The Restoration Project

by Christopher H Martin

  In our own efforts to stand firm against a corrupting world, we can't be so freeze-dried. In fact, we are called to just the opposite. As former Archbishop of Canterbury and theologian Rowan Williams has put it, "a Christian is called to have more exposed nerves, not less."47 Yet, like The Last Supper, we need to fend off the attacks and atmospheric pollution of a world that wants to cover and corrupt our beauty and truth, the image of God in which we were created. These last steps of humility teach, along with the prophet Isaiah, that "in quietness and trust shall be your strength" (30:15).

  So often greatness in life is about being strong and still. A perfect example is the shift in the character of Jacob, the great patriarch who had the dream that inspired Benedict to refine these twelve steps we are following. In the middle part of the book of Genesis, Jacob is a wily and engaging character, out for himself and his own gain. He outwits his brother and his employer, dreams a great dream, and finally wrestles with an angel. He is an active man, leading a life filled with adventure. At the end of his last major exploit, grappling with the divine figure, he is renamed Israel. In that moment, he becomes a true patriarch and so exists no longer for himself alone but for the nation he must father.

  As the story moves forward, Jacob shifts to a supporting role. He may be secondary to the action, but he is essential as a deliverer of blessing. The experience of fatherhood has stripped Jacob of his prideful attitude, giving him more spiritual power, not less. Even as his eyes dim with age, at the very end of the book, he delivers blessing to his grandsons, Joseph's sons Ephraim and Manasseh, and gives a charge to his twelve sons, the founders of the twelve tribes of Israel. He exercises a firm and quiet authority. In these final steps, like Jacob, we are invited to be still, yet wise, loving, and strong.

  Step Nine:

  Being Quiet on Purpose

  controls his tongue and remains silent

  —THE RULE OF SAINT BENEDICT, 7:56

  North American culture will not give us silence or encourage stillness. We are a famously noisy and restless people. In this step, it will be helpful to draw firm boundaries and be purposeful about maintaining them. To begin, we should imagine the world in dualistic terms. On the one side are the forces of noise and on the other the powers of silence. For a time, we make a strong decision to side with silence.

  In our Christian tradition, any sense of sustained quiet is built on the foundation of a prayer practice. But once we have prayed for at least twenty minutes in the morning, we go out into a noisy world. So how do we keep silence? We need something like the beeper my friend Christopher carries with him. He is a glass artist and after years of working at the studio of the famous Seattle-based artist Dale Chihuly, he moved north to Bellingham to open his own studio. The heart of a glass studio is the furnace, which must be kept at an extremely high temperature all the time, even at night. Christopher carries a beeper that is set to go off if there is any loss of heat. He is electronically tied to the very thing that allows him to create. Similarly, we need to maintain some living connection throughout the day to our morning time of silence. One simple practice is to regularly cease all activity and look away from our task and, if we are alone, close our eyes. We need to give ourselves regular permission to be still. One solution: all smart phones come with a timer. It is a simple matter to close our doors, set the timer for five minutes, and then sit still with our eyes closed.

  But by choosing silence and stillness, we must know that we are choosing the losing side. In a room full of talking people, one person being quiet makes little difference. In a room full of quiet people, one person talking or making noise makes all the difference.

  Much of the practice of silence includes tactical retreats. I've discovered my car can be a relative cone of silence. I can choose not to turn on the radio, and so blow on the coals of silence and stillness left from my morning prayers. But even this is not sacrosanct. For many months, I've had a jarring experience at my local Shell station, which is the only gas station between my home and my work. A few years ago, they installed TV screens on the gas pumps and so my oasis of silence would be disrupted by an actor pretending to be my friend. "How ya' doin'? It's good to see ya'. Thanks for droppin' by."

  There is often no way to stop such interruptions. I even asked the gas station, but the manager said TV was corporate policy. I spent a long time being irritated but slowly developed defensive tactics. There's no way to avoid the first phrase; the screen kicks into life as soon as you squeeze the handle on the nozzle. But because the TVs are designed so that they don't talk over the TVs at the nearby pumps, I can quickly take a few steps away and move myself beyond the range of talk-show news, sports and entertainment hooks, and advertising. I'm free to look at the ground or a tree and be still.

  Another tactic in the battle for silence is to contribute less noise. The average American says about 16,000 words a day. Very few of us are called to the kind of radical denial that some monks promise when they take a vow of silence. Conversely, very few of us are called to speak more words on average than we already do. I have not found it easy to speak less but doing so could be a worthy goal. It is no easier than making the decision to suddenly eat less. Food diets are notoriously difficult to keep and maintain. The same is true with a diet of words.

  One trick I have found useful is to remember a simple story from the early desert fathers and mothers. "It was said of Abbot Agotho that for three years he carried a stone in his mouth until he learned to be silent."48 At times, I simply imagine that I have a stone in my mouth. I feel the texture and weight of it and make room for the imaginary stone in my mouth. If I set the stone in my mouth before I enter a room or when I am in transition from one project to another, I am more likely to hesitate before I speak, not out of fear or anxiety, but out of a respect for silence. Benedict teaches that "there are times when good words are to be left unsaid out of esteem for silence" (THE RULE OF SAINT BENEDICT, 6:2).

  In the way of Benedict, every event is to be greeted first with silence. This is because if we aren't barging into a situation with pre-prepared words we are more likely to receive what is actually before us. A strong, alert silence creates a space like a womb within our hearts. We can allow the world to plant a seed in us and then from great creativity and spontaneity, speak the right next word or take the right next action. As Benedictine abbot Simon O'Donnell puts it, "The word of another is wedded to the silence of my heart, and in that union right words are born. And from that union words are given to another as a fitting gift, not as my interpretation of what is needed."49

  The mark of a mature Christian is to confidently follow a clear call. To follow a call, we must be able to listen. To listen, we must first be quiet so that we can hear. This means not only, as in step three, sacred obedience to a vocational call, but also developing the capacity to listen in every moment of our days. One of the practices in Ignatian spirituality is a trained indifference of the will so that, in every moment, we are free to choose that thing which will bring the most glory to God. A Benedictine quality of silence can bring us to a similar place of being in the moment, quietly listening for God's subtle yet ever-present call.

  Step Ten:

  Being Quiet from Our Depths

  not given to ready laughter

  — THE RULE OF SAINT BENEDICT, 7:59

  The disciplines of protecting a place of quiet and of speaking less are the outer practices. What we hope to gain is a sense of inner quiet. For Saint Benedict, there is no greater enemy of inner quiet than a tendency to laugh too easily. Throughout his Rule he uses two Latin words in implicit contrast: gravitas and risus. The word gravitas has migrated into English usage and means what you probably expect—a seriousness of purpose, a person of substance. The word captures well the affect of one who has climbed the ladder of humility. When Pope Paul VI visited the motherhouse of the Benedictines in 1964, for example, he observed the "elegant gravity of the (children) of Benedict."50 I find that if I reflect on the character and actions of
those humble people whom I most admire, "elegant gravity" captures much of what is most beautiful and compelling about them.

  Gravitas also has a specific use in our understanding of silence and speech. Words that emerge from a practice of stillness and silence tend to be given their proper weight. They are not always heavy words, which the word gravity implies; instead, the few words spoken by a person with gravitas land in the world as they were intended to land, whether they are a light-hearted jest or a loving but serious admonition. Words emerging from silence are not flippant or ill-considered.

  Risus means laughter and, according to O'Donnell, means the exact opposite of gravitas.

  It takes a situation or a word without giving any seriousness or appropriateness in response. Indeed, risus could be to sneer or mock, to be ribald or boisterous, and worse—to put oneself forward loudly without any consideration of who is speaking or what is being said.51

  Many people find Benedict's repeated admonitions against laughter to be the least appealing part of the text of the Rule. Taken to extremes, it would seem to make monastic communities dry and humorless places. Benedict was a sober man, certainly, but his warnings against laughter have been consistently interpreted in such a way as to preserve joy, not to kill it.

  Most of us have experienced the life-giving power of laughter. Some of our most joyful memories probably include laughter shared with family and friends. We know in our bones that good laughter is one of the key components of a healthy life. For a long time, a retirement home close to my church had a woman come in once a week who laughed professionally. The home would gather all the least communicative residents, those with Alzheimer's, dementia, and other assorted afflictions, in a room. The woman would begin with a little chuckle and slowly build up to a gut laugh, never using words. After a time, the entire room would be filled with the laughter of those who otherwise could no longer communicate. Laughter has the capacity to give life.

  Yet laughter has its dark side, a darkness of which Benedict is acutely aware. Benedict and experience have taught that laughter has the potential to destroy community by excluding and belittling others either intentionally or unintentionally. If we are called to be in community with people very different from ourselves, these differences will inevitably cause tension and discomfort. We must be very careful not to relieve our own anxieties and fears by laughing at or about others.

  Laughter can also be, like rage, an expression of a sharply disruptive emotion. It is rare that our laughter emerges from a place of deep stillness or silence. More often it comes from our sharper emotions of anxiety, fear, or even the peaks of joy. I believe, as Benedict apparently does not, that laughter has a good and healthy place in a well-rounded Christian life. But, like Benedict, I believe it is essential to be aware of the cruel potential in thoughtless laughter. As a goal, a more appropriate expression of the steady joy of a mature Christian is a kind of angelic smile. As the figure of Dante travels through the celestial spheres in the Paradiso, the last part of the Divine Comedy, the souls he encounters bear smiles that are both warm and dazzling. One soul tells him that in God's will is their peace, and the smiles are the expressive confirmation of their peaceful joy.52 There's a famous sculpture of a smiling angel at the front portal of the Reims Cathedral in France. The angel has a smile so compelling and mysterious that it always seems to evoke a knowing smile in return. Part of the mystery of her smile is the deep sense of peace, restfulness, and silence from which it seems to emerge.

  Silence, a necessary source of our peace and joy, is not always easy to love. My current spiritual director, a Franciscan monk, had to go through six months of silence as a novice. He joked with me that, after a month, he felt like shooting everyone around him—and after two, he felt like shooting himself! Too much silence early on can be difficult and even demoralizing. These are the higher steps because we first have to establish good habits, achieve a proper self-perception, and have some of our sin stripped away before we can rightly perceive and love the gift of silence.

  When I first arrived at St. Paul's, I introduced the practice of a full minute of silence after the sermon. At first, I could hear the discomfort. The congregation was used to perpetual movement in the worship service so the pause for stillness was disorienting. I got some complaints. But within a few months, the community settled into the new rhythm, and it is one of the most treasured parts of the service.

  Several times I have led silent retreats. Every time there are people who sign up with trepidation and even fear; they have never been in silence before and are uncertain what to expect. When I lead such a retreat, I always make it clear that for much of the time, I will be in a certain room where all are invited to come in and talk should the need arise. Although the offer is always appreciated, no one has ever taken advantage of it for the purpose of merely relieving the silence. Further, the very people who express the greatest fear going into the retreat are often the ones at the end who tell me they wish the retreat had been longer. After their initial fears were allayed, they found a home in silence.

  Contemporary spiritual writer Maggie Ross has said that "we harbor a homesickness for silence that we hide even from ourselves.'53 I believe this is true and that this desire is closely aligned with our often hidden hunger for God. In step four, cultivating patience, we learned to shift our sense of time to include both kairos and chronos. Here in step ten, we make a similar shift in our sense of language. We are invited to believe that silence is God's first language and the rest is only translation.

  Silence is an odd word. It doesn't mean merely a lack of noise but involves a quality of stillness and concentration. Something like the land of sheer silence can be imagined if we think of one common practice for dropping into silence, which is to repeat a phrase from Psalm 46 five times, "be still... and know that I am God"—each time dropping a phrase or word.

  Be still and know that I am God. Be still and know that I am. Be still and know. Be still. Be. It is like a ramp that gently leads a boat into the waters of silence.

  In silence we gradually return to a home from which we hardly knew we strayed. Anxious and hurtful laughter now fall away not because of some exterior command but because we have entered into a place of quiet and trust beyond anxiety and fear.

  Step Eleven:

  Being Quiet and Gentle

  speaks gently

  — THE RULE OF SAINT BENEDICT, 7:60

  In our struggle against the world of noise, we will need allies. Like many mediocre tennis players, the quality of my game is changed by the quality of my opponent. With a mediocre opponent, I am usually a poor to mediocre player with an occasional flash of high school varsity. When I play with a good player, an observer might actually think I know what I'm doing. Likewise, it is sensible for us to seek others who can draw us into the beautiful world of healthy silence and so help us find pathways into peace.

  My teacher of silence was my first spiritual director, Brother Paul Wessinger, SSJE. When I first met Paul, I was disappointed. I had read various accounts of spiritual direction that made it sound like high adventure, wrestling with inner demons and being sent on great missions to change the world. I was hoping for a dynamic person who would help me, like the young Jacob, dream great dreams and wrestle with angels. Instead, I found a very simple-seeming old man who often asked me mundane and polite questions. Although he was always alert, he never probed.

  It took me some time to realize Paul's quiet gift. The man was clear-eyed, kind, and unflappable. Although I rarely came to a stunning insight when I was with him, I always left with a deeper sense of calm and acceptance. Paul saw me as myself and loved me despite my many flaws and blind spots. Over time, I got to know others who also knew and loved Paul. I learned that his wisdom and kindness came from many sources, not the least of which were his own interior struggles. But perhaps the greatest source of Paul's lively humility was his genuine love of silence.

  Once, when in retreat, I went to the chapel a little early fo
r evening prayer. Paul was there alone. I sat down across from him and was slowly captivated by his stillness. His head was tilted and his body was at an angle. He was looking at the floor with his mouth slightly open, in a way that reflected not vacancy but attention. We sat together in the room for about ten minutes. I was still and silent in his attentive quiet. After dinner we met for a brief session of spiritual direction, and I commented on the silence. He smiled a knowing smile and with a twinkle in his eyes, said, "Yes, isn't it wonderful?"

  My own experiences of Paul were reinforced years later when I read an account of how he helped a friend. The friend wrote,

  I was in the greatest personal pain that I had ever known, the pain complicated by a deep sense of shame. It was something I felt I could not talk about, even with Paul. He was visiting us in Illinois on his way to his mother's 90th birthday celebration, staying at our home. It was a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon. He and I were alone after church, sitting by a fire. Because I could not speak of what was on my heart, I was soon silent, unable to chat about trivialities. For what seemed to me hours, Paul simply sat there in silence with me. It made me appreciate for the first time how time and space have a different value for monastics. It also made me realize more deeply the compassion of Jesus, who like Paul can simply sit silently, being present to someone in pain and shame—present in a love deeper than words.54