The Power of Silence

by Robert Cardinal Sarah,

  After his conversion, Saint Augustine, too, would discover this Presence of God hidden in the inmost depths of every man. In his Confessions, he writes these magnificent lines: “Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new; late have I loved Thee! For behold Thou wert within me, and I outside; and I sought Thee outside and in my unloveliness fell upon those lovely things that Thou hast made. Thou wert with me and I was not with Thee. I was kept from Thee by those things, yet had they not been in Thee, they would not have been at all.”

  In a great, thoroughly erudite book, Saint Grégoire le Grand: Culture et expérience chrétiennes, Bishop Claude Dagens writes:

  And so in converting, Saint Augustine made a twofold discovery. First of all, he understood why he had lived until then in sin: his error had consisted in letting himself be distracted from himself, drawn by carnal lusts, dominated by exteriority. This way could not lead to God because—and this is the second discovery, which complements the first—God is a reality that is profoundly interior to man, and, consequently, man can find him only by not going out of himself, by not giving in to the fascination of exteriority, and by converting to interiority. Of course, Saint Gregory the Great had no experience of sin or conversion comparable to Saint Augustine’s. It is all the more significant to observe how close his concept of sin is to that of the author of the Confessions: for both writers, the soul lives in sin when it goes out of itself and becomes the prey of the seductions of the external world, of this wicked, adulterous generation. The path that leads to God is the path of interiority.

  The silent apostasy of which Saint John Paul II spoke has turned into a militant apostasy. In our relativistic societies, no one acknowledges any more that he is a sinner. Sin and repentance have become traumatizing states of soul from which one must be liberated so as to be able to enjoy good spiritual health. We consider ourselves victims of our heredity, of our environment, or of circumstances. Men no longer want to see themselves as anything but fragile, wounded persons. The impression is given that sin no longer exists; adultery, divorce, cohabitation are no longer to be considered serious sins. They are failures or stages along the way to a distant ideal. Who worries about the invasion of hedonism and moral laxism, of barbaric disdain for women, who are exploited as sex objects by pornography and prostitution? Nevertheless, “If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just, and will forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us” (1 Jn 1:8-10). Why is the posthumanist world no longer willing to acknowledge sin? Sin is not an abstract reality or a stain on a garment. It is the rejection of God’s law, opposition to God. Sin is a breach of an alliance, the deterioration of our personal relationship with God. Sin is self-destructive, comparable to a person who ruins himself by drug abuse or taking poison. Nevertheless, God does not want us to destroy something important in ourselves or in others; sin displeases him and painfully offends him. God calls us to conversion and to a radical rejection of sin. If we experience a genuine conversion of heart, after the example of Saint Paul and Saint Augustine, we will really be able to touch the silent presence of God in our life. In the Confessions, Saint Augustine calls this Presence the Life of his life: “When once I shall be united to Thee with all my being, there shall be no more grief and toil, and my life will be alive, filled wholly with Thee.”

  How could we live without God? His Presence in us is terrifying, unsettling, but life-giving, sweet, and calming at the same time. It is distant, because of our sins, and close because of God’s infinite mercy. It is frightening, because it burns and consumes us like a charring fire, but it embraces us tenderly like a Father.

  NICOLAS DIAT: In a charterhouse, how do the monks learn to tame silence, to get past their failures when silence becomes impossible, and simply not to fear silence?

  DYSMAS DE LASSUS: I will start with the last part of your question; I would say that someone who fears silence will not remain with us. The uneasiness does not come from the silence itself but about what it reveals. A retreatant comes to a charterhouse in order to encounter God, and he begins by encountering an unexpected person: himself. The surprise is not particularly pleasant.

  Let us suppose you have a rather gloomy room and that you are not a specialist in orderliness or sweeping. Since you do not consider it a big deal, it does not bother you too much. But now a guest has the unfortunate idea of turning on a very powerful floodlight. The spectacle becomes embarrassing. . . When a candidate comes to make a retreat with us, many memories rise again to the surface. They have been in him for a long time, covered up by the noises of life. When the commotion stops, he can no longer escape, and he understands that the silence and solitude of the cell that he perceived as a place of rest are also a place of trial where he will have to face the most difficult combat: the battle with himself.

  It is a matter of taming the menagerie that lives inside us if we want the wild animals to be able to leave us in silence some day. Exterior silence, the silence of the house itself and the silence of the lips, is part of the itinerary. It is prescribed in our Statutes. The simple experience of constantly being quiet strikes an invisible chord within us. In the act of being quiet together, there is a very rich dimension, the tangible expression of our common quest to maintain a dialogue with God. It is a matter of respecting the other’s silence. The apprenticeship of this external level is completed with time. We learn to give meaning to silence.

  But the more difficult task is interior silence. In the cell, or during prayer, the big noises of the soul can be unleashed. Mental games, thoughts, and emotions are happy to come distract us from our prayer. In the etymological sense, it is a noise that comes to tear us apart and separate us from one another. What are these distractions? If we look closely, we observe that it is always an imaginary dialogue. We speak to persons about this or that subject. . .

  The silence of the lips requires a bit of willpower; interior attention, in silence, to what is dwelling within us, requires long work—a genuine taming process, to repeat the word that you used.

  The apprenticeship of silence requires that we rest in the Lord’s presence. It is a matter, not of struggling against our interior thoughts, but rather of unceasingly returning to God. Distractions are formidable because we do not see them coming and before we realize it they have led us away! The movement of returning to God, as soon as we notice that we have strayed, shows that our intention has not changed: to be with him. Really there is one aspect of the work, which has to be started over again and again indefinitely, that consists of letting oneself be drawn. But the essential thing is contributed by the Lord. We work in one part of the garden, but the true germination is God’s gift. The saying by Isaac of Nineveh is correct: “God led his servant into the desert to speak to his heart; but only the one who keeps listening there in the silence perceives the breath and the light breeze in which the Lord manifests himself. At the beginning it takes an effort in order to be quiet, but if we are faithful, little by little, something is born of our silence that attracts us to more silence.” We know that this “something”, whose contours I could not define, is in reality “Someone” who draws us more and more into his mystery.

  When the monk enters into the depths of solitude, and his desire to be with God is sufficiently strong, silence really becomes a privileged way.

  ROBERT SARAH: Authentic silence, in other words, exterior and interior silence, the absolute silence of the imagination, memory, and will, plunges us into a divine milieu. Then our whole being belongs to God.

  It is necessary, however, to acknowledge that silence is difficult. It scares us. It gives us a greater awareness of our helplessness and awakens a certain fear of our isolation in the presence of the invisible God. Silence awakens the anxiety of confronting the bare realities that are at the bottom of our soul. Our interior temple is often so ugly that we prefer to live on the outside
of ourselves in order to hide in worldly devices and noises. But the moments of silence lead infallibly to profound decisions, wordless decisions, a gift of my inmost “self”. Conversions take place silently and not in spectacular gestures. Returning to God, burying oneself in him, this total gift, these moments of intimacy with God are always mysterious and secret. They involve an absolute silence, a formidable discretion. I think that it is really necessary to practice silence.

  In my life, I was initiated into silence during my years at seminary. There were obligatory times of silence. But it is necessary to consent joyfully, to welcome them as precious, privileged moments for building up our interior life. Indeed, the priest’s vocation and mission is to stand constantly facing a silent God, whose heart nonetheless watches, listens, and reshapes us in his likeness so that we might “be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the first-born among many brethren” (Rom 8:29). During this period of formation, I quickly realized that unless there is a very strong discipline that consists of desiring to encounter God, silence is difficult and nothing urges you to seek it diligently. In fact, silence is an elevator that allows us to encounter God, on one level after another.

  Monasteries, charterhouses in particular, are special silent ways of gaining access to God. But silence must also shape the souls of seminarians and priests.

  NICOLAS DIAT: Could we then speak about a spiral of silence?

  DYSMAS DE LASSUS: Man can notice these spirals in any loving relationship that goes a certain distance. At the beginning, speech rules; there is so much to discover about the other person. With time, silent presence becomes increasingly prevalent. It is enough to be together because a look expresses more than words do. The same trend is found in our relationship with God. Like any relationship, it has a history, it develops. Isaac of Nineveh, in the text I just quoted, expressed it as follows: “Little by little, something attracts us to more silence”, which implies, in fact, a new mode of relationship. It all happens as with a book: in order to uncover a new page, you have to turn—and therefore hide and, in a way, abandon—the preceding one.

  With God, this movement has no end, since he is infinite. The divine intimacy that overwhelmed us gives way little by little to a kind of dissatisfaction; we hear something like a call to go farther but without knowing in what direction. Everything happens as though the Lord stopped showing up at our appointment with him; or, more precisely, we are the ones who no longer show up. We stayed at the same place, while the Lord walked farther on. At this stage, it is necessary to give something up in order to listen for the signs that he is giving, like a child lost in the forest who listens in the utmost silence so as to have a chance to hear a voice that would give him some indication of what direction to take.

  In a beautiful passage about the prayer of the heart, Dom André Poisson relates how, before entering a charterhouse, he had found “a little spring that established between my heart and God an infinitely profound, true bond”. And then one day, much later, he had a doubt and realized that this little spring was not God, whereas he thirsted for him alone. Dom André understood that he had to abandon his dear spring in order to “find the means, the attitude of heart, by which I would open the door directly to him who had been knocking in vain for so long, because in my prayer I was primarily concerned with myself.” The little spring of Dom André was certainly good and precious, but only for a time, and he was not to stop there. Like a hiker who discovers some marvelous scenery; he will stop so as to enjoy it for a long time. But the moment comes when he must get back on the road again for other even more beautiful surprises.

  This is the reason for these alternations that seem to be a spiral. In order to discover a new relationship, a new language, the one we know must be quiet. It takes a lot of silence and attention to discover the new music to which we are not accustomed.

  The major obstacle, generally, comes from our tendency to stand still as long as we have a system that works. Our heart, accustomed to a certain relationship with God, is reluctant to change in order to enter into a new relationship; nevertheless, the Lord is impatient to make progress. Then he goes on ahead in order to oblige us to set out again on the road.

  NICOLAS DIAT: The Christian God is a hidden God. This is one of the great mysteries of Providence as it governs the world. It is also one of the aspects of life here on earth that prevents people from believing: this famous Deus absconditus . . .

  DYSMAS DE LASSUS: It is important to quote the statement by Saint Paul: “The creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God” (Rom 8:19). We do not yet know what we are and what we will be.

  In the day-by-day course of the world, God’s silence is a very impressive phenomenon. How are we to understand the meaning of this absence? It is certainly easier to comprehend in our personal life.

  Man, as a creature, is marked by an ontological selfishness. An infant who is born has consciousness only of himself. Initially he perceives his mother as an extension of his own person. We all started by being solipsists! Gradually, through frustration, the baby ends up understanding that his mother is another person. Several stages and some years later, he will arrive at a love that is at first prompted by self-interest but finally gratuitous.

  In a parallel way, in the spiritual life we must travel an immense distance. It is necessary to go from total selfishness to sacrificial love that is no longer focused at all on self, in the image of God’s own great love. This is the progress of the smallest creature toward the infinity of heaven. . . Such an evolution would normally take an extremely long time. But everything happens as though God were in a hurry. Therefore, we should not be surprised if this accelerated course is rather rough. Life is too short to complete such an important journey! If you look at it from the perspective of eternity, our life is only a brief instant. But that does not prevent us from feeling that it is long, especially if one is suffering. Let us keep this difference in mind; it will help us to understand. When we have gone over to God’s side, we will see things just as he does. Jesus explained this: A woman who is giving birth is in pain because her hour has come. But when the infant is born, she no longer remembers her suffering, because she is happy that a child is born into the world (Jn 16:21).

  On this earth we have the unique opportunity to love God while he is hidden from our eyes and ears. Faith is not granted in the light because that dazzling splendor is reserved for eternity. But when the time comes for him to reveal himself fully, our joy will be eternal for having loved him thus without seeing him. Jesus had said to his disciples: “You are those who have continued with me in my trials; as my Father appointed a kingdom for me, so do I appoint for you that you may eat and drink at my table in my kingdom, and sit on thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel” (Lk 22:28-30). And as for him: “Was it not necessary that the Christ should suffer these things and enter into his glory?” (Lk 24:26). It is the same with those who are invited to follow him by taking up their cross.

  It may be heavy and terrifying, but Saint Paul reminds us that “God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your strength” (1 Cor 10:13).

  Let us remain humble when we speak about someone else’s suffering. Only the one who has truly suffered has the right to speak. In Le Heurtoir [The door knocker], Paul Claudel wrote: “God did not come to do away with suffering; he did not even come to explain it. He came to fill it with his presence.” I would add: he came to share in it, and this mystery, which is engraved on the risen body of Jesus, will always remain a source of joy and wonder. Psalm 116 says: “What shall I render to the Lord for all his bounty to me?”

  ROBERT SARAH: I agree with Dom Dysmas’ insight. True love is not necessarily visible. God is true love. He is a consuming fire that cannot be extinguished, so passionately does he love us through the mystery of the Cross. He is Deus absconditus, the invisible, hidden God. But at the same time he made himself visible in his Son, “through whom he created the ages. He reflect
s the glory of God and bears the very stamp of his nature, upholding the universe by his word of power” (Heb 1:2-3). He is therefore close to us. In our materialistic societies, we always think that what is true has to be tangible and immediate. But God’s love is veiled in silence, suffering, death, in the tortured, ruined flesh of Jesus who is dying on the Cross.

  The prophet Elijah would have loved to see the face of God. This is also the desire and the religious anxiety most deeply anchored in the heart of every person. But one cannot see God without dying of fright, astonishment, and wonder. Nevertheless, God could not leave us alone without satisfying such a profound human desire. According to the Letter to the Hebrews, when the time was fulfilled, God hid himself behind the face of a little infant. Majesty chose vulnerability. The Infinite accepted the Cross and the greatest humiliation, because self-emptying is the expression of love.

  Man would like to possess an immediate comprehension of God. But the Father is hidden behind a veil, and we will not be able to remove the mystery completely until after our death.

  By his silence, God wants to give us an opportunity to go beyond merely human love so as to understand divine love.

  NICOLAS DIAT: How can a Carthusian understand the unfathomable mystery of God’s silence, given the atrocities that are committed every day right before our eyes? In Iraq and Syria, children are mutilated, violated, sold, reduced to slavery, crucified, and God does not say a word? The Islamic State’s policy of extermination is unleashed against the Christians of the Near East, and the God of love seems absent?

  DYSMAS DE LASSUS: May I first broaden the question? The current genocide of babies with Down Syndrome in the West is no less tragic, and I am not sure that it is less barbaric; it is only less visible. In these circumstances, which affect both East and West, I think that we must meditate on the Book of Job. In his certainty that he has the right to do so, Job goes so far as to provoke God to judgment. What is God’s response? God simply tells Job that he cannot understand, but he takes part in his revolt and says that he is right. At the end of the book he addresses Job’s friends as follows: “You have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has” (Job 42:8).