My Brothers and Sisters in Christ,

A watchman does not live by the world’s clock. He does not take his bearings from trends, headlines, or cycles of outrage. He stands where he has been placed, and he watches the horizon in the light entrusted to him.

That is what I intend to do tonight.

Many faithful souls are unsettled. They sense disorder, confusion, and strain – in the world, in the Church, even in their own families. And again and again I hear the same question, spoken quietly and sometimes with fear: “Why does God seem silent?”

That question matters. But the answer matters more.

God is not silent because He has abandoned His people. God is not silent because truth has failed. God is not silent because evil has prevailed.

God is silent because He has already spoken, and what He has spoken now demands obedience, not commentary.

Sacred Scripture tells us with clarity: “God, who at sundry times and in divers manners, spoke in times past to the fathers by the prophets, last of all, in these days, hath spoken to us by his Son … ” (Hebrews 1:1-2).

God has not issued a new word. He has not revised the old one. He has not softened the demands of the Gospel. When heaven is silent, it is often because the Word has already been given – and the responsibility has passed to us.

From the very beginning, God’s decisive interventions have not been loud. But they have been final.

When Christ enters the world, there is no summons to the powerful, no address to the institutions of the age, no warning issued to those who will reject Him. St. Luke records it without drama: “And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him up in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn” (Luke 2:7).

There was no room – and God did not force the door. That silence already carries judgment. Not rage, not vengeance, but consequence.

From the manger to the Cross, Christ reveals that God’s authority does not depend on noise. Whether it is welcomed or not, Truth stands.

The world we live in now is loud – relentlessly loud. But that noise is not strength – it is defense. Our Lord Himself explains the reason: “And this is the judgment: because the light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than the light: for their works were evil” (John 3:19).

When light exposes, darkness does not argue honestly. It distracts. It confuses. It multiplies voices so that no single voice can be obeyed. That pattern is visible everywhere. And it has not spared the Church.

There is a temptation in our time to believe that constant speech is the same as fidelity – that if we are always talking, always responding, always involved in dialogue, then truth will somehow assert itself. But truth does not emerge from volume. St. John tells us something essential: “And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it” (John 1:5).

Scripture does not say the darkness defeated the light. It does not say the darkness refuted the light. It says the darkness did not comprehend it.

Refusal to understand is a moral act. And when that refusal becomes habitual, silence from heaven follows – not because God has nothing to say, but because what He has said has been set aside.

St. Paul warns us of this moment: “For there shall be a time, when they will not endure sound doctrine; but according to their own desires, they will heap to themselves teachers, having itching ears” (2 Timothy 4:3).

When people no longer endure sound doctrine, they ask for voices that will confirm what they already want. And when shepherds are tempted to meet that demand, God does not compete. He waits.

This is where the watchman stands.

God says to the prophet: “So thou, O son of man, I have made thee a watchman to the house of Israel: therefore thou shalt hear the word from my mouth, and shalt tell it them from me” (Ezechiel 33:7).

The watchman is not sent to improve the message. He is not sent to make it palatable. He is sent to deliver it faithfully. And the warning that follows is severe:

“And if the watchman see the sword coming, and sound not the trumpet, and the people look not to themselves, and the sword come, and cut off a soul from among them; he indeed is taken away in his iniquity, but I will require his blood at the hand of the watchman” (Ezechiel 33:6).

God’s silence in an age of confusion is not permission to rest. It is a summons to accountability. When God is silent, it is because the watchman must now speak – not with panic, not with bitterness, but with clarity and courage.

Christ Himself shows us this order. When questioned by Herod, who seeks spectacle rather than truth, Scripture tells us: “And he answered him to never a word, so that the governor wondered exceedingly” (Matthew 27:14).

Before His accusers: “But Jesus held his peace …” (Matthew 26:63).

Silence before mockery. Silence before manipulation. Silence before those who have already decided not to obey.

St. Peter explains this silence: “Who when he was reviled, did not revile; when he suffered, he threatened not: but delivered himself to him that judged him unjustly” (I Peter 2:23).

But Christ is not silent everywhere. He speaks where responsibility lies. He speaks to His disciples. He speaks to His Church. He speaks to those charged with guarding the flock.

The confusion of the faithful today does not come from unclear doctrine. It comes from muted witness.

St. Paul tells us plainly: “For God is not the God of dissension, but of peace …” (I Corinthians 14:33).

Peace is not the absence of conflict. Peace is the fruit of truth received and lived. And so I say this without anger, and without fear:

God’s silence is judgment on disobedience – and mercy for those still willing to listen.

The lamp has not been extinguished. But it must be guarded.

A watchman does not abandon his post because the night is long. He does not dim the lamp because others prefer darkness. He does not confuse charity with silence. He stands. He watches. He speaks when the sword approaches.

This is such an hour.

Do not mistake God’s silence for approval of error. Do not mistake confusion for compassion. Do not mistake noise for authority.

Remain faithful.

Remain clear.

Remain at your post.

And keep the lamp burning.

And I need to say this plainly, because clarity is an act of charity.

Keeping the lamp burning does not mean inventing a new light. It does not mean adjusting the flame to make it less offensive. It does not mean placing a shade over it so that no one feels exposed. The lamp entrusted to the Church is not ours to redesign.

St. Paul is unambiguous: “For we preach not ourselves, but Jesus Christ our Lord; and ourselves your servants through Jesus” (2 Corinthians 4:5).

When church leadership begins to preach itself – its processes, its language, its strategies – the lamp dims, even if the room appears busy. Shepherds are not appointed to manage impressions. They are appointed to guard souls.

St. Paul charges Timothy with words that still bind every successor of the Apostles: “Preach the word: be instant in season, out of season; reprove, entreat, rebuke in all patience and doctrine” (2 Timothy 4:2).

That command does not come with an expiration date. And when preaching becomes selective – when rebuke disappears, when doctrine is treated as negotiable – God does not rush in to correct the imbalance. He grows silent.

Not because He approves, but because the charge was already given. And this silence exposes something else we must confront honestly. The crisis of our time is not only confusion among the faithful. It is hesitation among shepherds.

And this must be said – the Church does not suffer today because the Gospel is unclear. She suffers because clarity is often delayed, softened, or deferred.

There is a fear abroad now – a fear of speaking plainly; a fear of being misunderstood, a fear of being rejected, a fear of being labeled unpastoral for saying what the Church has always said. And that fear produces hesitation.

But hesitation as shepherds does not remain neutral. It always has consequences. When shepherds hesitate, the faithful become confused. They become divided. They become tempted to fill the silence with voices that do not carry the weight of apostolic authority.

That is how disorder spreads – not always through open rebellion, but through prolonged uncertainty. This is not a new temptation. It is as old as the prophets.

God never accused the watchman of cruelty for sounding the trumpet. He accused him of failure for remaining silent. And so when clarity is postponed in the name of calm, the cost is not peace. The cost is trust. The faithful begin to wonder whether truth itself is negotiable. Whether doctrine is firm or merely provisional. Whether obedience is still required or only encouraged.

And into that uncertainty, the world rushes in loudly, confidently, and without restraint. That is why God’s silence in this hour is so serious. It is not God stepping away from His Church. It is God refusing to compete with hesitation. The charge was already given. The Gospel was already preached. The Deposit of Faith was already entrusted.

When shepherds hesitate to guard it, heaven does not shout louder. Heaven waits – and that waiting becomes judgment. But it is also mercy. Because silence still leaves room for repentance. It still leaves room for courage. It still leaves room for shepherds to stand again in the authority given to them, not by popular consent, but by apostolic succession.

The faithful are not children waiting endlessly for instructions while the house burns. They are members of the Body of Christ, called to obedience, fidelity, and courage – even when leadership is uneven. Obedience does not mean passivity. It does not mean waiting until every voice is clear. It means holding fast to what the Church has always taught, and living it without apology.

The laity are not excused from fidelity because of confusion above them. They are summoned to deeper faithfulness because of it.

This is not the hour for drifting.

This is not the hour for improvising.

This is not the hour for reshaping the faith to fit the moment.

This is the hour for steadiness.

And so I return, deliberately, to the image that defines this podcast and this calling.

A watchman does not abandon his post because the night is long. He does not dim the lamp because others prefer darkness. He does not confuse silence with safety.

He remains. He watches. He speaks when the moment requires it.

And this is such a moment!

Remain faithful – not creatively faithful, but faithfully faithful.

Remain clear – not harsh, but unmistakable.

Remain at your post – even if others leave theirs.

And keep the lamp burning – not with borrowed light, but with the truth entrusted to you.

God’s silence is not permission to sleep. It is the final moment before accountability.

The night is real!

The danger is real!

The charge is real!

And the lamp is still lit.

And so let us not leave this time together frightened or confused. Let us leave this time together awake. Not looking for permission from the world. Not waiting for the noise to stop. But standing where we have been placed, with the truth we have been given.

This is the task of the watchman. This is the burden – and the grace – of fidelity.

And if God is silent in this hour, it is not because He has nothing to say. It is because He has already spoken – and now He waits for His word to be lived.

May Almighty God bless you, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

Amen.

Bishop Joseph E. Strickland

Bishop Emeritus