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Readings (click here for full text of the readings):
Silence is awkward, isn’t it? We tend to squirm and fidget. We’re anxious to get on with the service. We look at the bulletin and see how many things we still have to get through. We’ve come here to do things: to pray and to sing and to listen to the readings and the sermon. So why not get on with it? That sentiment was expressed in this month’s Episcopal Life, where the question in the question-and-answer column was this: “Why are the services now being interrupted by periods of silence?” The answer was very practical, and it noted various things silence does: it fixes attention on the action being performed, like the breaking of the bread; it heightens the solemnity of various occasions; and it allows for recollection before prayers of confession and for reflection after the readings and the sermon. [1] The columnist seemed to be saying that silence is merely the absence of speaking; he defines it entirely in the negative. Truth, he says, comes in the form of words, and silence helps us hear them better. Our services, after all, are chock full of words. We recite prayers aloud, and we sing hymns, and we listen to the words of the Bible and the Prayer Book and the sermon. We’re literally overwhelmed with language, and so perhaps we need a little silence, if only to give us time to process all these wonderful words. St. James would not have been pleased to see us come to this. Of all the books in the Bible, the book of James is, perhaps, the staunchest advocate of silence. In this morning’s reading, he writes, “You must understand this, my beloved: let everyone be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger” (1:19). Later in the book he takes it a step further: “The tongue,” he writes, “stains the whole body, sets on fire the cycle of nature, and is itself set on fire by hell. For every species of beast and bird, of reptile and sea creature, can be tamed and has been tamed by the human species, but no one can tame the tongue – a restless evil, full of deadly poison” (3:6-8). Despite this brazen condemnation of the tongue, we’ve created world where silence is rarely, if ever, found. This afternoon, for instance, Pam and Catie and Jake and I will be heading down to visit my parents for a couple of days. And I can guarantee you how we’ll spend most of our time: we’ll all be sitting in the living room, and the television will be on, most likely showing CNN. The volume will be muted slightly, but you can still hear it. Everyone in the room will be reading something, whether novels or newspapers or upside-down picture books, in Catie’s case. And every now and then one of us will say something, which may or may not be audible to the others on the first try, so maybe we’ll have to turn down the volume on the TV, but just for a bit. We’ll have a bit of conversation, and then we’ll go back to our reading or watching TV or tormenting Jake by pulling on his tail in order to stand up, as the case may be. And there won’t be a whit of silence found. There are a lot of reasons why we – my family, our culture – do this. Silence is awkward, for one, as we just experienced. It might feel like we’re not making good use of our time, because, after all, we’re just sitting there not saying anything. We feel like we should be doing something, and that something usually has something do with words. Deep down, though, our aversion to silence doesn’t stem from our desire to be productive, but rather from our fear of being seen and experienced simply for who we are. When I’m silent, I feel like I’m not offering anything to anyone. I’m not encouraging them or engaging with them or making myself useful in any way. All I’ve got going for me is myself, my presence. It’s as if I’m saying that it’s enough that I exist in the world, that God made me, that God is everywhere and that means here, with us, in our silence. And I’m willing to trust that this is enough; that love can shine through silence just as well as it does through words, maybe even better; that I can see the truth better in the silence, and not just because I can think about words I’ve heard, like the column in Episcopal Life said. No, I can see the truth precisely because there are no words to cloud my vision; no words to confuse me; no words to separate me from the ultimate truth, which is that God loves me and God is here, and this person whom I could be having a very pleasant conversation with to pass the time, to fill the silence, that person loves me, too, apart from whatever insightful thing I might otherwise have come up with. In our modern intellectual world, though, we value words above little else. We try to outsmart each other and come off as knowing everything there is to know. This is particularly true in the church, as we argue and debate and try to convince others, through words, that we are right, and perhaps they are wrong. But James says that we should bridle our tongues, for they may be our greatest enemy. Truth, for James, emerges through silence. The people who have truly heard and lived James’s message are the monks of the Eastern world, especially the Desert Fathers and Mothers, who lived as hermits in Egypt in the 4th and 5th centuries. Their writings overflow with exhortations to silence and meditation. The wisest of them realized that words just separate us from each other; only in silence can true love and intimacy exist. This is one of their famous stories: Three Fathers used to go and visit blessed Anthony every year and two of them used to discuss their thoughts and the salvation of their souls with him, but the third always remained silent and did not ask him anything. After a long time, Abba Anthony said to him, “You often come here to see me, but you never ask me anything,” and the other replied, “It is enough for me to see you, Father.” [2] More than just cultivating intimacy between people, silence is crucial to our relationship with God. For one thing, silence protects us from sinning, as we tame our tongues, if only for a moment. Father Arsenius, for instance, once said, “I have often repented of having spoken, but never of having remained silent.” [3] Silence also allows us to experience God’s presence in a way that goes far beyond words. The Desert Father and Mothers realized that words can only describe God; to know God intimately can only come through silence, through direct communion with God that words don’t have a prayer, pardon the pun, of capturing. Diadochus of Photiki, who, in addition to being quite a challenge to pronounce was also one of the great patron saints of Greek Orthodox church, put it this way:
Diadochus was saying that we can talk about God all we want: we can call God good and holy and loving and all-powerful and any number of other complimentary descriptions. But as soon as we reduce God to words, we’ve separated ourselves from Him. God is beyond words, and eventually, after we’ve preached our sermons and said our prayers, we’ll finally figure out what it means to “be still and know that [God is] God” (Psalm 46:11), as the Psalms put it. One great Chinese theologian described the challenge that lies before us this way: The purpose of a fish trap is to catch fish and when the fish are caught, the trap is forgotten. The purpose of a rabbit snare is to catch rabbits. When the rabbits are caught, the snare is forgotten. The purpose of the word is to convey ideas. When the ideas are grasped, the words are forgotten. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words? He is the one I would like to talk to. [5] Indeed, the Desert Fathers and Mothers spent their lives trying to grasp God and trying to forget the words that initially brought them to Him. I have to admit that it’s a bit ironic, and some would say self-defeating, to talk about silence. To use words to tell people to forget words. But speaking is one of the few ways we have of communicating with each other, especially in large groups. There are better ways, to be sure. There is touch, and a quiet smile, and the courageous act of standing with someone in their pain when we’re tempted to run away and save ourselves. In this place, in this community, we have, above all, the Eucharist. And when we come forward and kneel at the rail, perhaps only then are we able to see that words are a rickety bridge connecting us with God and with each other. True communion is much more immediate and tactile than words could ever be. The bread and wine upon our tongues. The rubbing of shoulders with fellow pilgrims, searching for salvation just like we are. The same person sitting next to us in church week after week. Those signs of God cannot be captured by words; they are the grace-full fruit of silence. There’s a famous story in Zen Buddhism. A preacher stands up to give a sermon, and just as he’s about to speak, a bird in the tree above begins to sing. Everyone listens to the bird for a little while, and after the bird has sung his song and flown away, the preacher waits in silence for a little while and then simply says, “The sermon is over,” and sits down. Perhaps some of you are wishing that a bird had started singing 12 minutes or so ago. Truth be told, I wish the same, because I have no doubt that God’s truth would better have been revealed through the music of his creation and the holy silence that followed, than through the words of men.
[1] Rev. Marion Hatchett’s responses in the “Since You Asked” column, Episcopal Life 14:8 (September 2003): 11. [2] The Sayings of the Desert Fathers, Benedicta Ward, trans. (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1975): 7. [3] As quoted in Henri Nouwen, The Way of the Heart: Desert Spirituality and Contemporary Ministry (London: Darton, Longman, and Todd, 1981): 43. [4] Diadochus of Photiki, “On Spiritual Knowledge and Discrimination: One Hundred Texts,” in The Philokalia, Volume 1, compiled by St. Nikodimos of the Holy Mountain and St. Makarios of Corinth, trans., eds. G.E.H. Palmer, Philip Sherrard, Kallistos Ware (London & Boston: Faber and Faber, 1979): 276. [5] As quoted in Thomas Merton, The Way of Chuang Tzu (New York: New Directions, 1965): 154. |
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