I have been discussing the silence at length in my
congregation. Through this past summer,
we have incorporated intentional silence in our Sunday worship, using silent,
focused prayer in the place of the regular prayers of intercession. At the same time, we have begun our parallel
community, The Still, Small Voice, which is a group that is shaped by the
practices of meditation and contemplation.
If you are ever in Falmouth on a Saturday, come join us at 4:00 p.m.
I
have had discussions about silence with members of my congregation, with clergy
colleagues and with unsuspecting members of the public who innocently inquired
about what it is that I do. The reaction
has been mixed. For some, silence is
such a foreign concept, especially in the modern church arena, that pursuing it
can be relegated to that odd, niche market of the introverted mystic. For others, silence can play a minor role in
the life of the church but, especially among Lutherans who give great value to
the preaching office, silence can never compare with a well-crafted sermon or a
lofty hymn.
But
then there are those who have taken part in silent practices of one form or
another. It may have been in a religious
context or a stress-relief seminar, but they had the experience of allowing
themselves to be still. They are often
surprised that there is a Christian tradition around silence; that to be still
can be a way of seeking the presence of God and that practicing silence is part
of ancient church practice.
As
much as I have come to appreciate silence and have begun to see silence as a
transformative practice for the church, I feel like I should say that silence
is not the answer to everything that ails us.
We live in a society that is divided over many issues and where extreme
views are often the loudest voices. We
live in a culture that continues to struggle around racial equality and
justice. We live in a church that is
anxious about its own decline and questions its own relevance.
Silence
is not the answer to these problems. Silence
does not resolve conflicts. It does not
share the full breadth of the promise of the good news. Silence in and of itself does not feed the
hungry, advocate for justice or create understanding. Intentional silence could easily devolve into
liturgical naval-gazing. The world may
be going to hell around us, but at least we are calm, finding the ripe
strawberry between the tiger and the cliff (as the Buddhist story goes).
If
through the practice of silence we are able to develop calmer and more peaceful
lives, this would be a good start, but only a start. At some point we are called to break our
silence, to give witness to the peace we experience; to go out and share this
peace (or shalom or the good news or
the reign of God) with the world around us.
We are sent to live in the presence of God just as we have sat in the
presence of God in contemplation.
Silence
is an excellent preparation for this journey.
It allows for a rebooting of our minds so that we can look at world with
renewed perspective. In silence we learn
to listen, so we can actually be in dialogue with another rather than simply
talking over one another. In silence we
learn compassion, to be aware of God’s immeasurable love for all people which
might send us to carry out that love in word and action. Silence teaches us to be patient, so that we
can respond mindfully to what ails our lives rather than living from
gut-reaction to gut-reaction.
Yet
none of this matters if we fail to get beyond the silence. In the gospel stories, Jesus sometimes went
by himself to pray and invited his followers to pray in secret. He did not remain in retreat, nor did he
favor being in retreat over being in the world.
Jesus went by himself to pray so that he could return to his ministry to
and for the world.
Silence is not the answer to
everything, but it is a place to begin our answers. Find God in silence and accompany God into
the complexities of life. Listen for God
in silence and then be part of God’s answer to a hurting world.
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