By now you’ve heard about the arrest of a 17-year-old in Wisconsin who’s been charged with first degree homicide relating to the deaths of two people in Kenosha, Wisconsin. I can’t begin to talk about the events surrounding this crime. Like every week, I find there’s just too much to say. So, I find myself listening to everything that’s said for something that, perhaps, summarizes it all.
During a press conference after the shooting, Kenosha Police Chief Daniel Miskinis said, the 17-year-old suspect “was involved in the use of firearms to reserve, excuse me to resolve whatever conflict was in place.”
Resolve: deal with it successfully, to find an answer to.
The life of Jesus was bookended by violence. After his birth, the children in his neighborhood were slaughtered by Herod. At the end, Jesus died by the violence of beatings and crucifixion. Jesus was, it seems, a problem that needed resolution. He created conflicts that needed to be resolved.
For Herod, the Magi brought word of a new king, a true king. He was not a beloved ruler. No one would support him if rumors of a new king, born in Bethlehem were to get out. So he silenced the rumors through the murder of children.
Jesus was a problem for the religious authorities of his day. He was popular. He challenged the structures and systems they’d long had in place. And people kept coming to listen to him, to hear what he had to say. They had no choice but to silence him.
Silence, of course, means the argument is over. Problem solved. Resolution achieved.
The problem of a challenger to Herod’s power was solved. There were no midnight cries for feeding, no afternoon voices of play. There were no little voices telling mothers and fathers that they were loved.
In the fading light of a Friday, the problem of this Messiah was solved. Bloody, bruised, and lifeless he would no longer speak about his kingdom, no longer challenge the way things have been for generations.
In the aftermath was the sound of sheer silence.
In the first book of Kings, Elijah stands on the mountain, waiting for the Holy One. First comes a wind, then an earthquake, then a fire. Each one loud, destructive, violent. But, we are told, God was not in any of them. The Holy One was in the silence that followed.
On a morning following the Sabbath, the earth shook. Plates rattled on shelves, doors slammed, rocks moved. But afterward, all was again silent. And in the garden, Jesus was there, speaking softly to the women who had come in those quiet hours.
Violence is a human reaction to conflict. We wield swords, whips, or guns as a means of resolving the conflict. We create silence, convincing ourselves that the problems have been solved.
But the conflict remains. And the silence is not empty. It contains the One who showed how impotent violence is.
And in it, that voice speaks.