A Symphony of Silence

I was perusing ITunes for some new music to download. When I find something that I like, I listen to it over and over again absorbing the depth and intention of each note, of each chord, of each lyric which communicates and coveys something I could not do with words of my own. For more than three years, I have been trying to track down a symphony that was recommended to me by my Philosophy professor at LBC. At the time, he described it as “A symphony of sad songs.” I would Google this and came up with little that fit this description. Tonight, I think I may have found it. It is entitles “Symphony of Sorrowful Songs” by Henryk Gorecky. You can read about it here. 

I was told to listen to this as I reflected on the crucifixion during Good Friday. The Symphony takes on a new meaning tonight as I listen to it. Being that its composition was inspired by the holocaust, I listened with this as the backdrop for understanding. Something hauntingly struck me as I clicked the play button on my IPod. The first several minutes are silence. Nothing but utter silence. 

Some have suggested that the silence indicates the silence of the nations during the Holocaust. I am not convinced by this. As I thought about the atrocity of the Holocaust my mind wandered to the atrocity of genocide. It did this because not too long ago Amanda and I witnessed the remnants of a genocide that took place in Cambodia. Suddenly I remembered a similar silence that fell over me while there. I remember the silence that filled the rooms of the S-21 school in Phnom Penh. I remember the blood splattered floors and walls that spoke too much for anything other than silence to capture their meaning. I remember the hallways lined with pictures of men, women, and children who were interrogated, tortured, and executed, their voices being forever silenced. I remember the killing fields where just beneath our feet contained those whose right to exist was taken from them. Standing in these fields, in my memory, I am haunted by silence. I am haunted by the silence of voices that will never again be heard, never again echo a medical contribution, a sonnet of joy or lament, an expression of love or gratitude. I hear the echoes of a song unsung, of a symphony that will never be written nor performed nor heard.  

In moments like these I catch the fragrance of something great; that for the first time in my life I see the value of a person. I see just how much God must love us. Though I am known by God, I am far from him. If I, who as his wayward son only resemble him slightly, feel the deep pangs of grief that must burden his heart, I know that it is impossible to feel the sense of loss I do now without understanding what has been lost. 

My God, oh my Father, what have we done? My God, oh my Father, what are we doing?