Reclaiming Silence for Holiness

by Daniel J. Heisey, O.S.B.

The recent film, Die Gro?e Stille (Into Great Silence) captivated movie audiences around the world. In the frantic pace of the early twenty-first century, it seemed hard to believe that anyone would sit through a three-hour movie about celibate men who live on a remote mountain in nearly complete silence. As one wag put it, he'd rather wait for the book. Nevertheless, the surprising popularity of this film would indicate widespread fascination with men who choose to spend much of their lives in solitude and silence.

As the film revealed, even strictly enclosed monks, such as the Carthusians, must from time to time talk amongst themselves. Part of being human is living in community, even that of the family, and community requires communication. Contrary to popular assumptions, for monks and nuns there is no "vow of silence." In the following pages, I will draw upon my order's monastic rule (that of Saint Benedict) to suggest ways for all Christians to reclaim the good of silence for their response to the call to holiness. The Benedictine tradition refers to restraint of speech, and it is worth reviewing what Saint Benedict has to say about speech and its restraint. After considering passages from Benedict's Rule, we will turn to Scripture for further guidance. Finally, we will look at two examples, one from Christian literature, the other from history.

Monastic Silence

When discussing monastic silence, leaving aside the paradox of talking about silence, one does well to ask how monastic silence differs from others kinds of silence, in particular, the kind of silence that is shared with others. There is a stressful silence, such as students experience when taking an exam; there is also an appreciative silence, such as one encounters among people in a museum. Also, there is a reverential silence, such as at a much visited cemetery or national monument. In each case, silence results from and signifies people recognizing that they are in the presence of something greater than themselves, even if it is the angst of an academic examination.

That recognition often cannot be put into words, so that the reaction of silence cannot even be discussed. Even when silence is imposed, say, by the rules governing school exams, compliance with that rule comes from acknowledging the authority imposing it. In a monastic context, silence also shows an awareness of something greater than oneself, namely, the presence of God. Inasmuch as it derives from monastic rules and customs, keeping silence is a way of respecting the living authority of tradition. Even in times of spiritual dryness, silence is often the only approach to the sense of being adrift in the night, of being in a bubble floating away from God.

From the outset, Saint Benedict makes it clear that he bases his understanding of silence in Scripture. Thus, we cannot discuss monastic silence apart from scriptural silence. First, though, we will turn to the Rule of Benedict, in particular to Chapter 6, De taciturnitate, and Chapter 42, Ut post completorium nemo loquatur, the only chapters in the Rule entirely dedicated to silence. From the Latin text of Chapter 6, it is clear that Saint Benedict values taciturnitas — reticence — and abhors scurrilitas — buffoonery — as well as verba otiose — empty words, or, more loosely translated, vacuous chatter. In Chapter 42, Benedict enjoins the cultivation of silence at all times, but especially after Night Prayer: "That after Compline no one may speak." Exceptions would be tending to the needs of guests or the abbot giving instructions to one of the monks. It is in this chapter that Benedict says that at meals the monks should read certain parts of Scripture or the Conferences of John Cassian, thus refreshing their ties to the Bible and the monastic heritage of the desert.

In his rules for silence, Benedict's reasons are wise and good; they seek wisdom and goodness. He begins by citing Psalm 39:2-3: "I said, I have resolved to keep watch over my ways that I may never sin with my tongue. I have put a guard on my mouth. I was silent and was humbled, and I refrained even from good words."¹ He also quotes Proverbs 10:19: "In a flood of words you will not avoid sin," and Proverbs 18:21: "The tongue holds the keys to life and death." Furthermore, he underscores that it is the role of the master, the teacher, to speak and teach, while it is the student's role to keep quiet and listen. Since Benedict states in the prologue to the Rule that he seeks to establish the monastery as "a school for the Lord's service," the relationship between the teacher and the taught has spiritual more than academic significance. Since monks and nuns who observe the Rule of Benedict take vows of obedience, stability and conversion of life, this model of teacher and student assumes deeper meaning. Making a vow of ongoing conversion means pledging before God and man that one will be open to growing in God's grace. Under the Rule, that openness is possible only by staying still, by stability within one monastery and by being obedient and listening to what others have to teach. This outlook on how to live a Christian life in a monastic context applies also to Christian life outside the monastery, whatever one's state in life. If one is always on the go, all the while focusing on others through the media and gossip, yet being focused on oneself with one's iPod and MP3 player, one will have little time or space for listening for and learning from God's grace.

It is noteworthy that Benedict roots his insights about silence in the Wisdom literature of the Bible. In that spirit, in his classic commentary on the Rule, Dom Hubert Van Zeller, O.S.B., a monk of Downside Abbey, illustrates this chapter and others with lines from the Song of Songs. Here he refers to the scene where the bridegroom goes down to see if his vineyard has flourished and the pomegranates are in bud, but cannot tell, for his soul is like the distracting noise of the chariots of Aminadab (Song 6:11-12). In his confusion, the bridegroom cannot find his beloved and calls out for her to come back. "Laughter and unrestrained gaiety," Van Zeller concludes, "have a blinding and blunting effect."²

In addition, Van Zeller notices that throughout the Rule Benedict bans idle talk, contrived jokes, raucous guffaws and self-pitying complaints; like John Cassian before him, Benedict sees these stains on silence as symptoms of pride. One also observes that the need some people have to fill every waking moment with conversation (more often, monologues), laughter and background music reflects immaturity and insecurity. It reflects a need to assert oneself and draw attention to oneself, qualities of character Benedict never admires. Silence and willingness to listen and learn open one to the at times astringent but healing properties of humility. According to Van Zeller, Benedict "is concerned not so much with the evil of talk as with the good of silence."³

Of course, silence has a limited appeal, as does monastic life. For some Christians, it is daunting if not impossible, something best left to obscure monks and nuns. Overlooked in such thinking is the fact that monks and nuns come from the same secularized environment as other Christians, and so for religious, beginning a spiritual journey marked by silence is as challenging as it would be for Christians whose calling is in the world. "Every solitary hour that is truly such contains a challenge," observed Hans Urs von Balthasar. "That is why there is so little real solitude."⁴ He concluded, "Although we pretend to long for it, we avoid it and start up a noise within ourselves."⁵ Silence, like charity, begins at home.

It has impressed me that the people who seem to have been most enthusiastic about Die Gro?e Stille are generally boisterous people. They also tend to be people enjoying every suburban comfort. Even their more introverted neighbors are apt to whistle to themselves or have an ongoing soundtrack or soliloquy in their heads. For many of us, it is second nature to turn on the radio as soon as we get in the car. We may admire silence in the abstract, but when it comes to facing it in our day-to-day lives, we become as fidgety and uncomfortable as a five-year-old boy dressed up and taken to visit elderly friends of his grandparents.

Every parent knows the experience of having to tell a child, "Sit still!" Just as children are amazed that grown-ups can sit still for long periods of time, adults are amazed at the energy of children. Yet expending that energy must occur in appropriate settings. The same is true for being still and knowing that God exists, for realizing that he is neither in the fire nor the earthquake, but in the slight breeze (1 Kings 19:11-12). It is not surprising, then, that the film Die Gro?e Stille quotes this epiphany experienced by Elijah.

In some cases, our separated brethren seem to have retained this lesson, most notably the Society of Friends, the Quakers. Their Sunday communal worship consists of sitting in silence, normally for an hour, waiting for the Holy Spirit to move someone to speak. For some visitors and others not adept at this discipline, such deliberate silence can become a waking nightmare of excruciating boredom. Without replacing sacramental liturgy with Quaker meeting, Christians of the Catholic tradition, both East and West, could benefit from rediscovering the scriptural basis for silence in worship and daily life.

Scriptural silence

As Christians, we must remember that silence is integral to our faith. Put another way, to omit or neglect silence in our life of faith harms our spiritual integrity. Jesus shows us that it is important to take time each day for silent prayer. "Very early next morning," we read in the Gospel, "he got up and went out" (Mark 1:35). Moreover, "He went away to a lonely spot and remained there in prayer" (Mark 1:36). If our Lord thought it good to awake very early and be alone in prayer, we ought to take notice.

However, he does not remain alone for long. "Simon and his companions searched him out, found him, and said, 'They are all looking for you"' (Mark 1:37). Here it is helpful spiritually to see Saint Peter and his brother apostles, the pope and the bishops, interceding for the lay faithful, who are looking for Jesus in the wrong places and for the wrong reasons. Rather than return to where he was, where he could have surrounded himself with his eager flock, those people wanting another miracle, Jesus presses on. "Let us move on the country towns in the neighborhood," he says, since, "I have to proclaim my message there also; that is what I came out to do" (Mark 1:38). Saint Mark adds, "So all through Galilee he went, preaching in the synagogues and casting out the devils" (Mark 1:39). The Church finds Jesus in prayer to the Father and follows him to places of worship where both are present in word and deed. We may be wanting yet another miracle, one that's "new and improved," but the challenge of prayerful silence and even of the liturgy is their seemingly dreary insistence on returning us again and again to the same old miracles — God's word and sacraments.

Silence thus is the context for prayer, and from that silent prayer flows activity. Just as Jesus did not go back and bask in the glow of his adoring followers, so we must have a certain restlessness, the restlessness described so well by Saint Augustine: "You have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you."⁶ From our silent prayer, early and alone, we do well to move on to the place where we can meet the Lord in word and sacrament. In short, our prayerful silence should lead us to liturgical worship.

Along those lines, Joseph Ratzinger, five years before becoming Pope Benedict XVI, in The Spirit of the Liturgy, wrote about silence being fruitful.⁷ He addressed the need for "positive stillness" during the Mass, of time for recollection as the sacred action unfolds. The positive fruit of silence within the liturgy is not only inner peace, but also renewed charity. There is no point in participating in Christ's sacrifice if it does not draw one closer to him, to a greater love of God and love of neighbor.

Nearly fifty years earlier, a Dominican theologian made the distinction between "the silence of inertia, of individualism, of indigence" and that "which is not a void but a summit," that is, "the summit of participation, well prepared, built up and nourished by means of instruction, chant and the word."⁸ He added, "It is in this silence, and in it only, that that union with God is realized which is the ultimate aim of every liturgical action, and the perfect complement of participation in the Mystery."⁹ Mystery in this sense means "the reality of God, hidden yet communicated."¹⁰ This mysterious communication through hiding recalls the hide-and-seek scenes in the Song of Songs.

From the earliest days of the Church, the Song of Songs has had rich mystical significance, pointing to the Book of Revelation and its nuptial imagery of Christ and his Bride. As one would expect, then, the liturgical dimension of silence points to the eschatological aspect of silence, that is to say, its role in the heavenly liturgy. The 1997 Catechism of the Catholic Church, citing Saint Isaac of Nineveh (who lived in the seventh century), links silence with contemplative prayer, saying that it is a "symbol of the world to come" (CCC 2717). Silence is like a door, our passage to heaven.

In the Book of Revelation, after the Lamb breaks open the seventh seal, "there was silence in heaven for what seemed half an hour" (Rev. 8:1). Then an angel stood before the altar in heaven; he held a golden censer and a large amount of incense, "to offer with the prayers of all God's people upon the golden altar in front of the throne" (Rev. 8:3). One commentator has seen that this silence indicates not only a Sabbath rest, but also that "the vision outstrips words, symbols and thought itself."¹¹ Here one notes further that the silence precedes prayer, the prayer within the liturgy.

"Go in peace"

There remains the question of what happens after the liturgy. Sometimes, after the intoning of "The Mass is ended, go in peace," and the response "Thanks be to God," one would think it was suddenly a night at Carnival. The din that fills some of our churches after Mass, whether in the nave or in the narthex, gives one pause. While there is nothing wrong with parishioners greeting one another, it is right to ask whether the church is the appropriate place for deafening frivolity. To paraphrase Saint Paul in his letter to the Corinthians, do they not have homes for visiting each other? Minutes before the jolly uproar, the mystery of Calvary had once more been made present, and many partook of Christ's Body and Blood; clearly, a certain degree of decorum, even a certain measure of solemnity, is called for. As the weight of the mystery that has been shared sinks in, it is only fitting that the people of God feel awed and subdued.

Sadly, worshippers who wish to stay behind and pray find the atmosphere choked with noise. Apparently this problem is not at all new, for Saint Benedict, writing in the sixth century, addresses it in Chapter 52 of his Rule. There he says that after the Divine Office, all should leave in silence, so that a brother who then wants to pray by himself may do so without being impeded by the thoughtlessness of another. In fact, the literal translation of the word Benedict uses, improbitas, is more than "thoughtlessness," it is "wickedness" or "depravity." Likewise, Benedict says that the one who remains in private prayer should pray quietly; his solitary prayer in the church must not become a spectacle in itself.

Part of what we should take with us from Mass into the world is the presence of silence. Needless to say, this silence is not the silence used to snub or punish others or to be basically anti-social. Mass should make us more reverent, not more narcissistic. The silence meant here is the silence of fellowship, the silence that binds and heals, the silence of charity. Lest this characterization seem farfetched, let me conclude with two examples, one from literature and the other from history.

In pastoral terms, we may look to Catholic literature for direction. As Graham Greene's fictional priest, Monsignor Quixote, explains to his unlikely friend, a lapsed Catholic turned Communist mayor, "I never repeat what anybody tells me — even to myself if possible."¹² Elsewhere, the monsignor says, "There is something holy in silence."¹³ By the end of the story, the monsignor and the mayor — who has been voted out of office — have had many adventures, punctuated by the priest's enigmatic silences, and these exploits deepen their friendship. They end up taking refuge in the Cistercian abbey of Osera, Spain, where one of the monks emphasizes to a visiting American scholar, "One can't escape regrets even in a twelfth-century monastery."¹⁴ Thus, the silent world of the cloister is in no way free from the uncomfortable points of life. In that setting, the former mayor shares an insight he has learned about his priest friend. "Silence with him is not always a sign of peace," the old mayor says. "It sometimes means an agony of the spirit."¹⁵ Although the monsignor's periodic silences could exasperate the ex-mayor, he has learned to respect those silences as necessary for his friend's inner life.

Church history provides an example that tests the limits of the historian's art. Here I mean the phenomenon of a Marian apparition. By their nature, apparitions and visions cannot be empirically proven; they do not lend themselves to scientific replication in the laboratory. Nevertheless, they recur throughout the Church's history, and rigorous, often skeptical, investigation by Church authorities concludes in certain cases that people of good will and reputable character insist on having seen, and usually heard, something significant. One such instance occurred during a twilight rain shower on August 21, 1879, at Knock, County Mayo, Ireland.¹⁶

The apparition of Mary at Knock stands out among other Marian apparitions for its two unique features. First, Mary appeared to the villagers of Knock in the company of Saint Joseph and Saint John the Evangelist. Behind these three saints appeared an altar with a lamb and across. Second, neither Mary nor those two saints said anything. Here the themes of this essay converge. Mary, Joseph and John form a community — for all practical purposes, a family. The altar, lamb and cross indicate the sacrifice of the Mass, and the otherworldly nature inherent in the apparition calls to mind the heavenly liturgy. In the midst of this scene is also a heavenly silence.

The Irish villagers who beheld this apparition on that rainy August evening drew from it profound consolation and peace. Far from being anti-social or uncharitable, at its best silence — whether in a monastery or within a family of lay people — should lead us deeper into our loving search for God. Since silence is so closely bound to prayer and the liturgy, it is also inseparable from God's grace. Silence is above all a gift; like the seven virtues, it is a gift worth praying for. The challenge for Christians is to ask God for the grace to make time away from noise, which is the absence of silence, and to reclaim as part of the daily quest for holiness the glimpse of heaven that is prayerful silence.

End notes

1. Quotations from the Benedictine Rule come from Timothy Fry, ed., RB 1980: The Rule of St. Benedict in Latin and English with Notes (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1981), p. 191.
2. Hubert Van Zeller, The Holy Rule: Notes on St. Benedict's Legislation for Monks (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1958), pp. 96-97.
3. Ibid., p. 91.
4. Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Grain of Wheat: Aphorisms, trans. Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1995), p. 45.
5. Ibid.
6. Saint Augustine, Confessions I.1, trans. Henry Chadwick (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), p. 3.
7. See Joseph Ratzinger, The Spirit of the Liturgy, trans. John Saward (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2000), pp. 209-214.
8. A.M. Roguet, "The Theology of the Liturgical Assembly," Worship 28 (February, 1954): 134.
9. Ibid.
10. Charles Davis, "Odo Casel and the Theology of Mysteries," Worship 34 (August/ September, 1960): 429.
11. C. C. Martindale, "The Apocalypse," in A Catholic Commentary on Holy Scripture, ed. Bernard Orchard, et al. (London: Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1953), p. 1200.
12. Graham Greene, Monsignor Quixote (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1982), p. 107.
13. Ibid., p. 123.
14. Ibid., p. 207.
15. Ibid., p. 214.
16. See Mary Purcell, "Our Lady of Silence," in A Woman Clothed with the Sun: Eight Great Appearances of Our Lady in Modern Times, ed. John J. Delaney (New York: Hanover House/Doubleday, 1960), pp. 131-151; Catherine Rynne, Knock: 1879-1979 (Dublin: Veritas Publications, 1979).

Daniel J. Heisey, O.S.B. is a Benedictine monk of Saint Vincent Archabbey, Latrobe, Pennsylvania, where he is known as Brother Bruno. He is an alumnus of Dickinson College, where he studied theology. He is a graduate of the University of Cambridge and teaches Church history at Saint Vincent Seminary. This is his first article in HPR.

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