If you live in a region of the world where snow falls, you have probably seen it by now.  Maybe you like it, maybe you don't.  I do!  So when I awoke a few days ago to see snow falling from the still dark sky, I resolved to go outside immediately.

     Reams and reams of paper are filled with meditations on the winter snow.  While I do not wish to be redundant, I will say that, on this morning, as I watched the snow fall, fall ever so gently on the frozen ground and naked trees, and as I listened and listened for sounds of life and heard none, I felt consumed by the silence, the overwhelming silence.

     As many as mystic will tell us, it is in silence that we find voice:  the voice of transcendence, the voice of infinite mystery.  The voice of meaning into which we can fit all else.  When, as the Hebrew scriptures tell the story, the prophet Elijah found himself on the slopes of Mt. Carmel, dejected, discouraged, and absolutely alone, God didn't speak to him with voice.  The mountain shook, a fire blazed, but no voice came forth.  Only at the end of these astonishing theophanies did God speak with voice.

     But he spoke, as the Hebrew verb used here indicates, with absolute silence.  And that's the point:  if we really want to hear, we must be prepared to not hear.  Only then will reality speak.