Being in Silence -or- Climbing with the Silent Partner

“Sadness and silence, two things 

I keep in jars in my basement that

 I label “Warning: Do not open.” 

― Jarod Kintz,

Go to Google Images and type in “silence.”

I will tell you what you will find: a host of scary and disturbing images.  If you type in “silent” it is even worse.  The tenor of the images that come up in both searches can be summed up (with a few exceptions) with the following words: horror, demoniac, and despair.  In short, things that ought to be kept in tightly closed containers in the basement labeled “Warning: Do Not Open.”

And indeed, silence is a Pandora’s box.  Silence is not for the weak.  We associate “peace” and “quiet,” but silence is hardly quiet.  Rather, silence is scary.  It is demonic because it is unnatural.  Life in the world is loud.  Just take a walk through the country or in the woods.  One can hear non-human life bustling, chirping, clicking and shuffling.  And walk along a city street.  One hears the still louder sounds of human life unfolding: babies crying as they come into the world, adults laughing, and motors on all sorts of tools rumbling (even electric motors on cars and yard tools have a rather obtrusive hum).  I can hear now the sounds of ipods and alarm clocks and cell phones.  I can even hear my own cell phone cry out across the house when it is on “silent.”  When all of these things are truly silenced, our bones understand that a predator or a storm must be near--that all living things are waiting and hiding.  From each one’s own perspective, there is nothing more silent than the bated breath caused by a sense of horror, for even the slight sound of breath is suspended.  Noise is reassuring.  Those things that make sounds rarely have nefarious intent, and even if they do, at least we can hear them coming.

Though “quiet” and “peace” often come in tandem, the word is also commonly wed to “despair.”  Delight is a noisy affair, often coming with shouts, laughter and boasting.  But despair is...more subdued.  The one who is preoccupied with enduring has not the leisure or energy to expend on protest, and thus certainly not mirth.  Although spiritual pain might be better relieved with loud lamentations, as one overcoming physical pain with primal screams.  But, alas, for whatever reason, most feel compelled to suffer psychologically, spiritually (and sometimes even physically) in relative silence.  Perhaps the thought is to remain unnoticed, so as to show no weakness.  Despair, too, becomes all-consuming; the despairing one is too focussed on the inner life, the sounds of which are deadened by the insulation of the mind and heart.  No one else hears the tumult.

Here we arrive at the deep, inherent scariness of silence...the inner life.  

Silence is unnerving because in silence the only thing before one’s consciousness is one’s own nerves.  And they produce the loudest cacophony of all.  

“Silence can often be more disturbing than noise, 

it reveals the complicated mechanism of our thoughts” 

― Jose Rodrigues Migueis

Soren Kierkegaard wrote extensively on the relationship we each have with ourselves.  He believed that there was only one person, one thing, in the world that you could not overcome.  In a word, yourself.  I am an even match to myself.  Therein lies the eternal struggle.  So eternal, in point of fact, that God--the One who is timeless--intercedes to free me from my biggest oppressor.  (And if you do not like that language, I would point you to the thought and work of Malcolm X and James Cone.  Both of their stances on racial oppression in 20th and 21st Century United States convey a similar idea--with more widespread and traumatic implications.  **For a longer treatment of the comparison and contrast of Cone and Kierkegaard’s thought, I will post a paper I wrote in seminary on a new page of my blog.  [So, yeah, I couldn't do this because footnoted papers do not translate well to the blogosphere...if you would like to read the paper, contact me and I will send you a PDF.  Sorry for the inconvenience.] )  

If I met another that was unequal to me, then two possibilities exist: first, I am the stronger, and so I overwhelm the other.  Or, second, I am the weaker.  In this case, I am overwhelmed, but I can always go away with some consolation, i.e. the stronger is supposed to win or I ultimately overcome by surviving and moving on.  If I met another that was equal to me, then there is a stalemate...but the struggle will still end--either with a sense of mutual respect, or with some degree of indignant loathing.  And I can always overcome the one who is equal or the one who is stronger by being, “the bigger person.”  One need only change one’s measure of success, given the situation.

But when the opponent is one’s self, when one is trapped in conflict against one’s self, there can be neither victory nor stalemate, nor consolation.  One cannot be “the bigger person” in relationship to one’s self.  At least, not under one’s own power.

I say all of this not to prove that silence is scary, but rather the proof of the former is the fact that (most) people are afraid of silence.  And even the one who is not afraid of silence, will fear it at some point again.  Because in silence we have nothing to hear, nothing to see, nothing to study or attend to other than the self.  And this makes us dreadfully uncomfortable.  Why?  Because the soul is so deep.  Because one spends so much of one’s time listening to other things, that when one occasionally listens only to  one’s self, the sound (the voice) is foreign.  And in life, over the course of time, one’s soul grows deeper, and one’s personality is changed by various and sundry experiences.  We are each and all of the opinion that we ought to, at the very least, know our respective selves.  At the very least, I should have control over my inner being (our culture gives us this story of radical agency of the individual, over the individual).  And in silence we realize how little we know...how little our self-governance actually accomplishes.  The mirror of silence reveals an unanticipated visage. 

When silence occurs while in the presence of another person, the effect is even more anxiety-producing.  One gazes in the same mirror, while at the same time feeling someone else looking over one’s shoulder.  Of course, one cannot hear the thoughts of another, but the nearby presence is enough to imagine the voyeuristic tableau.  And this produces some amount of shame.

Ah, but if one is comfortable with oneself, then silence is not scary.  It may always be work or striving or struggle, but it is not fear-inducing.  Furthermore, if one engages in silence enough, then the silence shared between two people also becomes a comfort.  The two are sharing in a most intimate activity.  It may not say anything about the relationship.  However, it says a great deal about the individuals.  Then again, I suppose that if one can love one’s self in the presence of another, then there is an openness and freedom that can only be created by the deep mutual trust that is only produced in love.

We have, at last, reached the heart of the matter.  Do not be afraid of silence, because it is the arena in which love strives to win it all.  Silence gives space and place for love to overcome our inner crisis (or crises).  

Be still and know...

...know that God loves you.

...know that you have every reason to love yourself.

...know that you need not fear the judgement of others.

...know that that very stillness will give you inner strength.

...know that I AM.  (Or I suppose...you are.) 

Now, if you will pardon me, I am called to silence.

“In the ultimate stillness

Light penetrates the whole realm;

In the still illumination,

There pervades pure emptiness.

When I look back on the

Phenomenal world,

Everything is just

Like a dream.” 

― Han-shan Te-Ch'ing

Silence is Enough -or- Listening in Silence is Missing the Point!

“Let silence take you to the core of life.” 

― Rumi

What is your relationship with silence?

How do you feel about silence?

How do you react to silence?

Do you prefer sound or silence?

I am not a loud person.  Don’t get me wrong, I can be loud.  I can project my voice well when I speak in public.  I laugh loudly.  When I engage in friendly debate, my voice often, and of its own, becomes loud (unfortunately this has turned more than one debate partner off, since it appears that I am becoming angry or frustrated--too vehement for friendly discussion).  At times, in the car or at home, I crank the music up loud, and try to overcome it with my own voice singing out.  I usually sing loud in the shower, once filling a south-side Chicago apartment courtyard (at the same time delighting and embarrassing--and probably annoying--my neighbors) with reverberations of Bing Crosby.  My life is busy, and filled with people.  It is not unusual for my ears to constantly be engaged during the day, and my voice engaged almost as much.  I listen a lot.  I speak a lot.  Therefore, my life is full of noise--and I say this not to disparage the voices of others, whose stories I love to hear.

And yet, I am a quiet person.  The music I listen to most often is quiet, even when I turn it up loud.  My voice is soothing enough that even when the volume goes up, it does not always come off as loud in the same way that a screeching or booming voice might.  Even when I am angry, my anger is usually conveyed through a smoldering silence, and hushed, firm tones--only occasionally erupting in some indignant or protesting roar.  When I am with others, I am not uncomfortable with those silences that naturally interrupt conversation.  

And when I am alone, silence does not bother me either.  I can drive for hours, forgetting to turn on the car radio or disc player.  And when I am at home or work, I can be working on something in complete silence, unencumbered by it.  Music or podcasts would not be distracting.  In fact, in college, my favorite spot for studying was Java 101, the coffee shop connected to the library.  I needed the noise of a busy cafe to help me to focus.  The library was too quiet.  Perhaps is I turned on music more at the house or work, I would not be so distracted...and I would be more productive.

In any event, I think that my life may have more silence in it than most.  At least, a close friend recently indicated that such might be true.  I have a good relationship, I think, with silence.  A good balance of noise and quiet in my life.

What is your relationship with silence?

How do you feel about silence?

When are you silent, and when are you not?

How do you react to silence?

Do you prefer sound or silence?

I wonder, my Dear Reader, how YOU would answer these questions, looking honestly at your own life, and critically assessing your own habits and emotions surrounding silence.  As you ponder, I offer the following meditation:

Silence, without Idleness, is just more noise.

I am greatly annoyed when spiritualists and gurus of whatever ilk speak about silence.  I agree with them that silence is, indeed, important, that it nourishes the soul.  But they do not stop with silence, but keep going.  I generalize, but I feel it is accurate: when these spiritual “guides” commend silence to their following, they lay silence out as another task.  Silence, almost without exception, is for listening.  

Some say we need silence to listen to God.  Others say the same thing, only substituting “God” with the word “body” or “self” or “soul” or “mystical being” or “spiritual self” or some such dim equivalency.  The call to silence is reduced to a reminder merely to listen, an injunction to stop making noise so that you might be able to hear other noises.

But silence is quite enough, in and of itself.  

Silence is enough apart from listening.

In fact, whenever one is listening, silence does not exist.

We listen to God when we read or hear read scripture.  We are listening to God when that Word is proclaimed in worship--in prayers, hymns, sermons, sacraments and the whole liturgy.  We are listening to God, when we listen to others, particularly when we are straining to understand the deep joys, needs and hopes of a person’s life.  We are never listening to God in silence.  Nor should we ever listen for God in silence.

Silence is meant for something else: being; resting; integrating; communing--these are the best words I can use to describe what I am driving at.

God appeared to Elijah as sheer silence (1 Kings 19:1-15a).  At first Elijah was looking for something, something awesome and spectacular.  We today do not expect to see bright lights shrouding a supernatural being in majesty.  Many even consider this a childish view of God, and an immature expectation of God’s presence in the world.  We learned from Elijah on that point: God isn’t going to come visibly, at least not with movie-like special effects.

But then, Elijah expected God’s appearance to be accompanied by some disturbance.  If not a visual disturbance, than an invisible one.  Elijah expected God in thunder, when the lightening didn’t come.  Elijah expected God to be present in the wind, which is felt and heard but not seen.  Elijah expected God to be...noisy.  Surely, the Divine causes ripples and vibrations of some kind in the world, even if it is only the waves of sound.

But when God came to Elijah it was in...sheer silence.

How did he know it was God?

God didn’t announce his presence.

God didn’t have to.  The silence was pregnant enough.

Psalm 46:10 reads: “Be still and know that I am God.”

It does not say: ‘Be still and listen to me.’

It says, “Be still” and “know.”

Think about it.  If one is sitting in silence, and is straining to hear something--God or what--then one is missing the point entirely.  Because, all of a sudden, the listener is expecting and hoping for the silence to be broken.  That one has bypassed the silence from the start.  The stillness of silence is broken immediately by the desire to be spoken to, or to hear something.  Oh, there are times when you have to be silent in order to listen.  Especially because of how noisy things can get, you gotta make room even for listening anymore.  But there are also times when you have to be silent just to be silent.  That is all.  Nothing else.

So, when things are noisy, tune your ears and listen harder.

But when things are silent...stop listening; be idle.

By the time God comes to you in silence, God has already spoken enough to prepare you for it.  The speaking back-and-forth, the listening back-and-forth, with start up again.  

In the meantime, just be silent without going further.

And just for kicks, from time to time, create some more silence in your life.

You can only talk so much.  You can only listen so much, too.

You won’t enjoy silence at first.

You will try to fill it.  You will try to push your ear into it so far that you hear the ocean for want of hearing to bring some epiphany.

But when the ocean in your ear tires...and you give in to the idleness of silence...

Well, then you will be; then you will know.

Later...a meditation comparing the following phenomena:

'Only two people that are comfortable with each other can bear silence together.'

-and-

'Only one who is comfortable with herself can bear silence in solitude.'

How it is that Love is The Greatest -or- What it Really Means to Say 'I love you'

An Abstract, and Therefore Paltry, Discourse on Love

The correlate of faith is expectancy.  In faith, we have expectations.  We expect God to be present in the Sacraments, and when we call on God in prayer and praise.  We expect God to be present, holding us, in the midst of sorrow or trauma or grief.  God’s promises are the basis of this expectation.  And we wait, in faith, for these promises to come true.  We are sure and certain in this faith, because God always keeps promises.  But we are still expectant because God’s presence is not always known immediately.  God’s nature is to be veiled in secrecy; God is elusive.  Just as we know not whence the wind blows, so too is the Spirit of the Lord.  And so, from our perspective, we wait in the realm of possibility...expectant in faith.

Beyond the expectancy of faith lies hope.  The correlate of hope is conviction.  In hope, we expect nothing because we are past the point of possibility.  Hope is on the far side of despair.  Think of the one who faces death.  Think of the one who sees the end of some thing, and feels its inevitability.  Hope stands in the flood, as time rolls forward.  Not stands, but floats as a ship.  It gets to the point that if we stand in expectancy, we will be dragged down under the water.  But hope is light.  It is not light-minded, but instead makes the soul, makes the person buoyant.  And the one who hopes goes over the dam, and is not dashed upon it.  And the person continues on the other side of the end, or on the other side of death.  Hope brings us there, to the realm of new possibility when possibilities have run out.  The one who hopes is not affected by categories such as failure and victory (she or he cannot put anything in life into those categories anymore...although there are precious few other words to use).  And so we say that the one who loses, has won--in hope.  Hope deals in what is more, what is beyond.  Hope gives life after death.  Hope gives the second chance, and the third...it renews all things, simply by giving up on the desire (the expectancy) to attain, to succeed, to taste victory.

Hope, then, is a paradox.  It is not idealism, since hope understands the futility of that.  Hope does not expect the possibility.  But in complete trust, it rests in the certitude that whatever is on the far side, that whatever else it is, it is life...and it is good.  Hope is the continuation of faith after that which was expected never materialized.  Hope is, if you will, the reincarnation of faith, of the expectancy of faith.  Hope gives us bold confidence when everything around us screams: “Turn back.”  “This way lies futility.”  Hope makes us grateful for what is.  In hope is the assurance that tomorrow will be.  The phrase “hope beyond all hope” is ridiculous.  It is ridiculous not because it is not true or descriptive, but ridiculous because hope is always beyond itself.  All hope is beyond hope, and not just because what we usually mean by the second “hope” is faith, or beyond expectation.  But in saying such a phrase, we point to the paradox of hope, that it always exceeds even itself (along with doubt, faith and despair).  

“And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.”

1 Corinthians 13:13

And last is love.
Love has no correlation.  
Love is, itself, the correlation...correlative to all.
For this reason, it is the highest and most perfect.

Hope carries us past the unexpected actuality of life, and yet in hope we still come to expect something.  It is an expectation, not beyond hope, but beyond faith.  For our faith was destroyed by...what?  Call it fate, perhaps, or simply life.  

Hope gives a new life to expectancy.  But love...ah, love...love requires nothing more.  Love is complete.  Love is beyond expectation.  Love is beyond hope.  “It does not insist on its own way....  It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.  Love never ends...”  (1 Corinthians 13:5, 7).  I would like to focus on but one clause here: “...love believes all things....”  We must be particular about the meaning of “believe.”  The word has its root in the word “trust.”  So what does love trust, exactly?  Love does not trust possibility, since possibility is untrustworthy--which is why it requires faith.  Love does not trust what is not, does not trust what fails to come to pass--which is why it requires hope.  But love...but love...love simply is glad for what was and what is.  Love cares not for the future.  Love does not compare anything. Love simply exists now, and it exists eternally.  

What do I mean?  Love trusts that every goodbye is simply that: good.  Love does not look for more, but is satisfied.

When two people disagree, if there is love, then there is no need to persuade one or the other to have an agreement.  For in love, even the disparate abide together.  Love appreciates the difference.  Love appreciates the distance.  Love appreciates elusiveness...because there is trust, belief.

This is crucial, because God is, in God’s very nature, secret and elusive.  To love God is simply to trust.  Faith expects revelation.  Hope carries one through the times that revelation does not come, carries one to the next revelation.  Love is the revelation that never reveals.  Love is comfortable...no, love rejoices when God remains simply who God is.  Love rejoices when the other, the other person, remains just who he or she is--even and especially when in so doing, expectations are dashed and hopes are ended.

In love all things already abide.  It is the eternal end.  It is the unity that transcends division.  Loves allows us to simply abide in joy, never looking for something else, never looking for something more.

I have always hated the saying: “It is what it is.”  And now I fully understand why.  Ultimately, the statement indicates acceptance of the reality that has stymied faith and hope.  As though acceptance is enough!  Love is more than mere acceptance.  It allows us to love what is.

And in love we all abide.  God and us.  You and me.  And we together, just as we are.

Who understands such fine distinctions?  Perhaps no one.  Now that I write it, I don’t even know if I understand it.  But please remember, Dear Reader, that I do not presume to write with authority.  Since an authority must, at the very least, be expected to understand what she or he is teaching.  But I have no such illusions.  Instead, I write without authority.  And therefore, I write, sending what is written out to search...to seek for that one person, that one certain and special individual, who will apply what is read to their own situation.  The One who will find some understanding below the words.  To you, Dear One, to you I give the words and simply trust that between us, love abides--the greatest, the everlasting.  (Whatever that means.  Whatever that looks like.)  

“And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.”

Chaos and God -or- Life is Out of Order

One simple word can describe my life right now: “chaos.”  (Simple?)  On July 15th, I was ordained for Word and Sacrament ministry in the ELCA.  In the weeks before that major event, I ended my tenure at Our Savior’s Lutheran Church, Rockford; I packed up all of my earthly belongings in preparation to move; and I suffered the worry and sorrow of having a family member face major health issues.  The ordination day itself was chaotic, as a thousand little details and about 500 people came together.  Two days after my ordination, I moved to Toluca, IL.  The same day I moved into the new parsonage, I began my first call at St. John’s Lutheran Church.  Since becoming the pastor at St. John’s I have conducted a wedding, made about two dozen hospital/home visits, participated in VBS with about 130 youth and adults, and have done a plethora of other little things in and behind the scenes.  Oh, and meanwhile, I have tried to put a whole house together, and have written over 50 thank you cards (about half of what I want to send out!).

Whew!  All in the space of four week’s time.  If that isn’t chaos, I don’t know what is!

But as I reflect, God has been present--visible, markable and tangible--in the midst of all of it.

Chaos is described in many ways: disarray, confusion, tumult, commotion, disruption, mess, hoopla, change....  And it is in these things, especially recently, that I have had the most profound experiences of God.  And as I read the Bible, I find that God always comes in chaos, or rather, when God comes, chaos always occurs.

God visited Job in the whirlwind.  God scuffled with Jacob in a tumultuous wrestling match.  God destroyed the order of Pharaoh, the system of slavery, when he brought the Israelites into the untamed desert--into the anarchy of freedom.  God caused upheaval in the Promised Land as the Israelites displaced the Canaanites, Hittites, Perizites, etc.  God resisted the pleas of the people to place a king over Israel to bring order.  God rejected the idea of having a temple built, because God loved the commotion of showing up where and when God pleased.  God sent his beloved people into Exile, and went with them as far as they were scattered.  

The Bible tells us that when God comes, so does chaos.

Think even of creation.  God entered the stage of history to bring order, or so it would seem.  But the “order” of creation was a chaotic break from the chaos of the void that existed before all things.  And even the creation God made was infused with chaos: think of the rich diversity of life that is in constant movement, constant change!

Even paradise, Eden, was untamed.  Adam and Eve were allowed some order: they named the animals.  But they were left without the knowledge of good and evil.  God made it so that they would experience the changes and chances of life spontaneously, without foreknowledge, without the ability to categorize and predict.  And so it was the Serpent that came to ruin the chaos that God wanted to protect in the life of Adam and Eve.  The snake pushed the system of the knowledge of good and evil on them.  All of a sudden, Adam and Eve saw and understood the chaos that surrounded them--and they began to worry and fret and fear.  They began to protect themselves, to guard themselves from the uncertainty of nature, the uncertainty of the future.  In trying to protect themselves, they gradually lost their trust in God.  God’s only recourse was to throw them out of the Garden--because all of a sudden, they could handle more disarray (more chaos) and in a way, they needed more chaos to remain the creatures that God had made them.

We all live outside of Eden, where chaos is more vigorous.

But just as our first parents encountered God wandering around the garden, coming unannounced, we here and now, still happen upon God in our wanderings and in the things that interrupt our lives.  Chaotic times help us to see that God is still there, beside us, that God is still looking for us.  Chaotic times remind us of what--who--is our true mainstay.

Right now, in my chaotic life, God is present to give me peace, and to help me sort things out.  God helps us through the changes to which he calls and draws us.

And when the time comes, that I have settled into organization and routine...well, God will come again.  For he will not suffer me to stagnate, but will brood over me so that I will become living, moving waters.

This is why Jesus came.  To show us that we don’t need to be afraid of change and chaos.  To show us that we were not created to be bound by systems and order, but were made to be free-flowing rivers of grace and love that move across the face of the Earth.  Jesus was God’s single most chaotic act.  Ever.  God becoming human?  That doesn’t fit...it doesn’t even fit into the orderly system of logic.  And when Jesus came, he disputed with the authorities, he broke the natural laws of disease and medicine, and ultimately Jesus demonstrated that, with God, life and death don’t come in that order.  No, death gives way to life.  That one event, that one fact, has created quite a commotion the last two thousand some years.  It created chaos enough for God to enter into our lives and hearts, and the lives and hearts of our children and down the generations.

God gives us what we need.  What we need is usually the opposite of what we have, or have had: stability in chaos; commotion in stagnation (cacophony in monotony; passion in placidity).  God wishes to create in us balance.  The fine, intricate balance that life requires.


God is still moving.  God is still doing new things.  And we have the task and the utter joy to follow.  

I am glad that my life is chaos right now, for it has given me the occasion to see that the only thing that is steadfast is God.

Thanks be to God for that!

Pastor  Ryan