Sr. Joan Chittister in Illuminated Life says that "silence is that place just before the voice of God. It is the void in which God and I meet in the center of my soul."I once had something of an gentle argument with a teacher of philosophy as to whether you not silence can be heard. He said, "No': I said, "Yes." Now I suppose in the strictest sense of the word silence, you can't hear it if you take a reductionist point of view. After all, for a sound to be possible, there needs to be a sound-receptor: at least a human ear or something like an ear, perhaps some mechanical radar-receiver probing the universe, picking up the vibrations of the universe as they make their way to our earth. If there's no ear, there's no silence. So, I suppose, in times before life evolved far enough to have ears, before we were smart enough to invent instruments that detect sound vibrations, there was in fact no sound--unless you allow that the Most Holy Trinity, who creates sound, also listens to the sounds of his creation.
But apart from the "receptor-needed" debate, I am convinced that you can hear silence even without ears, even if you are stone deaf. From experience in quite solid silence (the silence of a cave interior, for example) you can mentally anticipate sound and so mark off and "box up" silence so as to experience and listen to silence in all its deepness. After all, just as I surely "hear" the four-beat "rest" or silence between two musical notes when listening to a symphany, I also hear a Great Silence when it comes along. But more importantly, I am also aware that in silence God genuinely manages to let us hear him (sometimes loudly). In silence we can hear God because, as St. John of the Cross says, "silence is the first language of God." Paradoxically, God speaks with silence. This is not to say that silence is God's only language. Certainly not. But before the Holy One speaks--especially in prophetic voices, in our thinking, in our consciences, and in our awareness of other people, and especially in Jesus--God enjoys speaking, chanting, and singing his silence and asks us to join him in his soundless sabbath resting.
When Christians take special care to enter God's silence, not only do we enjoy the benefits of living in God's first language, but at the same time we provide ourselves with an environment that gives God the oppportunity to surprise us when he does in fact speak. This is why many of us appreciate what has come to be known as a "contemplative Eucharist." When we gather together for a contemplative Eucharist, upon entering the room, we see people simply sitting or kneeling; they are breathing, thinking, praying, and waiting in silence. Some are quietly placing book marks or ribbons in their hymnals. Others are simply looking at the altar, icons, paintings, and other works on art in the sanctuary. Hardly anyone chats or carries on a conversation. Then, at the right time, the pastor or priest enters in silence and sits down to join everyone in the Great Quietness. After a while the Eucharist begins and words begin to be spoken. More silence is gathered up after the reading of lessons as quiet people sit, stand, and kneel, often to enjoy God's silent Presence. After the sermon, there is more silence. Throughout the Holy Communion, the sanctuary is again and again wrapped in silence.
What happens with so much silence is that God comes to us so that we can hear him with more awareness, both in the quietness, in spoken words, and in the reception of Jesus' body and blood in the Eucharist. The welcome silence is the open rest between our words and actions so that we listen more attentively and watch more carefully.
The gift of such silence encouages us to open ourselves to more and more silence in our daily lives. Perhaps to the practice of centering prayer. And more and more silence in our daily lives encourages us to gather together on Sunday to share God's first language as a community. Just so the silence accompanies us as God speaks his sometimes frightening, but always gracious Word. It's really quite a miracle.
ur being, like a motor in a car. It is our entire substantial reality itself, on its highest and most personal and most existential level. It is like life, and it is life: it our spiritual life when it is most alive. I t is the life by which everything else in us lives and moves. It is in and through and beyond everything that we are. If it is awakened, it communicates a new life to the intelligence in which it lives, so that it become a living awareness of itself: and this awareness is not so much something that we ourselves have, as something that we are. It is a new and indefinable quality of our living being.
