Enter the Silence.

Bow in prayer.

Wait for hope to appear.

—Lamentations 3, The Message

It was a bright and glorious afternoon in May when I found myself eating in silence with a group of four strangers. I was attending a training retreat in Malibu, California with Ren­o­varé, and this was our first and strangest assignment: to eat lunch in silence with our group, to spend one additional hour in silence together somewhere on the Franciscan retreat center campus, and then to begin our first official meeting together by sharing from the depths of our souls. I couldn’t have known that these strangers would soon become impossibly dear to me, so as I sat there silently eating I felt anxious and did my best to stay present while also avoiding eye contact with those surrounding the white plastic outdoor table. It is difficult to communicate “I’m mostly happy to be here, I hope my nonverbal resting face looks friendly, and I’m feeling a bit unsure of myself” without words. So I didn’t, and instead leaned in to the awkwardness—first because I had to, then because I wanted to.

After lunch we walked to a grassy bluff which overlooked the Santa Monica hills as they sloped gently downward to the sea. Birds I’ve never heard before were singing the riotous chorus of a song only they knew. As I watched the clouds drift by, their gentle pace gave me permission to lie down in the grass and simply be—at ease with myself and the world around me. As it turns out, silence is the perfect place from which to begin any endeavor. The bonds of friendship forged in intentional silence have proven trustworthy and true. That single afternoon of silence was one of my first experiences of a silence I could trust, and I will never forget it.

Now I wonder if my experience of trustworthy silence last May was the catalyst for a change I’ve noticed in myself this year: for the past nine months, I have craved silence. I have sought silence, celebrated it, and received healing within its embrace. And when I say silence, I mean ‘not adding to the noise.’ I mean speaking less out of anxiety and more out of simplicity, listening with generosity. I mean turning off the music and television and trusting the still small voice that waits for our attention to speak.

Somewhere along the way I intuited that silence means something is wrong, especially in relationships. I’ve learned to fill any gap in conversation with questions or observances that ‘help’ the communication flow. For most of my life, I have avoided extended periods of silence because I suspected that eliminating exterior noise would cause my interior noise to become unbearable. And I was right. But making space to listen to the unvoiced chaos within me prompted me to seek peace in ways I wouldn’t have otherwise, and that is indeed a gift. When we practice silence, the hurts, questions, and longings we’ve shushed with noise inevitably rise to the surface. We may even find that they have grown louder—as urgent, perplexing, and painful as the day we first buried them. But when we do not give ourselves space to listen and attend to what longs to be heard, we forget the sound of our own interior voice. This numbing forgetfulness makes us susceptible to all the other voices of the world clamoring for our attention, glittering with false promises of easy fulfillment. 

These voices are lying.

This is why the desert Ammas and Abbas fled to the desert in the early 3rd and 4th century. They fled to escape the lying voices of their culture and even the falsity of cultural Christianity for the hope of better attuning to the voice of God. Amma Syncletica described silence as not merely the absence of noise, but as a way of life that could be practiced wherever you were:

It is possible to be a solitary in one’s mind while living in a crowd, and it is possible for one who is a solitary to live in the crowd of his own thoughts.

It is possible to practice silence in a crowd of people, to be cradled by inner stillness while the rest of the world spins madly on. Possible, but oh so difficult.

Before silence can transform us, we must actively seek it. We do this by fleeing distraction and forsaking all other noise except for the still small voice of God, who speaks in silence and whose silence is speech. If we do not, we will be devoured by a world which tells us that the loudest voice wins. Is it practical or possible to live in a desert cave and experience months of extended silence? No. But it is possible to intentionally pursue the same Whisperer who spoke to Elijah when he was hiding out in a desert cave, running for his life.

How do we do this in a world that is louder than ever? I believe it begins by acknowledging the ways that Western culture has seduced many of us into a ‘louder is better’ mentality. We are assaulted by the noise of social media, politics, others’ opinions, advertisements, television, movies, and more. Not only does this lessen our ability to attune to the voice of God, but it also means we are virtually shouting with our hands over our ears, desperate to have our egos fulfilled. The first step is acknowledging that it is loud, and that we’ve added to the noise.

After saying, “Yes. It is noisy both in here and out there,” we take the first small step towards unfractured living. We ask God for help to attune to the Voice that matters most. Remember: we are not seeking perfection. We are simply trying to cultivate interior spaciousness by not adding noise that distracts us but never really fulfills us.

With this in mind, here are some small steps to help us practice silence:

-If you are used to turning on the television first thing in the morning to keep you company, consider beginning your day with silence. Five minutes is a delightful place to start.

-When you are driving in your car, try not turning on music or a podcast for the length of your drive.

-Whether you are alone or in a crowded room, try speaking or whispering Jesus. I have found that simply speaking his name creates a moment of sacred pause, no matter what I am doing.

Noise is not always bad; it can be a sacred gift. But we must recognize that filling the empty spaces of our lives with more noise will not save us. When our Savior came up out of the silent waters of baptism, he heard the voice of his father naming him “Beloved.” Then, he was sent into the silent desert—a silence of prayer, fasting, trial, and temptation which led to the salvation of the world. Ultimately, this is why we practice silence: to hear ourselves named, over and over, in a way that saves us anew each time.

“Beloved. Beloved. Beloved.”

Be loved.

Amen.

Going Deeper: Drew preached an excellent sermon series called Learning to Listen last year, and this message is full of wisdom and practicality. “Silence is the blank canvas on which we practice the art of listening.”