Sanctity of Silence

I keep reading in order not to go stale and implicitly assume I have learned all that I need to enjoy life.  I am already aware of how much stupid, superficial stuff there is to keep us occupied.  I know what it is like to feel like I am doing something important, when in fact, it is an ignorant waste of my time. I know what it is like to do something I consider worthwhile, while others think it is silly and useless.  Religion is one of those big areas that gets life commitments from some folks and snickers or disgust from others.   

One of the things I recently read resonated with my spirit.  John Gerhring wrote about his visit to a Trappist monastery in Virginia.  I thought I knew Gehring; I know a guy by this name.  But this John turned out to be a Catholic program director of a Washington, DC organization---not my John Gehring.  But out of curiosity I read on.  I am glad I did.   

The title of his little piece is what attracted me: “What I learned being silent with the monks.”  I am a Quaker who has frequently visited Catholic monasteries and have a real appreciation for my many friends who are monks and nuns.  It turns out, I have also visited the Trappist monastery Gehring chose, namely, Holy Cross Abbey.  It is a small monastery, smaller than my favorite Trappist monastery, Gethsemani in Kentucky, where Thomas Merton called home in the 1940s-60s.  The Trappists are quite rigorist in their monastic life.  One could choose a monastery that would be less demanding---less rigorous.  Gehring wanted to spend a few days in this environment and he shares snippets of his experience. 

I like Gehring’s opening words: “Silence is an elusive companion.  We're always connected and tuned in, chugging insatiably from the fire hydrant of social media feeds.”  I probably don’t see myself this way, but it is probably more true than I care to admit.  And so, I appreciated Gehring’s question: “What happens when we perform the radical act of withdrawing and being quiet?”  The good news is I know what happens when I do this.  His reflections remind me that I want to keep doing it on a regular basis.  I want to withdraw to the sanctity of silence. 

This last phrase comes from Gehring, who observes, “I'm not cut out for a life of such austerity — and helpfully there are no deserts near my home in Washington, D.C. — but I recently found myself craving a dose of solitude and silence.”  I resonate with this.  And so, it was that he headed to the Virginia hinterlands and Holy Cross Abbey.  He effectively sets the context.  “I'm an exhausted Catholic and a weary citizen.”  We don’t have to be living in DC to feel the same. 

Thus, he finds himself heading to bed the first night.  What he does I have countlessly repeated.  “Setting my alarm clock for 3:15 a.m. for vigil felt both absurd and thrillingly subversive.  It seems ridiculous to say the brief walk from the retreat house to the chapel at that ungodly hour was one of the most sublime and sacred experiences of my life.”  I don’t know how to explain it, but when I enter the grounds of a monastery, I experience a radical change.  Time and space take on a different texture.  I like his words, sublime and sacred, to explain it. 

And in one sense, you can’t even talk about it.  It is as if words are only useful in the real world---the secular world.  When we are in the presence of the Spirit, what do you say…really?  No wonder silence is the preferred medium.  Just be quiet and bask in the Spirit.  And if you don’t sense the Spirit, be quiet and wait---but wait expectantly.  The absence of the Spirit can be nearly as profound as the presence of it. 

As Gehring left his room that first night, this was his experience: “the only sounds my footsteps and breath, I walked toward the dim light of the chapel on the hill with a tingling wonder and feeling of awe that surprised and humbled me.”  I like Gehring’s sense of humor and his ability to capture some of my early experiences going to monasteries.  He confesses, “…to having spent a lot of time obsessively watching the monks as if I were observing a rare species in the wilderness.  Maybe in a facial expression or a certain movement I could glean a glimmer of holiness that would help me crack the code.”  

What he may have learned is what I have learned.  There is no code.  There probably are not even secrets.  Instead the monks are witness to something that is very human.  What they have done is be very intentional and disciplined in their search for God’s Spirit and their desire to live in the presence of that Spirit.  Literally nothing else in life is as important to them.  And since God is not a puppet, all we can do is show up, wait and respond.  If we show up and talk all the time, the monks figure we have a more difficult time recognizing when the Spirit will appear to us and in us. 

My own Quaker tribe came to the same conclusion.  Historically, we also gathered for worship.  And all we did was sit down, get quiet and wait.  But it is an active, expectant waiting.  Most folks in our society are too hyper.  We are too driven for something to happen and, preferably, something interesting and exciting.  We become ping pong balls flying between one hit to another.   

Sit down and be quiet.  You have come to the sanctuary of silence.  Here rightly you can expect to meet God.  What a deal…