Our parish is the Cathedral for our diocese, but it didn’t start out that way. It is a lovely, but humble brick facade built more than a century ago. That it holds the bishop’s seat now is a quirk of history, but what I find fascinating is how quietly it keeps the most profound secrets.

I sat in the parking lot on recent Saturday afternoon. The sky was partly cloudy, the American and Papal flags fluttered in the wind. Cars drove by and people passed on the sidewalk as the Church stood motionless and quiet. But inside, something profound was happening. A nuptial Mass was being celebrated. Not only the foundation of a new family, but a couple asking God to bless their marriage and make them one.

You wouldn’t know it from the outside, and you likely couldn’t even hear the organ triumphantly celebrating this mystical feast. But all the same, it was happening.

As I reflect on this calm and quiet characteristic, I think back to our summer trip to New York. The empty field where St. Kateri lived most of her life, one meriting the honors of the altar, was just as quiet and inconspicuous. A few stakes marked out where the excavations found the village palisade and longhouses, but it was set back from the road and you’d never notice it driving by at 35 or 45 miles per hour. The hill overlooking the Hudson River were St. Issac Jogues was held captive, tortured, and murdered was one hill among many, though holding deep within it his blood. Eden Hill in western Massachusetts where the Divine Mercy shrine sits is hardly noticeable in town just a few hundred feet away.

Quiet is the mark of God’s presence, going all the way back to Exodus. God is not found in the fire and tumult, but in the whisper.