Now there was a great wind, so
strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake,
but the Lord was not in the
earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of
sheer silence. (1 Kings 19.11b-12)
On
Tuesday the 14th of October the CBC radio programme, ‘The Current’
with Anna Maria Tremonti broadcast a segment on a new movement that is gaining
traction in North America: the
‘mindfulness’ movement. ‘Mindfulness’
builds upon the teachings of Buddhism and, by extension, those of other major
religious traditions including Judaism and Christianity. The goal of this movement is to help us
become more attentive to the present and more aware of the workings of our
inner selves. One of the tools of
‘mindfulness’ is silence.
There
are various kinds of silences: the
silence of having no one to talk to, the silence of being so angry with another
person that speech is impossible, the silence when electricity is shut off and
we have no access to our electronic devices, the silence of being so far from
urban society that no sound penetrates our environment. But there is one other kind of silence: the intentional silence of listening for
God. North Americans, however, have been
conditioned by our visual and audio media to shy away from silence. We fill every moment with sound by playing
music in the background while we work, while we shop, while we drive. Silence is, I think, frightening to many of
us. Deep within us we know that
unexpected insights can surface in silence and many of those insights we seek
to keep buried.
On
Thanksgiving Monday I had an encounter with just such an insight. Paula had gone upstairs for an afternoon nap
accompanied by our dog and cats. For
several hours I remained on the main floor of our townhome watching some
recorded television and trying to do a little reading. Then came the unexpected period of
silence: No children’s voices from the
school next door, no sound from the road just beyond our home, no voices of the
older Sikh women who frequently gather nearby to chat. I had put my book down, closed my eyes for a
few minutes and then a phrase from Sunday’s reading from the Gospel according
to Matthew came: ‘And can any of you by
worrying add a single hour to your span of life?’ (Matthew 6.27)
From
silence a word was spoken that I try to keep suppressed but is true: I do worry.
I worry about retirement; I worry about my children; I worry about the
Parish; I worry about the Church. In
short I worry about the future. But the
future is not in my control, only the present and what I do with each and every
moment that I draw breath. Silence brought
me back to the present.
All
of us need silence. Let me write
again: All of us need silence, the intentional silence of setting everything aside
to listen for God. Sometimes the silence
is empty; sometimes the silence is filled with cares and concerns that bubble
up from the deep fissures of our souls.
But if they are not allowed to come to the surface, they cannot be
exposed to the light and to the wisdom of God.
And if they are not exposed to the light and to the wisdom of God, they
can become corrosive.
I
invite you to join me in taking time each day, even if only for a few minutes,
for intentional silence. Perhaps we will
hear the voice of God and, in hearing that voice, find what we need to be who
we are created to be.
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