On Silence and Solitude in the Service of Intimacy with God

[[Sister, you write about hermits a lot. You don't take a vow of silence, do you? But why not if "the silence of solitude"is such an important element of c 603? At the same time why do you treat solitude as though it is not really about being alone?]]

Thanks for your questions. I think they are actually pretty common for non-hermits or for those whose notion of eremitical life is idealized. Similar questions could be asked about the other constitutive elements of the vocation including stricter separation from the world whenever "the world" is taken to mean anything outside the hermitage door. In each of these cases, solitude, the silence of solitude, and stricter separation from the world, what we find is that these terms are more nuanced than most people understand. None of them is absolute. By that I mean the eremitical life is not about absolute silence, absolute solitude, or absolute withdrawal from the world. Instead, these elements are real and substantial in a way that allows the vocation to be defined in terms of them, and at the same time, they are qualified by the needs of the hermit for growth, healing, and holiness as she moves toward maturity in her relationship with God and others in an ecclesial vocation.

So, for instance, no, I don't take a vow of silence nor do I hold myself to a Rule calling for absolute silence. I talk (to God and less frequently, to others), I sing, I listen to, compose (improvise), and play music, and all of this requires significant, but (obviously) not absolute silence. Silence is necessary to be a person of prayer because prayer is about listening and being available to God, and we are attentive and available to God so that God may recreate the world as he wills. That recreation begins with us and with the way God's love transforms us as human beings. Hermits cultivate silence for this purpose, not simply for itself alone. Moreover, silence can be external or internal; while both are important it is internal silence that is key in the hermit's life. The cultivation of inner silence and stillness is the aim of a life of stricter external silence. Whatever is happening externally leads us to the profound internal silence that allows for the song we are  to rise up within us and be "sung." 

What I am saying is that the hermit is silent and embraces silence to the extent it leads us to prayer and then, to union with God. The same is true of solitude. External solitude serves the hermit's life with God and her growth as a human being. One is alone with God for the sake of God's will and all that that Divine will desires and occasions. In some ways, there is also an inner solitude where the individual is at peace with themselves and with God. This solitude is about a harmonious relationship; one is truly oneself in this space, and one is oneself with God. It is the antithesis of isolation and when I write about it, I speak of it as the redemption of isolation. 

When c 603 speaks of the silence of solitude, most superficially it means the quiet that exists when one is not conversing with others or otherwise engaging with others, but at its deepest, it is an intimacy with God where God is allowed to be God and we are the human person God calls us to be. This silence of solitude is peaceful (though not painless!), profoundly energizing,  and marked by a sense of solidity and love in and through which one is truly oneself. It is therefore also about being profoundly in relationship with the whole of God's creation and the whole of God's People. When I write about the silence of solitude I also speak of it as involving the quieting of our existential anguish and pain. We can be screams of anguish and then be transformed through the love of God into a quiet and joyful song of praise. And of course, sometimes the anguish recurs and our personal song is transfigured into lament. This is still vastly different from simply being a scream of anguish! 

The bottom line in all of this is that when I speak of solitude it does mean being alone, but one is alone with God and, in varying degrees of intimacy, with all that is grounded in God. This is why I tend to usually say "eremitical solitude." There are a variety of forms of solitude; some are not healthy and most are not eremitical. The corollary is that when the hermit is not alone, but is with others, the inner silence and solitude of her relationship with God remains foundational. When a hermit has lived the silence of solitude for some time she does not need to be particularly concerned that contact with others, including occasional social functions, will destroy the silence of solitude that is so fundamental to who she is. 

Yes, of course, care is always necessary and is part of a vow of obedience, but the silence of solitude rooted in God's love is still the pedal tone of the hermit's life and it both calls her to be present to others and summons her back to the hermitage. The image I have in mind here is a Taize chant (cf., In God Alone) where woodwinds, etc., may improvise a kind of obligato above and around the chant and even occasionally sound a bit dissonant as the linkage to the chant becomes strained for the hearer, but these instruments and the line they play always find their way back to the chant of which they are always an exploration and elaboration.

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