While I have been very vocal about injustice (especially as it pertains to our current national struggle with authoritarianism), it occurred to me that I had let my blog go silent. Then, this morning, as I listened to my rock playlist (mostly ’60s and ’70s, if you know how old I am), one song stopped me in my tracks: Simon and Garfunkel’s The Sound of Silence.
As I listened, I was reminded that this is a song of social justice. Many of us love to receive it as a gentle call to quiet reflection, but if that is the only way we hear it, then we are not actually listening. The song is not an invitation to withdraw; it is a warning about what happens when we do.
I begin with a couple of foundational principles that remind me of what I am called to do: to lift my voice and refuse silence in the face of injustice.
The first principle is this: the silence of those with privilege becomes a stumbling block to justice. The second is closely related—that so-called moderation often reveals itself as a deeper devotion to order than to justice, a preference for a false peace that avoids tension rather than a true peace that confronts injustice.
This comes from Dr. Martin Luther King’s letter to the Alabama Clergy from the Birmingham Jail where Dr. King writes:
I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action”; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a “more convenient season.” Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.
So the first principle is that the silence of those with privilege is a stumbling block to justice. The second is that the “moderate” is more devoted to order and is for those who prefer a negative peace, which is the absence of tension, to a positive peace, which is the presence of justice.
This is where The Sound of Silence speaks to me the most.
Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
The imagery of the song evokes those who live on the margins—the homeless, the outcast, those exposed to the cold and damp. In that bleakness, sudden flashes of artificial light break through, signaling a future where symbols, spectacle, and advertising replace wisdom and truth. We are tempted to bow to what shines rather than to what speaks honestly.
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
This is a clear image of the homeless and outcast. In the cold and damp, suddenly we are struck with “the flash of a neon light” that even in 1964, sensed a future where symbols, advertising, and spectacle would replace wisdom. People bow to what shines, not to what tells the truth.
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
What strikes me most is the image of the masses—thousands upon thousands—who are surrounded by communication yet remain disconnected from meaning. We are among them. Through our privilege, we can speak endlessly without truly saying anything, and we can hear constantly without ever really listening. We are capable of choosing silence when speech is required, and indifference when compassion is demanded.
“Fools” said I, “You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
This kind of silence is not the centering silence I seek in prayer. It is a distancing silence. It separates me from my neighbors—my Black neighbors, my immigrant neighbors, my Indigenous neighbors, my unhoused neighbors, even my enemy neighbors. It separates me from anyone whose daily reality feels more like survival than comfort or hope.
Again and again, the invitation is there to listen, to learn, to reach out and be reached. Yet words so often fall away unheard, absorbed into systems that reward quiet compliance over courageous truth-telling. That reality weighs heavily on me.
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
We are also remarkably skilled at crafting and worshiping our own idols. Today, those idols may take the form of technology and algorithms that trap us in echo chambers, confirming our biases rather than challenging them. They may include tools—even ones I rely on—that can either amplify our voices or subtly replace them. They may be political leaders, including a sitting President, who maintain control through fear and intimidation.
Yet the signs are there, right in front of us, pointing toward a different reality—if only we are willing to see them.
And the sign said, “The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence”
The modern-day prophets are often found among the least powerful in our society. They write their truths where they can, in places easily ignored by those rushing past. Too often, their messages go unseen, dismissed as background noise rather than recognized as prophetic witness.
And even when these truths reach us, they often arrive as whispers. Still, they are the very things Jesus calls us to hear. Silence, my friends, is not an option. For the past week, I have spoken the names Renee Good and Alex Pretti in my daily prayers, refusing to let them disappear into silence.
And yet—even now—my own voice often remains a whisper. I know that if silence is not to become a cancer that grows unchecked, I must do more than simply speak. This is a call to stand up and stand with others. It is a call to contact my elected representatives, whether in Congress or in the statehouse. It is a call to join the millions who are resisting the reality of institutions functioning as tools of authoritarian control.
It is a call to raise my voice loudly enough to join the growing chorus demanding change—to influence both the electorate and those who hold office. It is time for the Body of Christ to move into the world and do the work of Christ. We follow a Jesus who stood in solidarity with the poor and who spoke truth to power, even when it cost him everything.
Let us not allow silence to become the cancer that finally destroys us.
Reflections on Grace 