“[The Lord said to Elijah], Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord. Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.” 1 Kings, 19:11-12

My parish internship at St. David’s in West Seneca during the months before I was priested proved to be an invaluable experience.  Among other things, my duties involved assisting with Sunday worship, which included leading the Prayers of the People.  On one particular Sunday, I was so focused on all the various petitions I needed to include that I hurried past the rubrics at the beginning of Form VI which call for silence between each section.  After the service, Fr. John Paul Boyer took me to task for this omission in his sternest Oxford tones: “A word about the Prayers of the People: When the rubrics call for silence, I expect you to observe silence.”  Never be afraid of silence, he went on, and he explained that we’re often so uncomfortable with it that we fail to appreciate how vital it is to true worship. 

After that I became more conscientious about the role of silence in liturgy.  I began to realize how it allows us to center ourselves spiritually so that, like the prophet Elijah, we can allow God to speak to us in the stillness.

Silence can be oppressive or it can be liberating; it can take the form of “dead air,” to use a broadcasting term, or it can provide an opening for the Spirit to speak to us and inspire us.  We in the West tend to have a problem with silence.  Like the Russian czarina who famously insisted on surrounding herself with chattering ladies-in-waiting everywhere she went, we are forever immersing ourselves in a steady stream of noise in our homes, our cars, our restaurants workplaces, and even as we exercise or stroll through the park.  And this affects our prayer life as well.  We fail to appreciate that our attentive silence can be as meaningful as any of the beautifully composed prayers on the pages of our Prayer Book.

Little wonder that the architects of The Book of Common Prayer allow generous provision throughout for the place of

silence.  And for good reason: without that silence our prayers run the risk of becoming monologues instead of true communion with our Creator.  So often we think of prayer as the time in which we get to relate our needs and concerns to God, and we forget that it’s meant to be a two-way street.  We don’t stop talking long enough to give God a chance to respond.  I remember long ago a parishioner telling me that praying without listening is like asking your boss a question about a project, but then walking away just as he or she is about to open their mouth! 

“Silence,” one of my favorite Jesuit websites observes, “isn’t just the absence of noise. It’s something that can be felt: a space in which we can hear more deeply.  In stillness, we begin to notice not just the rustling of wind in the trees or the rhythm of our breath, but also the quiet voice of the soul.  Studies have shown that time spent in silence can lower stress, improve memory, and restore our cognitive resources.  But beyond the science, spiritual traditions around the world have long known what we are just starting to remember: silence is sacred.”

I remember one evening back when I was in seminary, towards the end of the semester, when I was feeling overwhelmed and anxious on account of various circumstances – fatigue, deadlines, finances, and so on – and finally I just sank into my chair, too tired even to pray.  Sit with me, Jesus, I pleaded silently.  Please just come and sit with me for a while.  And together we sat quietly together, and Jesus’ silent loving presence was a balm for my weary soul.

Many years ago, back in my choir days, during one of our rehearsals Elaine Gardner, our music director, made an observation about the wonderful way in which a particular composer employed silence.  The piece she was referring to was a choral arrangement of one of the psalms, and while I didn’t understand at first, I gradually came to perceive what she meant.  The silence had a music of its own: in the profound silences throughout the composition, the words of the psalmist resonated all the more eloquently.  A valuable lesson for us all, I thought, about how God speaks to us in the music of silence.