The Power of Silence

by Robert Cardinal Sarah,

  On Sundays and solemnities, and also on days specially set apart for recollection, they observe silence with special care and remain in cell. Likewise, every day from the evening Angelus to Prime, throughout the monastery should reign perfect silence, which the brothers may not break, unless in a case of true and urgent necessity; for, as appears from the examples of Scripture and the traditions of the monks of old, this time of the night is specially conducive to recollection and meeting with God.

  Let the brothers not presume to speak without permission to seculars who approach them, or to chat with them; they may merely return their greeting, as also that of those they happen to meet, and, if questioned, briefly respond and excuse themselves as not having permission for further speech with them.

  Observance of silence and interior recollection require special vigilance on the part of the brothers, since many occasions for speaking come their way; in this they cannot attain perfection, unless they diligently strive to live always in the presence of God.

  —Statutes of the Carthusian Order, Book II,

  Chapter 14, “Silence”

  NICOLAS DIAT: Why seek silence? In a letter to his Carthusian brothers, Saint Bruno writes: “Rejoice, therefore, my beloved brothers, over the lot of overflowing happiness that has fallen to you, and for the grace of God that you have received in such abundance. Rejoice that you have succeeded in escaping the countless dangers and shipwrecks of this storm-tossed world, and have reached a quiet corner in the security of a hidden harbour. Many would like to join you, and many there are also those who make a considerable effort to do so, but fail in their attempt. What is more, many are shut out even after having attained it, since it was not in the plan of God to give them this grace.” The first Carthusian often exhorted people to “abandon the fleeting shadows of this world”, the noises that were already distracting the minds and hearts of the men of the eleventh century. At the start of this extraordinary interview that gathers us at the Grande Chartreuse, can we review the origins of the desire for silence?

  ROBERT CARDINAL SARAH: The authentic search for silence is the quest for a silent God and for the interior life. It is the quest for a God who reveals himself in the depths of our being. Monks are well acquainted with this reality when they decide to leave the world and this “evil and adulterous generation” (Lk 11:29-32; Mt 12:39).

  No one advanced our knowledge about man in his most essential reality better than Saint Augustine. He reviewed his past with admirable precision. Augustine wanted to make his readers discover, in the inmost depths of the human being, the absence of God in sin, the need for God in anxiety, the coming of God in salvation, the presence of God in the life of grace. For him, knowledge about man leads to Being, to a God who is closer to us than we are to ourselves.

  Throughout his work, the author of the famous expression “Noverim me, noverim te” (Solil. 2, 1) proclaims that the knowledge of self and the knowledge of God are closely associated. To go in search of God is not to go out of oneself in order to find something in the outside world; on the contrary, it is to turn away from this world and to reflect on oneself. “Instead of going outside, enter into yourself; man’s heart is the place where truth dwells” (De vera religione 39, 72).

  “Here are men”, Saint Augustine says in the Confessions, “going afar to marvel at the heights of mountains, the mighty waves of the sea, the long courses of great rivers, the vastness of the ocean, and the movements of the stars, yet leaving themselves unnoticed” (Confessions X, 8, 15). They do not marvel at themselves.

  This is also the spiritual doctrine of Saint Gregory the Great. “Return to yourself, O man, and explore the seclusion of your heart” (Moralia 19, 8), he advises. In order to approach God, man must first know himself. In the Moralia, he declares that in order to be raised to the vision of God, the soul must first concentrate, recollect itself, and withdraw into itself.

  Man cannot hope to know God without having found himself, in other words, without having confessed in the presence of other men his good and evil actions for the praise of God. How can we not admire Augustine when he thunders: “Thou wert there before me, but I had gone away from myself and I could not even find myself, much less Thee” (V, 2).

  Silence is an extremely necessary element in the life of every man. It enables the soul to be recollected. It protects the soul against the loss of its identity. It predisposes the soul to resist the temptation to turn away from itself to attend to things outside, far from God.

  If man wants to become entrenched in the depths of his heart, in that beautiful interior sanctuary, in order to examine himself and to verify the Presence of God within him, if he wants to know and understand his identity, he needs to be silent and to win his interiority.

  How could it be possible to discover oneself in the midst of noise? A person’s clear-sightedness and lucidity about himself can mature only in solitude and silence. A silent man is all the more apt to listen and to stand in the presence of God. The silent man finds God within himself. For any prayer and any interior life, we need silence, a hidden, discreet life that prompts us not to think about ourselves. Silence, in important moments of life, becomes a vital necessity. But we do not seek silence for its own sake, as though it were our goal. We seek silence because we seek God. And we will find it if we are silent in the very depths of our heart.

  DOM DYSMAS DE LASSUS: Men consider silence to be the mere absence of noise and speech, but the reality is much more complex.

  The silence of a couple who are dining alone can express the depth of a communion that no longer needs words; on the other hand, they may no longer be capable of speaking to each other. The first silence is a silence of communion, and the second—a silence of rupture. Each of these two opposite forms conveys a very strong message; the first says: I love you. The second: Our love is over.

  How is this message transmitted? By looks, by gestures, and by the heart. The look of love, in the first case, the downcast look in the second, one expressing the desire for a deeper meeting, the other—the failure of the relationship.

  In this book, it goes without saying that we wish to speak about the silence of communion and about the riches it brings. Nevertheless, even within this silence, there is a great diversity. A person can keep quiet in order to listen and to receive everything conveyed by the other’s silence. He can keep quiet in order to say in some other way what does not belong to the language of words or because he is facing a reality that is too imposing to speak about.

  Is there not a silent dialogue between a mother and the child whom she bears? Sometimes she speaks to him, maybe she has already given him a name, but most often she simply feels him. I remember, during one annual visit of my family to the monastery, my sister was pregnant, and suddenly, in the middle of a conversation, she smiled a beautiful smile. Since the context did not explain it, I asked her: “Irene, why are you smiling?” She then answered me: “He is moving.” It was not necessary to ask who “he” was.

  I like this image of the pregnant woman because it nicely illustrates the question of interiority. There is no need for a lot of words; “he” is there, that is enough. When “he” means God, prayer is near, because adoration and silence are brother and sister.

  ROBERT SARAH: I agree completely. Likewise, how can a priest live apart from silence? Because of the great mystery of the Eucharist that he celebrates daily, he must devote a large part of his life to silence, from which the Canon ought to emerge, weighty with power and meaning. Holy Mass is the most sacred, most divine thing that he possesses. It must be surrounded with dignity, silence, and a sacral character. The [Divine] Office prepares us for it. All creatures are mute except the priest, who has the power to speak for all and in the name of all in the presence of the divine Majesty. The priest unites men to God in a few simple phrases that are divine words. He confronts mankind with God by the words of the consecration, in which he utters the very Word of the Father—he brings about the presence of the Word in time, in a sp
ecial incarnate, sacrificed state.

  The priest must know when to be quiet and when to speak. It is important to pray seven times a day, in order to praise God, to profess him at Holy Mass in the presence of men. The priestly dignity requires us to realize the importance of our words. Everything in the priest, body and soul, must proclaim the Glory of God. Speech is then more important than life or death: these words do not necessarily have to be loud on this earth, provided they make themselves heard in heaven. Above all, in order to nourish this speech, it is terribly important to remain silent.

  When? Nearly all the rest of the time. The narcissism of excessive speech is a temptation from Satan. It results in a form of detestable exteriorization, in which man wallows on the surface of himself, making noise so as not to hear God. It is essential for priests to learn to keep to themselves words and opinions they have not taken the trouble to meditate on, interiorize, and engrave in the depth of their heart. We must preach the Word of God and certainly not our petty thoughts! “For if I preach the gospel, that gives me no ground for boasting. For necessity is laid upon me. Woe to me if I do not preach the gospel!” (1 Cor 9:16). Now this preaching implies silence. Otherwise it is a waste of time—petty, sententious chatter. Spiritual exhibitionism, which consists of exteriorizing the treasures of the soul by setting them forth immodestly, is the sign of a tragic human poverty and the manifestation of our superficiality. We often speak because we think that others expect us to do so. We end up no longer knowing how to be quiet because our interior dike is so cracked that it no longer holds back the floods of our words. God’s silence, however, should teach us that it is often necessary to be quiet.

  True seekers of God always pass through the rooms of silence in order to get to the regions that bring us close to the divine habitations. The Grande Chartreuse is one of these rooms. Last night, during the Office in the monastery church, I was profoundly impressed by the silence. While the entire choir was plunged into darkness and was singing without the least bit of light, I thought that darkness was an extraordinary invention of God. It simplifies and unifies everything, concealing the differentiations, distinctions, rough spots, and accidental qualities that make the monks different from each other, submerging all distractions in the night. In that darkness where the only light shining filtered from the sanctuary, the symbol of the Real Presence, I became like the Carthusians, and nothing distinguished me from them. Only the eye of God perceived an unworthy black spot in the midst of those pure souls clothed in white. We felt as we do on the night of the Easter Vigil. But is not the whole Office a genuine Easter Vigil?

  Night envelops us during the whole Office; it hears us sing the psalms and the canticles of the three young men: “Bless the Lord, nights and days. . . , Bless the Lord, light and darkness. . . , Bless the Lord, ice and cold. . . , Bless the Lord, frosts and snows. . . , Bless the Lord, mountains and hills. . . , Bless the Lord, you springs” (Dan 3:47-55). In the dark silence, we sang the hymn of thanksgiving for the light that will be sent to us. And behold, Christ is here. He has come. He dwells among us. His silent Presence shines at the back of the Church through the sanctuary lamp, that burning bush that burns without being consumed by love for us. He descends into the depth of the night, gathering around him the poor, those who seek God, but also our Fathers in faith, the patriarchs and prophets, with the angels and all “who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night within his temple” (Rev 7:14-15).

  Night is maternal, delightful, and cleansing. Darkness is like a fountain from which the monks emerge washed and enlightened, no longer separated but united in the Risen Christ.

  DYSMAS DE LASSUS: You say that night is cleansing; I would say also that it is revealing. At night we are more aware of the noise in which we live, the thoughts that elude us and lead us in all directions. It is no different during the day, but we notice it less. Being silent with our lips is not difficult, it is enough to will it; being silent in our thoughts is another matter.

  We like to sing in darkness, despite the risks involved of making mistakes. Why? This is not easy to put into words. When the lights are lit, the books, the faces, everything is present and near, like a reality that can be grasped immediately. When the lights are extinguished and only the tabernacle lamp remains, our voices are there and, therefore, the One to whom they are addressed, yet he remains hidden. The night manifests the mystery. Night and mystery are blood brothers.

  For us the mystery is an intensely positive reality. We are like children who watch the ocean for the first time. Fascinated by what they see, they nevertheless guess that what is found beyond it far surpasses their gaze and even their imagination. They can simultaneously say that they have seen the ocean, that they know it, and that they have still to discover everything. When we are talking about that ocean without a shore, God’s infinitude, the mystery offers an endless overture to him whom we will never finish discovering. There are few words to describe such a fascinating reality. . .

  ROBERT SARAH: We must humbly acknowledge that it is difficult to speak about God. The [French] hymn for the Office of Readings on Wednesday of Week I says: “O You, who are beyond All, is that not all that we can sing about You? What hymn, what language can express You? No word expresses You. . . . You have all names, and how shall I name You, the only One who cannot be named?”

  Nevertheless, the psalmist is right when, tormented by the enemy and the difficulties of life, he cries out with all his strength:

  To you, O Lord, I call;

  my rock, be not deaf to me,

  lest, if you be silent to me,

  I become like those who go down to the Pit. (Ps 28:1)

  You have seen, O Lord; be not silent!

  O Lord, be not far from me!

  Bestir yourself, and awake for my right,

  for my cause, my God and my Lord! (Ps 35:22-23)

  O God, do not keep silence;

  do not hold your peace or be still, O God!

  For behold, your enemies are in tumult;

  those who hate you have raised their heads. (Ps 83:1-2)

  My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

  Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?

  O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer;

  and by night, but find no rest. (Ps 22:1-2)

  Rouse yourself! Why do you sleep, O Lord?

  Awake! Do not cast us off for ever!

  Why do you hide your face?

  Why do you forget our affliction and oppression? (Ps 44:23-24)

  In fact, God seems silent, but he reveals himself and speaks to us through the marvels of creation. It is enough to pay attention like a child to the splendors of nature. For nature speaks to us about God. Saint Augustine’s long search also passes by way of his look at the work of creation, as this passage from the Confessions testifies:

  I asked the earth and it answered, “I am not He”; and all things that are in the earth made the same confession. I asked the sea and the deeps and the creeping things, and they answered, “We are not your God, seek higher.” I asked the winds that blow, and the whole air with all that is in it answered, “Anaximenes was wrong; I am not God.” I asked the heavens, the sun, the moon, the stars, and they answered, “Neither are we God whom you seek.” And I said to all the things that throng about the gateways of the senses: “Tell me of my God, since you are not He. Tell me something of Him.” And they cried out in a great voice: “He made us.” My question was my gazing upon them, and their answer was their beauty.

  At the Grande Chartreuse, how can anyone not admire these beautiful tall mountains covered with snow! Look at their majestic beauty! They are a Word of God.

  Man himself is like the face of God, because he was created in the image of the Father. Psalm 8 says: “You have made him little less than the angels,” or, in some translations, “than God�
��, “and you have crowned him with glory and honor. You have given him dominion over the works of your hands” (Ps 8:5-6). Man is a silent, incarnate word of God. The moon, the stars, the sun, the sea, the firmament are the visible proof of the existence and omnipotence of God, who created them out of sheer love. These creatures are the powerful, mysterious voice of God. This new discovery of God through creation awakens an immense love in Saint Augustine.

  I know that no one has ever seen or heard God, except the One who comes in the name of God: he has seen the Father (cf. Jn 6:46). But I also know that he speaks to me every day in my inmost depths, and I hear him in the silence that gives rise to mutual listening, the desire for communion and love. God is a light that illumines and radiates noiselessly. His flame blazes, but its brilliance is silent. God shines and blazes like a sun. He burns like a furnace, but he is inaudible. This is why I think that it is important to allow ourselves to be inundated by God’s silence, which is a voiceless word.

  DYSMAS DE LASSUS: Everything in our relation to God is a paradox. The realities that are opposed in man are combined in him. Presence and absence overlap, as the poet Rainer Maria Rilke described it in a lovely stanza:

  One must be happy to find God

  For those who invent him out of grief

  Move too fast and search too little

  For the intimacy of his ardent absence.

  Voiceless speech or silent communion: these expressions underscore the ever-mysterious reality of the encounter with God. How could it be otherwise? When the infinite meets the finite, this meeting does not fit into our usual frameworks.