External Silence versus the Silence of Solitude

One of the sets of topics I think about a lot is the silence of solitude as 1) context of the eremitical life, 2) goal or telos of the life (where solitude implies communion with God and silence implies completion), and 3) the charism the world needs so badly. Isn't the silence of solitude just about the silence of being alone? It certainly is about this, but it is also more, and over time dwelling in the silence of solitude one comes to know and live ever more fully toward and into this "more". Today I ran across a quote by Thomas Merton I thought was suggestive of the more nuanced and multivalent understanding of the silence of solitude I think hermits will grow into for the sake of the Reign of God and the salvation of others. I thought it might be helpful in explaining a little of why I understand this term of Canon 603 in the way I do. Merton wrote:

[[It is not speaking that breaks our silence, but the anxiety to be heard.”]]

It is not hard to see what Merton means here. We can easily imagine being in a situation where we are meant to listen and yet find ourselves listening only for a chance to throw in our opinion, suggestions, and advice, or tell our own story. Similarly, I would bet every reader can picture a meeting where participants can hardly be silent as a need to speak out stands in tension with the requirement for patience and the need to hear and learn from others. We will recognize the anxiety thrumming through a person who can hardly contain their desire to interrupt a conversation in order to add their own voice and perspective. While they might be able to maintain an external silence, there is a noisiness about them, a noisiness that interferes with receptivity and infects the entire situation with unquiet. Imagine a child who has raised her hand desperately seeking to answer the teacher's question.  The answer itself is not nearly so important as the need to be recognized, affirmed, and given a place to stand in the teacher's awareness and regard. 

The need to be truly heard is a profound and legitimate need for every person at every stage of their life. Human beings are "language events" in this way as well. We are incomplete to the degree we have not been heard. The drives to be recognized, to succeed, to use one's gifts and talents, even to make a name for oneself, and so forth, stem from this need to be heard, accepted, affirmed, and loved for who we are. This, combined with the failure to have these fundamental needs met fuels the anxiety to be heard Merton speaks about. At the same time, it illuminates something of the nature and import of what it means to seek or achieve the silence of solitude.

When I speak of the silence of solitude as context of my vocation as a hermit I mean exterior silence and physical aloneness --- things that are necessary to create the space and time to seek and be exhaustively heard by God. But I also mean the silence and solitude necessary to learn to listen to our own hearts and pour them out to God as well as to come to know that in God's abiding love we are truly heard (accepted, affirmed, loved, and valued) in every dimension of our being. The learning and degree of inner work this takes over time also explains the importance of spiritual direction in the life of anyone moving toward fuller and fuller existence in God. 

When I speak of the silence of solitude as goal I mean that we move toward the completion or fullness of communion with God in which we are completely known and loved, and therefore, know and love in return --- and do so as naturally possible. Any anxiety to be heard, accepted, affirmed, and loved for who we are is entirely quieted while we are more able to be ourselves with clarity and articulateness. More, we are able to be open to others and to empower them to come to the same articulateness --- the same ability to speak themselves to the world. The silence of solitude here sings with life and wholeness. It is poor, chaste, and obedient!! We are fully ourselves with and in God and, to the extent we have been drawn into and reflect the silence of solitude, we are this without striving or struggle. 

I may develop this post further (at the very least I need to address the idea of the silence of solitude as charism), but I think this is enough for the moment. My hope is that it gives some basic sense of how truly profound Canon 603's "silence of solitude" really is. To reduce it to the external silence of  physical aloneness implies we have not yet lived it well enough, with sufficient attentiveness to its depths and nuance. The eremitical journey is a journey into the silence of solitude. It is a journey of growth, healing, sanctification, and communion --- a journey toward fulfillment and completion of our very selves in God.

Reflections on the Eremitical Vocation from the perspective of Allegri's "Miserere Mei, Deus"

Recently, in part because of the question I was asked about whether or not a hermit could or should sing office, I have been thinking more about the various tensions that exist in the eremitical vocation, especially the tension that exists between ecclesiality and solitude and also that between physical silence and what canon 603 calls "the silence of solitude". While I was listening to a favorite piece of music -- Allegri's Miserere Mei, Deus done by the Tenebrae Choir  under the direction of Nigel Short -- I thought I could see a perfect representation of these elements and the tensions that exist between them at work in what is one of the most beautiful pieces I know. In some ways they reflect in a more vivid way the dynamics I know personally not only from living as a hermit with an ecclesial vocation, but also from playing violin both alone and in chamber groups and orchestras. I'll say a little about what I heard and saw in this production that was helpful to me in thinking about these central vocational elements and tensions below, but for now you might listen to this piece once or twice before reading on.

 

What struck me first is the dialogical nature of the work --- dialogical in a broad yet still profoundly personal sense of the term. Each and every person is dedicated to listening and responding on a number of levels, first of all to the composer and his music, notations, and text, but also to the director who interprets these realities and communicates this to the singers in gestures and expressions.  Every person is listening not only to themselves and the quality of sound they are producing, but to every other person in the ensemble. Each person is listening to a pulse within themselves which moves through the music and silences (rests) as well as to a mental sense of the music-as-heard over many different and differing performances. These will all guide the music each singer makes in response as they perform or live this work with personal and musical integrity.

What also struck me about this particular performance is the way one can hear the massed sound of all the voices but also clearly distinguish the individual voices (sometimes with the aid of one's eyes as different singers enunciate different syllables and/or notes in time --- we listen with all of our senses). The singers blend perfectly but they only do so insofar as they sing their own part in careful response to the the dynamic context which lets them be themselves alone in relationship. I was reminded most of the ecclesial nature of the eremitical vocation as I thought about this --- the way a beautiful performance is enhanced and completed only as it is sung/lived as an integral part of the whole. I thought this was especially true of the young male soloist whose silence was as critical to the balance and completion of the music as were his solos.

The way the schola in the main stands apart from the larger choir and at times is entirely silent but still very much part of the music as they listen so as to respond appropriately also made me think of the distinction between physical silence and the silence of solitude. And again, that was even more clear to me with the single voice of the young man standing up and "apart" in the arches above the nave and schola. His voice was often "heard" only in its silence and always in relation to others' welcoming  or receptive silence. How very much more than simple physical silence is this listening and participative silence!! It is foundational to the whole piece. When I think as well of the hidden but still-startlingly pervasive presence of the composer, his music, notations (not always easy to imagine what is meant here or there!), and depth of meaning of the text he is communicating, I think of the presence and place of God in the hermit's life --- and again, of the meaning of being bound to obedience in all of the myriad ways we must each allow and achieve if the music we are called to be is to be realized in all of its potential.

And finally, I was struck (and moved with a kind of poignant joy) at the way the now-silent soloist remained apart but very much present in the performance as the schola moved closer to the choir during the last portion of the piece and joined them in singing it. Again, a striking symbol or image for me of the profound difference between eremitical solitude or eremitical anachoresis (withdrawal) and being a lone person or individualist. It is the distinction between belonging integrally to the choir while making music in one's silence and merely standing apart mutely. It is this kind of silence the hermit brings to the Church as a whole, the charism or gift quality of eremitical life c 603 calls "the silence of solitude". As I have written here before, my very first experience of solitude (as opposed to isolation) and also of genuine community was of playing violin, both alone and in orchestra. That was in grade school when I was nine or ten. Now, all these years later music is still the most vivid symbol for my own understanding the nature of eremitical life and what canon 603 could well refer to instead as "the deep music of personal wholeness and holiness in God".

N.B., I am aware there were things which struck me about the Allegri which I haven't mentioned here --- not least the incredible control, power, and brilliance of the diminutive soprano doing the very high solo line. I thought how incredibly suited the human voice is for this and what an incredible instrument God has made in us as I watched and listened to her sing. In this way too we are language events. I was also struck afresh at how it is the way tensions are created and resolved in music that makes the most wonderful harmonies and create moments of real transcendence. Perhaps some of you will have other observations or reflections on the way the piece resonates with your own understanding of eremitical life or prayer, etc.

The text in both Latin and English can be found online (or cf. Psalm 51). Gregorio Allegri: Miserere Mei, Deus

Ephphatha! The Command Which Makes us Truly Human (reprised with tweaks)

In tomorrow's Gospel, (Mark 7:31-37) A man who is deaf and also has a resultant speech impediment is brought by friends to Jesus; Jesus is begged to heal him. We are moved by the act of such good friends and watch as, in what is an unusual process  in its crude physicality for Mark (or for any of the Gospel writers), Jesus puts his fingers in the man's ears, and then, spitting on his fingers, touches the man's tongue. He looks up to heaven, groans, and says in Aramaic, "ephphatha!" (that is, "Be opened!"). Immediately the man is healed and "speaks plainly." Those who brought him to Jesus are astonished, joyful, and could not contain their need to proclaim Jesus and what he had done: "He has done all things well. He makes the deaf hear and the mute speak," a  clear sign he brings the Kingdom.

I am convinced that the deaf and "mute" man (for he is not really mute, but impeded from clear speech by his inability to hear) is a type of each of us, a symbol for the persons we are and for the vocation we are each called to. Theologians call human beings language events. We are called to be by God, conceived from and an embodied expression of the love of two people for one another, named so that we have the capacity for personal presence in the world and may be personally addressed by others, and we are shaped for good or ill, for wholeness or woundedness, by every word which is addressed to us; we do the same for others by the words we address to them. Language is the means and symbol of our capacity for relationship and transcendence, for creativity and communion`.

One Lutheran theologian (Gerhard Ebeling), in fact, notes that the most truly human thing about us is our addressability and our ability to address others. Addressability includes and empowers responsiveness; that is, it has both receptive and expressive dimensions. It is the characteristically human form of language which creates community. It marks us as those whose coming to be is dependent upon the dynamic of obedience --- but also on the generosity of those who would address us and give us a place to stand as persons which we cannot assume on our own. We spend our lives responsively -- coming (and often struggling) to attend to and embody or express more fully the deepest potentials within us to be icons of God; we do this in myriad ways and means. Karl Rahner, a 20C Jesuit theologian thus describes us similarly as "Hearers of the Word."

Consider how it is that language and vocabulary of all sorts opens various worlds to us and makes the whole of the cosmos our own to understand, wonder at, and render more or less articulate; consider how a lack of vocabulary whether affective, theological, scientific, mathematical, musical, psychological, etc, can cripple us and distance us from effectively relating to various dimensions of human life including our own heart. Note, for instance that physicians have found that in any form of mental illness there is a corresponding dimension of difficulty with or dysfunction of language. Consider the very young child's wonderful (and often really annoying!) incessant questioning. There, with every single question and answer, every expression of openness and corresponding response, language mediates transcendence (a veritable explosion of transcendence in fact!) and initiates the child further and further into the world of human community, knowledge, understanding, reflection, celebration, and commitment. Language marks us as essentially communal, fundamentally dependent upon others to call us beyond ourselves, essentially temporal (time-bound) AND transcendent, and, by virtue of our being the image of God and called to be the image of Christ, responsive and responsible (obedient) at the core of our existence.

But a lot can hinder this most foundational vocational accomplishment. Sometimes our own woundedness prevents the achievement of this goal to greater degrees. Sometimes we are not given the tools or education we need to develop this capacity. Sometimes, we are badly or ineffectually loved and rendered relatively deaf and "mute" in the process. Oftentimes we muddle the clarity of that expression through cowardice, ignorance, or even willful disregard. And sometimes our friends are not courageous or perhaps moved by faith sufficiently to literally "bring us to Christ". Our hearts, as I have noted here before, are dialogical realities. That is, they are the place where God bears witness to himself, the event marked in a defining way by God's continuing and creative address and our own embodied response. In every way our lives are either an expression of the Word or logos of God which glorifies (him), or they are, to whatever extent, a dishonoring lie and an evasion.

And so, faced with a man who is crippled in so many fundamental ways --- one, that is, for whom the world of community, knowledge, and celebration is largely closed by disability, Jesus prays to God, touches, and addresses the man directly, "Ephphatha!" ---Be thou opened!" It is the essence of what Christians refer to as salvation, the event in which a word of command and power heals the brokennesses which cripple and isolate, and which, by empowering obedience (the capacity to hearken) reconciles the man to himself, his God, his people and world. As a result of Jesus' Word, and in response, the man speaks plainly --- for the first time (potentially) transparent to himself and to those who know him; he is more truly a revelatory or language event, authentically human and capable through the grace of God of bringing others to the same humanity through direct response and address.

Our own coming to wholeness, to a full and clear articulation of our truest selves is a communal achievement. Even (or perhaps especially) in the lives of hermits this has always been true insofar as solitude is NOT isolation, but is instead a form of communion whose silence is marked by profound dependence on the Word of God and lived specifically for the salvation of others. In today's gospel friends bring the man to Jesus, Jesus prays to God before acting to heal him. The presence of friends is another sign not only of the man's nature as made-for-communion and the fact that none of us come to language (or, that is, to the essentially human capacity for responsiveness or obedience) alone, but similarly, of the deaf man's total inability to approach Jesus on his own. At the same time, Jesus takes the man aside and what happens to him in this encounter is thus signaled to be profoundly personal, intimate, and beyond the merely evident. Friends are necessary, but at bottom, the ultimate healing and humanizing encounter can only happen between the deaf man and Christ.

In each of our lives there is deafness and "muteness" or inarticulateness. So many things are unheard by us, fail to touch or resonate in our hearts. So many things call forth embittered and cynical reactions which wound and isolate when what is needed is a response of genuine compassion and welcoming. Similarly, so many things render us speechless: bereavement, illness, ignorance, personal woundedness, etc. As a result,  and to the extent this is true,  we live our commitments half-heartedly, our loves guardedly, our joys tentatively, our pains self-consciously and noisily --- but helplessly and without meaning in ways which do not edify --- and in all these ways therefore, we are less human, less articulate, less the obedient or responsive language event or "Hearer of the Word," we are called to be. Jesus sighs in compassion and desire, unites himself with his Father in the power of the Holy Spirit, and touches us with his own hands and spittle. To each of us, then, and in whatever way or degree we need, Jesus says, "EPHPHATHA!" "Be thou opened!" and makes us his own "language events, his own "Hearers of the Word."

My prayer today is that we may each allow ourselves to be brought to Jesus for healing. May we be broken open and rendered responsive and transparent by his powerful Word of command and authority. Especially, may we each become the clear gospel-founded words of joy and hope in a world marked extensively and profoundly by deafness and the helplessness and despair of noisy and isolating inarticulateness. So too, may we be the ones who courageously and faith-fully bring one another to Christ for similar healing.