A Road and Two Silences.

I’ll be honest; coming to major seminary was a bit of a culture shock. One of the biggest adjustments has been the location. My college seminary was located in the vibrant city of Indianapolis—about seven minutes from all of the excitement of downtown. The beautiful grounds of the Indianapolis Museum of Art was a short drive away. In the spring, we could hear cars racing on the Indianapolis Motor Speedway from our rooms.

Now, I live in the middle of nowhere.

Okay, some would call that an overstatement. But, I came from all of that to now living in a place surrounded by agricultural fields—a place where it takes a half hour to get to a Wal-Mart or a movie theater (one of which is in a strip-mall…I’m not kidding.) So, I think I’ll go with the “middle of nowhere” option, or at least something close to it.

About a week ago, I decided to make the trip to Wal-Mart to pick up a few tings. Although, I have to admit, part of the reason behind the trip was also to get some time to myself, off the Hill—to spend some time in silence—the half-hour drive was the perfect opportunity.

Oh, and I’m an extrovert, too. I’m an extrovert who willingly chose to do something by myself, and sought out silence. (Enter the stereotypes.) I must be ill, right? Don’t worry; I’ll make an appointment with the nurse.

I’m not ill. Rather, I’ve learned how to do what both seminaries I’ve been at have said would be a good thing to learn over the past five years—how to be a functional introvert. It wasn’t easy at first, and honestly, sometimes, it sucked. But, I’ve learned the value of it.

A habit I picked up a while ago is driving in silence. Now, if someone else is in the car with me, we won’t drive the whole way in silence—that’s just awkward. If I’m alone and it is a particularly long drive, I may make a phone call to catch up with someone I haven’t spoken with in a while, or listen to a talk on CD, and on occasions less rare than I like to admit, I’ll have a dance party by myself. (Usually, that happens when I’m stuck in traffic so I don’t just get angry…and yes, I’m aware they are staring. I don’t really care.) Yet, most of the time still ends up being in silence. Some have called me crazy for doing such a thing. Others have said they could “never do it” (which is what I said too, before I actually tried it). But, it’s something I love to do.

The time I spend in the silence in the car is for me to reflect—time for me to think without too many distractions (and yes, I still pay attention to the road…death by running off of a Southern Indiana hill doesn’t sound too attractive). It’s time for me, in some instances, to simply dialogue with God. For a faithful extrovert such as myself, it’s a time to learn the beauties of introversion.

One of my favorite things about the drive between the seminary and the town with the Wal-Mart I go to is that the drive is absolutely breath-taking, especially during this time of year, with the bright colors of autumn leaves coming together to create an awe-inspiring landscape. It’s a drive through the rolling hills of Southern Indiana, passing through one small town after another. That drive about a week ago got me thinking about a few things. In my mind, they are all related. In a single blog post? We’ll see…

First: The Road.

As I said earlier, one of the biggest adjustments to make in coming to major seminary was the atmosphere—moving from a big city to a rural area. If you’ve ever driven through Indiana, you’ll recall that for the most part, it’s flat. Really flat. Obnoxiously flat. Not totally rural Illinois and moving westward flat, but still—flat. That was how it was on my trips to Indianapolis—a straight shot up the interstate, with no hills in the way.

An example of its flatness—when I was in college, the university announced that they would be building a Marian shrine on the “highest point” on campus, which was an ankle-high hill that they had to flatten in order to construct the shrine. I wish I was joking.

That was an odd environment to come into from the area of Kentucky that I call my home—an area with rolling hills similar to those in Southern Indiana. To encounter hills, twists, and turns in Indianapolis was rare. The most complex thing was trying to figure out why all of the streets meet at awkward angles, and how to successfully navigate them.

While this area of Southern Indiana reminds me of home, I’m still not familiar with the roads. There seems to be even more winding than the ones back in Kentucky. So, I tend to take my time, which I’m fine with. In life, it seems that we are constantly in a rush, going from one thing directly to the next, from one place to another, without taking in anything around us—without truly experiencing what we are doing. We go through lives in a trance of trying to “save time”—time which slips away just as quickly no matter what we are doing—time that we probably wouldn’t actually do anything with, anyhow. So, if an unfamiliar road makes me slow down, I’ll be thankful for it.

On this drive, I actually had time to think, and the first thing that came to mind was how this drive, in some ways, is an analogy of our Christian faith.

So often, we find ourselves thinking or wishing that our Christian life was like the flat part of Indiana, with nice, smooth roads (okay…that part isn’t applicable in Indiana…just pretend the roads are nice), with no hills to slow us down from reaching our destination.

Sorry to burst any bubbles—but that’s a fool’s paradise that we need to escape from quickly.

The reality is that we can go along our own straight and easy path all that we want, but we will eventually discover, at some point, that if we are seeking authentic happiness and fulfillment, then we are on the wrong road. We are creatures that thrive on challenge—we like to feel accomplished. Few things in life are worth doing if there is no challenge involved. The road to be on is one like that road I drive to Wal-Mart. It’s a road with sharp turns, a road that mirrors the reality of a life that takes us up and down hills, a road that is challenging to drive.

Yet, even with the hills, turns, and challenging parts of the drive—it’s beautiful. It’s an almost overly simplistic beauty. Every twist leads to a change in scenery, every turn to something more beautiful than we could have imagined. As we continue the journey, although it’s challenging, we encounter things that compel us to move forward. In just the same way, our Christian faith is one that takes us down a road that is challenging to drive, yet has a beauty which our hearts simply will not allow us to replace. For the sake of breaking up a bunch of texts with clever images, here’s a basic look at what it’s like:

Okay, back to something serious…

I can’t help but think here of one of my favorite Saints—Saint Benedict. (I know my friends are reading this and rolling their eyes….chill out…you know he’s awesome!) In the prologue of his Rule, he speaks of a road. He says,

“Do not be daunted immediately by fear, and run away from the road that leads to salvation—it is bound to be narrow at the outset; but, as we progress in this way of life and in faith, we shall run on the path of God’s commandments, our hearts overflowing with the inexpressible delight of love.”

This is one of my favorite quotes from the Rule. In it, Saint Benedict is clear that the road won’t necessarily be an easy one—it is going to be a challenge. But, he also points out that traveling this road is worth it, as doing God’s will always is.

Silence Itself.

After thinking about the journey I was on and how it related to my faith, my mind moved to the silence I was experiencing. In many ways, our world is one that is terrified of silence. Yet, throughout the history of the Church, great thinkers, theologians, and saints have spoken highly of silence, and even our very need for it.

It is no secret that our world is noisy, yet sometimes we simply, whether consciously or unconsciously, ignore it.

As I’ve stated in previous posts, and as you already know if you know me, I’m a guy that loves quotes. I have cards of quotes I have hung up on the wall before, and books full of underlines, and pieces of paper where I’ve written down quotes I’ve found online. I looked through the quotes I had to see what there was about silence—I even did a Google search to find more. There were a lot of great ones, but one that I found particularly interesting came from Thomas Merton.

Merton is known the world-over for his marvelous writings, particularly The Seven Storey Mountain.

While I have not read much of what Merton has written, he’s on my “to read” list. There has always been something about Merton that I have found interesting. Perhaps it’s because his monastic home was in Kentucky. Merton’s monastic vow of stability was to the Abbey of Gethsemane, a Trappist monastery, and the oldest in the nation. I grew up not far from it—it’s just a short drive from my house. It’s an interesting to be in a place where someone who has touched so many lives has been. In a way, it makes the person feel “real”, in a way that simply reading about them cannot do.

It’s a similar feeling I get when I’m in downtown Louisville. Whenever I’m at the Cathedral, if I have time, I’ll sneak a street down to 4th Street. In addition to the many restaurants and bars, there’s also a historical marker. What is now Fourth and Muhammad Ali used to be Fourth and Walnut, where Merton had his famous “revelation” or “epiphany”. This moment, Merton says, changed the rest of his life. He speaks of being overcome with an overwhelming sense of love for all that surround him—for total strangers. He spoke of how, because they are human—because they are members of the same species that God chose to make Himself Incarnate—they could not be “alien to one another”. Whenever I’m in the area, I go to that historical marker. I stand on the corner of Fourth and Muhammad Ali, and I try to put myself in Merton’s shoes. I try to see as he saw—to see the people walking about as if they were “shining like the sun”. Every time, I’m amazed.

In addition to my own experience, our country is becoming re-intrigued with Merton. Pope Francis spoke of him in his historic address to our nation’s Congress. The monks at Gethsemane have said that some of their visitors had never heard of Merton before the Pope’s address.

I should probably quit babbling and get to the quote, shouldn’t I? Fine.

As a Trappist, Merton knew a thing or two about silence. I found this quote from him:

“The world of men has forgotten the joys of silence, the peace of solitude, which is necessary, to some extent, for the fullness of human living. Man cannot be happy for long unless he is in contact with the springs of spiritual life, which are hidden in the depths of his own soul. If man is exiled constantly from his own home, locked out of his spiritual solitude, he ceases to be a true person.”

Read that again. Slowly.

Okay, now do it again. Seriously—do it.

In just a couple of sentences, he says quite a bit. First, he speaks of men forgetting the joys of silence. I find this interesting, because as I’ve said, silence is hard to find in our world—even at times, in a seminary that shares space with a monastery in the middle of nowhere. I have an endless supply of information and entertainment at my fingertips and in my pocket. Our world has become one that can view silence as something uncomfortable and awkward instead of peaceful and life giving. Really, over time, I’ve come to experience it in the way that Merton describes—joyful.

Merton then makes the bold claim that silence is necessary for experiencing the fullness of human living. In other words, for us to be fully alive, we need silence. Saint Irenaeus is attributed with having said, “The glory of God is man fully alive.” So, it would seem that, even to glorify God, which should be the aim of all that we do, we need to experience silence—a silence where we encounter God—even a silence where we encounter our very selves. I say ‘our very selves’ because of what Merton immediately follows with—that man cannot be happy unless he is in contact with the springs of spiritual life, hidden in his own soul. If you haven’t realized it yet, there’s more to life than what we experience as we walk this earth during the time we have been given. Eventually, our bodies will die, and our spirits will live on. We are more than our physical bodies—we are spiritual beings as well, and if we neglect that aspect of ourselves—if we don’t nourish that part of us which will live forever, it makes sense that authentic happiness and true fulfillment would be unattainable.

Two Silences.

Back to the car ride.

While I was driving, after I thought a little bit about silence itself, I thought about how, really, at least in my own experiences, there are two types of silence—a sort of dualism of silence. (Work that philosophy degree!) One of these silences is good—the other, not so much.

The “good” silence is the one which has already been spoken of. It is the silence that brings about an authentic happiness and fullness of our humanity. It is the silence that Merton claims we need so desperately.

The second silence is not so good, and really, it isn’t very helpful. This silence is one that can lead to inauthenticity. It is a silence that can risk causing more destruction than good. In some ways, it is a deafening silence—one that can very well take over everything else.

Deafening Silence?

The concept of a deafening silence is odd—for something to be deafening means that it is causing such a great noise, that hearing anything else is impossible. How could it be, then, that this word could be attached to silence, which is a lack of noise altogether?

I think it is possible, because the type of silence I speak of here is not what we would normally think of. This silence is not the one that involves a quiet ride alone to the local Wal-Mart, nor is it the silence that will help us get in touch with the depths of who we are. Rather, this silence is one that affects the entirety of the way we live our lives.

Earlier, I mentioned that this silence is one that could lead to inauthenticity, and I think that this helps in an attempt to describe exactly what it is. It seems to me that a deafening silence is primarily something in our lives that we should acknowledge, but we do not. It is something that affects who we are, but we choose to think that it does not, making it difficult for us to authentically be who we are, which in turn, makes it difficult for us to be fully alive. (This discussion of inauthenticity reminds me of a previous post, where I describe the importance of authenticity, particularly in terms of ministry and coming to an encounter with Christ. It can be found here.)

Experience.

I think that the best way to describe this unhelpful type of silence—the deafening silence—is to speak from experience.

A couple of weeks ago, after I finished at my ministry assignment, I crossed the river to the beautiful, immaculate, breath-taking proof of God’s love that is the Commonwealth of Kentucky. In Louisville, one of my brother seminarians and our Archdiocesan Director of Counseling hosted an event called “Talking About Suicide”. During the evening, they spoke of the psychological and theological aspects of someone taking their own life. In other words, they spoke of what leads a person to do this, and what the Church says about it. They also spoke of resources that are available to help people who find themselves in those situations.

Most interestingly, however, they spoke of something I have experienced, but never really thought of—the lack of conversation about this topic.

There’s a deafening silence about suicide.

Apparently, a few decades ago, it was something similar with cancer. If a loved one was diagnosed with cancer, people didn’t talk about it. My dad is currently battling cancer, and I can tell you that things have changed—people are talking about it. People are praying for him. People are working to discover and praying for the discovery of a cure. It’s something tragic, but it’s something that we aren’t afraid to talk about.

Suicide is different. I know from experience.

My Deafening Silence.

As many know, eight years ago, my brother took his own life. (I wrote more about it on this past year’s anniversary of his death, which can be found here.)

When my brother died, the cultural deafening silence of suicide took effect. Life went back to normal, although it would never be normal again—at least not in the way that it was before. School counselors told me to simply not think about it, because I had “more important” things to worry about—because apparently my middle school homework was more important than a relative’s life.

I’m sure that they didn’t mean any harm by it, because it is what the world expects. A loved one taking their own life is supposed to become the “dirty” family secret. It is supposed to become something that isn’t talked about—even with one another. It’s almost as if we are supposed to pretend that our loved one moved away—somewhere out of cellphone and internet range.

And that’s the way it was.

After my brother’s funeral, we really never talked about it again. Once again, I don’t believe in the slightest that there were any malicious intentions behind it. I think that everyone wanted to process things in their own way, and believed that we had to fall into the societal expectation of silence on the matter.

I never spoke of my brother’s death until I was a senior in high school, at our senior retreat. One reason was that my brother’s story fit perfectly with the topic I was asked to speak on as a retreat leader. But it wasn’t the only reason—I wanted to break out of the deafening silence that had controlled me for four long and painful years. I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to end the lie that talking about it wasn’t okay.

So, I talked about it. I told his story. It wasn’t easy—I cried. Of course, I felt that social stereotype that it’s not okay for men to cry. But, I knew that as every tear came out of my eye, I was a step closer to breaking free.

Since I was finally beginning to break free from my deafening silence, I was finally able to become comfortable talking about it, and seeking help for learning how to process it, how it affects me, and really, for how to grieve so many years later.

Making the Silence Worse.

Over the past eight years, there have been things that have made my own deafening silence worse.

What’s amazing about the topic of suicide especially is that our culture both doesn’t talk about it, but talks about it at the same time.

As I’ve said before, out world is one that does not talk about suicide. It’s something uncomfortable to deal with in a world that avoids discomfort at all costs.

Yet, at the same time, we do talk about it, but in the wrong way. And this is what makes the deafening silence worse.

Your jokes aren’t funny.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone make a joke about terminal illness. If someone did, I’m sure that they would quickly be scolded, and in the world of the internet and social media, depending on who they are, they could even risk having their reputation or careers ruined.

Yet, the topic of someone taking their own life is somehow “hilarious”.

Eight years ago, my brother was in pain. For the past eight years, my family has been in pain. Eight years ago, my brother was in an unexplainable state of psychological dismay, and certainly was not in the right frame of mind when he took his own life. I don’t think anyone in the right frame of mind would have the guts to do it.

But it’s funny. It’s funny to joke about someone killing themselves—its hysterical to tell someone to go do it.

Is it funny that my brother and my family have been through such pain? Is it funny that I had to sit and hold my mother’s hand as she cried? Is it funny that even eight years later, I still have nightmares? Is it funny that if a movie has a hanging scene in it, I have to leave the room? Is it funny that sometimes I stop in my tracks, because I see someone who looks just like him? What about when I hear someone that sounds just like him, and I can’t focus the rest of the day?

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Bull crap.

Now, I know, a lot of times we do it because we don’t think about it. We do it because our world says it is okay. And I’ll admit, I did it before my family experienced it. But as a sign that hung from my middle school home economics teacher’s ceiling said, “What’s popular isn’t always right, and what’s right isn’t always popular.” (And no, I don’t have a memory that is necessarily good…I have a memory that for some reason remembers completely random things.)

If the only talking we do about something so sensitive is making fun of it, then what progress are we going to make? What pains are we going to start healing? How are we to end the silence if we make it even harder to break through that door?

There’s More…

I would be silly to think that something such as the issue of suicide is the only deafening silence in our world.

I have the temptation to think that each one of us, in some way and to some degree, have a sort of deafening silence. We all have something that we should deal with, but we don’t.

We’re jealous of the things that others have. We think we should have been the one to get that promotion at work. We gossip incessantly. We complain about what we don’t have instead of appreciating what we do have.

We refuse to acknowledge that we have enough—that more isn’t always better. We judge before we know.

We’re prideful. And why wouldn’t we be? We’re perfect, after all.

We have an addiction.

In some ways, some things are natural, I know, and I’m not saying we need to beat up on ourselves. Yet, there is a fine line between something just being part of who we are and what we do, and it becoming something that keeps us from becoming who we are meant to be—something that keeps us from being fully alive—something that risks becoming a deafening silence.

Sometimes our jealousy prevents us from appreciation. Our gossip prevents us from discovering truth and creating valuable relationships. Our need for more neglects the reality that we have enough, and there are some who have nothing. Our hidden addictions affect how we treat others.

Breaking the Silence.

It is possible that we have a deafening silence and don’t even realize it. Now, don’t go off and be paranoid. If we do realize that we have a deafening silence, we have to work to break it. That doesn’t happen over night, and sometimes, it can be discouraging. But, we must stop our deafening silence from becoming a defeating silence, because in the end, we are bigger than whatever the issue is, as is God to an even greater extent. We must also not allow our deafening silence to become a defining silence, for the exact same reason.

The important thing to do is ask for help. Sometimes that may involve simply talking to a friend about it, maybe asking them to hold you accountable. Other times, it may involve seeking professional advice and counseling. And, no matter the stigma our world puts on it—there is absolutely nothing wrong with it.

In addition to that, however, it is important that we don’t forget about God. He isn’t One to abandon us, and if we ask, He will help us. (That doesn’t necessarily mean that we will get the answer we want. Usually His answer is better than what we could have envisioned, anyhow.)

This past weekend, I was home from the seminary, and got to go to Mass at my home parish. The presider and preacher was my pastor, and I have to say, his homily was moving, to say the least. Not only that, but it also got me thinking about this whole topic I’ve been discussing.

The Gospel this past weekend tells the story of Bartimaeus, a man who suffered from blindness. In his homily, my pastor made an interesting point—Bartimaeus calls out for help, and Jesus asks him a question, and it wasn’t the first time God had asked a question.

In the Old Testament, God the Father asks a question as well. After Adam and Eve blew it and ate from that one tree in the garden, they hid. God called out “Where are you?”, to which Adam replied, essentially, “I’m over here!” (Seriously, he immediately blew his cover…what was even the point of hiding? I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt and going with the idea that the rules of hide and seek weren’t created yet.)

In the Gospel from this weekend, Jesus asks another important question. He asks, “What do you want me to do for you?”

What can we gather from this? First, God doesn’t want us to hide. He wants to know where we are so that He can follow up with that second question—“What do you want me to do for you?” It isn’t asked, as my pastor said, in a condescending or angry way, but in a loving and tender way, because God wants to help us, but He also gave us free will—so we have to ask.

But, why is breaking our deafening silence so important? Why can’t we just keep living our lives the way we are right now? I mean, it seems to be going pretty well, right?

I think of something the great British author C.S. Lewis said:

“I have learned that while those who speak about one’s miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more.”

Don’t be afraid to be Bartimaeus. Be Bartimaeus to the best of your ability. Call out for help when you need it, because you won’t be left alone. Why let the deafening silence keep you blind, when you could be seeing with a new, beautiful vision?

The Good Silence.

I said earlier, that over time and with patience and learning, I’ve found silence to be as Merton describes it. It’s been a while, so here’s the quote again:

“The world of men has forgotten the joys of silence, the peace of solitude, which is necessary, to some extent, for the fullness of human living. Man cannot be happy for long unless he is in contact with the springs of spiritual life, which are hidden in the depths of his own soul. If man is exiled constantly from his own home, locked out of his spiritual solitude, he ceases to be a true person.”

I have found that in this good silence—one the develops an interior depth of reflection that allows us to encounter our true selves and even God—is able to happen, at least in my life, because I’ve begun the process of breaking out of my own deafening silence. (I say ‘begun’ here, because in some ways, it’s a life-long process). The deafening silence is something that keeps us from being fully alive—it keeps us from being able to give ourselves, when we need to, to this good silence.

Really, this is the way to help us in travelling that road I spoke of at the beginning of all of this. The road that leads to our fulfillment and authentic happiness is like my road to Wal-Mart, with twists, turns, and hills. Yet, it is a beautiful one that is worth travelling, and travelling it becomes more manageable when we are more fully ourselves. It becomes easier to experience fulfillment and happiness when we are being authentic.

I know, this has been a long post. If you’ve endured it this long, thank you. Although it has been long, I think it is important stuff to think about. It is important for us to learn how to enter into silence, and it’s also important for us to recognize and work on overcoming, those things that prevent us from the good silence, which are the deafening silences of our lives. And it all came from a long drive to Wal-Mart in Southern Indiana.

I guess living in the middle of nowhere isn’t so bad, after all.

In all things, may God be glorified.

Amen.

#silence #merton #seminary #saintbenedict