silence

 

Note: includes discussion of suicide.

Lectionary readings for Holy Communion today: Jeremiah 7.23-28 and Luke 11.14-23.

I have been thinking about silence of late. Silence, and listening. One of the things God says, repeatedly, through the prophets, is that the people don’t listen to him, when God cries out in the voice of the poor and those weighed down by heavy burdens. The more the world changes, the more it stays the same. In our age, we are trained, by social media—surely Orwellian double speak—to listen to shout down with counter-argument, rather than to understand another’s experience and meet them with compassion.

There is a silence that leads to life, and a silence that leads to death; and we must discern one from the other.

Here at St Nicholas’ Church this Lent, some of us have been sitting together in shared silence. This is a profound experience. I spend some hours every day alone at my desk, with no radio or music in the background. But this is not silence. Inside my head there is a running commentary, on what I am doing, on what I need to do next, and after that. Shared silence is a discipline of allowing the internal noise to be stilled, the mind to come to rest. Sitting with others in 20 minutes of shared silence on Tuesday night, I realised that my mind does not know how to rest. I understand the theological importance of rest; I gift rest to my body; but my mind does not know how to enter into rest. My mind is not a machine, that can be turned off and later on again. My mind is a creature—God’s good creation—that is stuck in a trauma response—for me that is to freeze, in hope that if I stay very still, the danger I sense will go away. But a frozen mind is not a mind at rest; it is a mind at constant high alert.

Shared silence is a discipline, a posture that opens us to the possibility of encountering God; and encountering, more deeply, others; and encountering, more truthfully, ourselves. Shared silence invites us to let go of the false self, the barriers we construct between us and others, which, eventually, come between us and the self we fear to acknowledge, because we cannot gaze upon ourselves with the depth of love with which God gazes upon us.

There is a silence that leads to life, and a silence that leads to death. Some days ago, a local teenage boy completed suicide in the park across the intersection from the church. His friends and classmates and their wider peer group have gathered where he died each day since, at the end of the school day, in small groups, leaving flowers and lighting candles. I have been deeply impressed by how they are caring for one another. And a recurring theme in the cards they have left is, we wish you had felt able to speak up; we would have supported you.

We wish you had felt able to speak up.

The silence we freely choose leads to life. The silence that feels imposed upon us, by the world around us, the shape of society, by an exercising of control we might even call demonic, leads to death. In some cases, tragically, in a literal sense.

The perhaps counterintuitive thing is that shared silence may help us to listen more attentively, carefully, compassionately, when another person does speak up. Because we have disciplined ourselves not to cut them up, not to speak over them.

As the local church, we need to hold safe space for shared silence—safe space, because to enter into silence, letting go of the noise that distracts us, is a deeply vulnerable posture. And we need to hold safe space for being listened to, where people can find a voice to say, ‘This is what I am burdened with right now.’

Our young people need such safe spaces, as do our senior citizens, and anyone in between. Spaces where we might experience the freedom that God, who has made himself known to us in the face of Jesus Christ, longs for us to know.

I have been thinking about silence of late. Silence, and listening.