Lifted Up: The Silence Is Broken

The modern world tells us a story. It rarely announces it out loud. It doesn’t need to. It simply assumes it — and we absorb it by living inside it.

The story says the universe is ultimately quiet. That there is no voice behind it. No intention beneath it. No meaning given — only meaning made.

We are told that life is the result of processes, not purpose. That existence is an accident that learned how to think. That history has motion, but no direction.

When that story is stripped down to its essence — when all the softer language is removed — it sounds like this:

Existence becomes a chemical interruption between two silences.

That line isn’t cruel.

It isn’t sarcastic.

It isn’t even angry.

It’s tired.

It’s the conclusion of a world that has learned how things work

but no longer knows what anything is for. A world fluent in explanation, but starved for meaning. And this story has consequences.

If the universe is silent, then longing is an illusion. If there is no voice, then hope is self-generated. If nothing ultimately speaks, then nothing ultimately calls.

We are left to construct ourselves, justify ourselves, and comfort ourselves — all while knowing, somewhere underneath, that none of it finally lasts.

That’s why our age isn’t primarily rebellious. It’s exhausted.

People aren’t rejecting meaning with clenched fists.

They’re laying it down with tired hands.

Into that exhaustion — not with outrage, not with argument, not with noise — the Christian faith makes a single, calm, unembarrassed declaration:

The silence has been broken.

Not by an idea.

Not by a system.

Not by moral effort or spiritual technique.

By a Person.

Jesus of Nazareth stands at the center of Christian faith not as a metaphor, not as an inspiration, not as a religious memory — but as a declaration that the universe is not mute.

“And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to Myself.”

That sentence does not attempt to persuade.

It does not explain itself.

It does not adjust its tone to match the mood of the age.

It announces something that has already happened.

The universe is not silent.

It has been addressed.

History is not empty.

It has been entered.

Meaning is not something we invent in the dark. It is something that has stepped into the light.

Jesus Christ has been lifted up — publicly, historically, irrevocably — and that reality now stands over every life, every culture, every generation.

Not because everyone believes it.

Not because everyone agrees with it.

Not because everyone feels its comfort.

But because it is true.

Christian proclamation does not begin with advice.

It begins with announcement.

It does not start by asking, “What should we do?”

It starts by declaring, “This is what is.”

That is why the gospel does not argue with silence.

It interrupts it.

It does not shout into the void.

It speaks into it.

And once a voice has spoken, silence can no longer pretend to be ultimate.

Tonight is not about emotional persuasion.

It is not about pressure.

It is not about convincing you to feel something.

Tonight is about orientation.

Once Christ is lifted up, the question is no longer whether meaning exists.

The question becomes whether we are willing to live

as though the light has spoken.

--- Part One: When the World Learns to Live Without a Voice

When a culture decides the universe is silent, it does not immediately fall into chaos.

That’s important to say.

Silence does not produce instant despair. It produces adjustment. People learn how to live without expecting to be addressed. Without being called. Without being named.

Life goes on.

Work continues.

Families form.

Laughter still happens.

Something subtle changes.

When the universe is assumed to be silent, meaning must be manufactured.

Purpose must be self-assigned.

Hope must be generated from within.

And that is a heavy burden for finite creatures to carry.

This is why the dominant posture of the modern world is not rebellion — it is distraction.

Not defiance — but noise.

If nothing ultimately speaks, then silence becomes threatening.

When silence becomes threatening, it must be filled.

So we fill it.

With content.

With constant stimulation.

With identity construction.

With performance.

With outrage.

With endless commentary.

Noise becomes a substitute for meaning. Not because people are shallow, but because silence — true silence — begins to feel like absence. And absence begins to feel like erasure.

In a silent universe, nothing calls your name. Nothing claims you. Nothing ultimately sees you. And that produces anxiety, even when life looks successful.

Modern despair often wears a competent face.

People function.

They achieve.

They perform.

But underneath, there is a quiet fear: If nothing speaks, then nothing ultimately holds.