silent?  Who can we follow who has a handle on appropriate use of silence?

This summer Dale and I have committed to clearing our out-of-town speaking schedule in order to be completely present in our community, available to spend time with those we have grown to love.  We're co-teaching a Bible Study once a week at our home; Dale has dubbed it "Seeing Jesus Through the Eyes of Mark." (If you happen to be passing through Steamboat, Colorado, on a summery Monday evening, we'd love to have you stop in).  Last Monday we walked through chapter 1.  Already we see Jesus' use of silence.

When Jesus heals a demon-possessed man he immediately tells the evil spirit to shut up (my paraphrase) and not reveal who he is (Mark 1:25).  Everywhere Jesus heals, he warns the restored person to keep quiet about the miracle (Mark 1:44).  In the publishing world today, where agents and marketers encourage us to talk much about our material, Jesus would be going against the norm.  By modern standards, Jesus was not a very good marketer; as soon as he's known in one area, he leaves it for another. He never whips up enough networking ties to overthrow the Romans, like the Jews expected.  He knows how to be silent, frustratingly so, and he frequently recommends it.

Why is the Son of God so often silent?  John tells us that during Jesus' city tour of miracles and preaching many in Jerusalem believed in him.  "But Jesus, for his part, was not entrusting himself to them, for he knew all people" (John 2:24, TNIV).  If Jesus was careful of blabbing too much, too clearly, too quickly, that should give us pause.  For we do not know all people, we don’t know what is in their hearts, nor do we know what others have endured or will endure.

As a recovering interrupter and one quick to speak, quick to anger, often slow to listen, I think I see a new way of living before me.  Jesus was often the most silent when I would have wanted to shout from the rooftops.  And surely there is a time to speak and a time to be silent, as the Preacher in Ecclesiastes says (3:7).  But in the entire interaction with the attendant on my flight, I know the most lasting bit of criticism I contributed was my refusal to continue arguing.  A willingness to be silent even sooner would have been more powerful, still.  And imagine how powerful this flight attendant would have appeared both to me and my little audience had she listened to me fully and sat silently for a moment before speaking.

As a woman who often sees others talked over, it's easy for me to think that speaking is the path of being powerfully used by God. I mean, after all, it's what I do.  Speaking and writing are my work.  But, there is a steady strength in the quieter man or woman as long as they are committed to engagement with others. There's a world of difference in the silent person who withdraws into themselves for protection and the silent person who offers a hand of help or a hug of acceptance.  So many momentous occasions are acts framed in silence, moments full of meaning, communicating oceans of pain or healing: a first kiss, a cold snubbing, a vase of flowers freshly arranged, a long, lingering embrace, a silencing look, an extended hand or a bowed head. 

It's strange when we realize that becoming like Jesus might mean a quickness to act with intentional silence. We can pray with our actions, kneeling with God in silence and offering the sacrifices of quiet obedience.  We can love with action, sitting in silence alongside one who cries. We can forgive with action, absorbing evil and refusing to snub, sitting with warmth and openness even though we might be tempted to turn a cold, dismissive shoulder. 

Words can inform, but they can also hinder our living out the abundant fruit of the Spirit (Gal 5:22-23).  I want to think of ways to be loving, joyous, peaceful and peacemaking, patient, kind, good, faithful, gentle and self-controlled without uttering a word.  No one can argue against that.

[If you have any questions/comments, simply reply to this email. And don't forget "Ask! LIVE" on Wednesday evenings for questions or puzzling situation.]

© 2008 Dale & Jonalyn Fincher