Some Words In The Silence
Photo by davide ragusa on Unsplash
Photo by davide ragusa on Unsplash
I woke this morning to the pounding rain.
The tap-tap-tap of droplets on the skylight in the bathroom, disorienting and worrisome before coffee, faded into a pleasant arrhythmia. I made a vain attempt to clear my head clear of cobwebs.
I’ve kept track of the days since our family entered “stay at home” status during this COVID-19 season. Today I wrote “Day 49.” I glared at the ink on the page.
It’s just ink, you know. Chemical components that come together to form reminders, signatures, and the endearments of a birthday card. Just ink. But ink in the form of a number like “49” feels different. Ominous, even.
Could we ever have imagined these long days? This kind of chaos? The spiritual life of a person in pandemic will be a point of study for years going forward, but at the moment I can say this:
We are ever faithful and ever troubled as the numbers press towards 50 and beyond.
Our sump pumps – yes, plural – launched in alternating cycles. When our house was built apparently two pumps were needed. I have no idea why. But on days like this when the rain continues to pound from the deep dark of night to the new light of dawn, I’m grateful for them.
Let the rain come. Let it fall and in one turn both water the earth and flood our normal plans and schemes.
As I sat down with my coffee, an invitation came. The sump pumps fired, the rain fell, and the inky spectre “49” stared back at me. A quiet inclination rose in the midst of it all.
It was an invitation to silence.
During this pandemic, the level of sound – statements, statistics, and at worst posturing – is nearly deafening. Without our standard rhythms of work and recreation, we are far more aware of this sound and its anxious wailing.
But in some ways, the sound is also comforting.
The statistics become a way of managing what we believe is going on in the world. Percentages rise and we feel the impending dread. When they fall, we begin to see a flicker at the edge of this seemingly impenetrable night.
People in Illinois where I live are taking the time to tune into our governor’s daily 2:30 PM press conference. My in-laws keep the 2:30 hour as a standing date with the governor, actually. We want to hear the words that inform, hoping that somehow we’ll find something to manage or navigate this time.
So with coffee steam rising and the unseen noise swirling on my devices via social media and news outlets, there came an invitation to silence.
Silence is that space where we intentionally eliminate the noise that manages our lives.
The distinction is important – there is a kind of noise that is natural, pleasing even. The creaking of our house in the prairie wind, the consistent whirr and thump of a sump pump – these sounds are the comings and goings of life itself.
But there aresounds we use to manage the world. We choose our words carefully, sometimes out of love but other times out of a desire to impress or persuade. We need our words to move the world in the direction of our wants and needs.
In silence, we cannot manipulate the world. We let go of words and immediately realize what their absence leaves behind: The sound of our own voice, that inner voice that is the co-mingling of our desire for a kingdom of our own and the Kingdom that is out of our hands, finally rises to the surface.
Given this mixture, we may not like what we hear in the silence.
In fact, part of the reason we surround ourselves with noise is because the inner voice of the Spirit presents far too much challenge for us to handle.
We want words that minimize our restlessness, not ones that extend and deepen it.
The words we choose sustain an empire of performance and recognition. Without it, who would we be?
More specifically, when it comes to COVID-19 we want words that tell us that everything will be normal again. Our deep desire is to wake up to hear words – miracle words – that the “curve” now looks more like Kansas than Appalachia.
In the silence, we surrender the words because we are there to surrender the outcomes.
So I sat for a bit in the new day’s quiet today. I listened. When distracting thoughts came, I took a deep breath in (I accept this distraction) and then a long slow exhale (the distraction will wait).
The invitation to silence in the midst of chaos seems like an invitation to self-destruction. To be without our “working words” to manage reality is to walk naked into the open spaces of the heart.
We see what desires are truly there.
The recognition slowly comes that though we say we hold a particular position, in truth we are managing the conversations around us.
Of course, there is wisdom in restraining our words. Our children don’t need to hear the full content of our hearts and opinions because they are still developing deep foundations.
But the challenge of silence is that we need to hear the deep and full content of our hearts.
We need to breathe it in, call it as it is, and accept that behind the words are things we would never speak.
I’ve taught a particular passage from Luke’s Gospel for years. In the passage, Jesus models the rhythm of work and rest – what I call “advance” and “retreat.”
In a sense, overwork is a kind of “over- speaking” – our extension beyond our capacity says volumes about our character.
In truth, those of us who choose to constantly advance and never retreat are the subject of wonderful words. Too often, those words are spoken at the premature funeral of our character or our bodies.
In Luke 5:16, Luke situates Jesus in the midst of a crowd. Many have come to be healed and restored. They came to him because he speaks the words of healing. The words follow Jesus, they build his reputation as one beyond the pale of other teachers and holy men.
In the chapters prior (3-4), Jesus speaks a great deal. Words of invitation, healing, correction, and wisdom flow out of Jesus like stream breaking its banks.
But in 5:16 we see this:
“But Jesus often withdrew to quiet places and prayed.”
The translation of “quiet places” could also be “desolate places” or “wild places.” In other words, places where you aren’t likely to run into anyone else. Places of isolation. These are places where words won’t work because they have no impact.
In a moment where Jesus could have solidified his reputation as a rock star celebrity holy wonder, he chose the wilderness. The wordless hills and gardens where, unseen, he listened to the voice beneath the noise.
My coffee cup was empty. Sunrise warmth flowed into the house. I switched off the lamp. Something of the silence lingered, that place where I couldn’t convince anyone of my worth or intelligence with my words. I hoped not to offend the silence or the One who met me there.
The voice in the silence said little, but it said enough. Spare words but great wisdom.
As we move into today, there are plenty of words on offer to us. We may have a social media post brewing or a link we want to share. The article or blog post we’ve cultivated is scratching the door – waiting to get out into the world.
But before you post…
Before you turn on the news stream or the social media app…
In advance of your afternoon date with your governor or political leader…
I invite you to go into the silence. Set the words aside – both yours and the words of others – and inhale the voice below the noise.
The Spirit of Jesus that woos at a near-imperceptible volume is the one that tells the truth about who you are. It tells the truth about what will happen in this time of suffering and insecurity.
More than that, it does not need our convincing words in order to tell the truth about the reality of life as it is.
The rain continues to pound and I press into the day. My hope is that even in the wordy world I may be able to stop.
To listen.
To hear the words beneath the words.
And let that be enough for today.