Once a month, on Monday evenings, I have been worshipping at a new service at my husband's church. There is no sermon at this worship service. There are no hymns, but the service does open and close with a meditative chorus. There is instrumental music in the background. There are two or three short scripture readings. There is plenty of silence between the scripture readings.
The point of the service is prayer: prayer and silence. There are prayer stations and candles and places to write down your prayers and invitations to pray with one of the pastors. When entering the sanctuary, each worshipper gets a page of worship and prayer helps, including some printed prayers and some quotes regarding the value of taking time away from the noisiness of the world for a time of intentional silence.
Every time I go, I am confronted with this quote from Meister Eckhart: "Nothing is so like God as silence." And every time I go, I have a little argument with these words. I don't know exactly what it is. Maybe it is that I am just a contrary person by nature. I love arguing, especially with saints. Yes, Meister Eckhart knows a lot more about God than I do. He has experience. And yet….
Silence is good, and also counter-cultural. I will give you that. There is not really a lot of silence in world. But when I see the saintly quote, I get all Lutheran and Word-y and I think that Silence is good, but it's not enough. There is the space for silence, the space we do not fill with words. It is a space for trust that God will, somehow, and in some way, speak. The silence of our listening is not a strategy or a feat. It is the pause while the conductor raises the baton. It is the silence before the curtain rises. It is the silence of trust and expectation. At least, that is the Christian confession. We listen because God will speak. It's not that God will give us all the answers, or solve our problems. But God will call our names. God will ask us questions. God speaks.
But if we are honest, this is also the problem. I remember reading Shusako Endo's historical novel Silence many years ago, when I was a missionary in Japan. The novel was about the early Christian movement in Japan, and what happened, and what did not happen, when Christians were imprisoned, tortured and killed for their faith. The title of the novel refers to what the author calls the Silence of God in the face of the suffering of Japanese Christians.
So perhaps Meister Eckhart is right. Perhaps God is really like silence. But that would not necessarily be good news.
The world needs silence, but not just silence.
The world also needs a word -- not "the answer", not a strategy, not a user's manual. The world also needs a word, the right word at the right time: a question, a name, an invitation, a light.
Showing posts with label silence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label silence. Show all posts
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
My Hermitage
Our new senior pastor had an idea for after Easter this year: what if our staff took a getaway to a retreat center together? After the busy season, we needed time away, to recharge, to rest, to pray. He even had a place in mind, a favorite of his: Pacem in Terris, just a few miles north of the Twin Cities.
He was very excited about it. It sounded beautiful, and restful.
I confess that I had mixed feelings.
On the one hand, having time for rest and silence amid the beauty of nature sounded wonderful. I wasn't even that concerned about the lack of telephones. A day without wireless devices sounded like a good after-Lent fast to me.
On the other hand, where I live, the beginning of April it can still be rather cold. The hermitages are primitive: no bathrooms. There's an outhouse very close to each hermitage, but that's it. I'll be honest, I wasn't wild about that.
Our senior pastor assured us that the main lodge was well-equipped, with even showers and all of the amenities. And that was true. It was also a little hike from the lodge to your hermitage. Also, the main lodge is closed between 8 p.m. and 8 a.m.
The hermitage staff was gracious and inviting. The idea is to be alone with God: no noise. No books, except the Bible, either, they cautioned. Not that anyone was going to check, but books can be another kind of noise. Judge for yourself, they said.
The evening meal is shared, and delicious. But for other meals, there is basket of simple food brought to your hermitage door: fruit, bread, a muffin, cheese. Each small room is well equipped: a gas lamp, a gas burner and tea kettle, means to light them. There are a couple of candles, soap, a few gallons of water, a wash basin and towels. A rocking chair faces the window. The lake is still pretty quiet early in April.
Before he left, my host told me he would pray for me.
Then it was quiet. No footsteps. No creaks. Not even the sound of water. I understood the idea of no bathrooms.
That evening I lit the gas lamp and read the Bible, prayed and wrote in my journal. It got dark early, and I wrote a lot. I read the Psalms of Ascent and the resurrection story from John 20, holding my flashlight, seeing just a few words at a time with its small round light. Suddenly, my flashlight went out. I discovered that the hermitage was equipped with another.
I was determined to use as little as possible during my stay at the hermitage. For some reason, I didn't want to use anything. I would get up and go to the lodge as soon as it was open. If I didn't use anything, I wouldn't have to clean anything. That was my plan.
In the morning, though, I ended up using the cold outhouse, anyway. Afterwards I heated up water, both for tea and for the washbasin, so that I could wash my face and hands. I sat in the rocking chair and listened to the silence, eating fruit and bread. I walked. I changed my clothes. I wrote some more. I swept the floor and shook the rugs and made the bed, in preparation for the next hermit. Something about these simple actions calmed me as much as prayer.
The retreat was not quite 24 hours, and I was back on the road again. I had no great revelations about God, or about myself. But here is what I remember: washing my face with water I had heated myself. The small circles of light on a page, illuminating just a few words at a time. The noise of the pen scratching on the page. The window and the beauty of the still barren landscape. Fragments of possible poetry, a small image to return home with:
Thomas, sitting around a fire with Peter and Bartholomew, telling stories about Jesus, remembering his hands with ragged scars, and how he saved them, once.
He was very excited about it. It sounded beautiful, and restful.
I confess that I had mixed feelings.
On the one hand, having time for rest and silence amid the beauty of nature sounded wonderful. I wasn't even that concerned about the lack of telephones. A day without wireless devices sounded like a good after-Lent fast to me.
On the other hand, where I live, the beginning of April it can still be rather cold. The hermitages are primitive: no bathrooms. There's an outhouse very close to each hermitage, but that's it. I'll be honest, I wasn't wild about that.
Our senior pastor assured us that the main lodge was well-equipped, with even showers and all of the amenities. And that was true. It was also a little hike from the lodge to your hermitage. Also, the main lodge is closed between 8 p.m. and 8 a.m.
The hermitage staff was gracious and inviting. The idea is to be alone with God: no noise. No books, except the Bible, either, they cautioned. Not that anyone was going to check, but books can be another kind of noise. Judge for yourself, they said.
The evening meal is shared, and delicious. But for other meals, there is basket of simple food brought to your hermitage door: fruit, bread, a muffin, cheese. Each small room is well equipped: a gas lamp, a gas burner and tea kettle, means to light them. There are a couple of candles, soap, a few gallons of water, a wash basin and towels. A rocking chair faces the window. The lake is still pretty quiet early in April.
Before he left, my host told me he would pray for me.
Then it was quiet. No footsteps. No creaks. Not even the sound of water. I understood the idea of no bathrooms.
That evening I lit the gas lamp and read the Bible, prayed and wrote in my journal. It got dark early, and I wrote a lot. I read the Psalms of Ascent and the resurrection story from John 20, holding my flashlight, seeing just a few words at a time with its small round light. Suddenly, my flashlight went out. I discovered that the hermitage was equipped with another. I was determined to use as little as possible during my stay at the hermitage. For some reason, I didn't want to use anything. I would get up and go to the lodge as soon as it was open. If I didn't use anything, I wouldn't have to clean anything. That was my plan.
In the morning, though, I ended up using the cold outhouse, anyway. Afterwards I heated up water, both for tea and for the washbasin, so that I could wash my face and hands. I sat in the rocking chair and listened to the silence, eating fruit and bread. I walked. I changed my clothes. I wrote some more. I swept the floor and shook the rugs and made the bed, in preparation for the next hermit. Something about these simple actions calmed me as much as prayer.
The retreat was not quite 24 hours, and I was back on the road again. I had no great revelations about God, or about myself. But here is what I remember: washing my face with water I had heated myself. The small circles of light on a page, illuminating just a few words at a time. The noise of the pen scratching on the page. The window and the beauty of the still barren landscape. Fragments of possible poetry, a small image to return home with:
Thomas, sitting around a fire with Peter and Bartholomew, telling stories about Jesus, remembering his hands with ragged scars, and how he saved them, once.
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