The Spirituality of Silence and Solitude

IN PRAISE OF SOLITUDE

In praise of solitude, to which we have been called in a special way, we will say but little; since we know that it has already obtained enthusiastic recommendation from many saints and wise men of such great authority, that we are not worthy to follow in their steps.

For, as you know, in the Old Testament, and still more so in the New, almost all of God’s secrets of major importance and hidden meaning were revealed to His servants, not in the turbulence of the crowd but in the silence of solitude; and you know, too, that these same servants of God, when they wished to penetrate more profoundly some spiritual truth, or to pray with greater freedom, or to become a stranger to things earthly in an ardent elevation of the soul, nearly always fled the hindrance of the multitude for the benefits of solitude.

Thus—to illustrate by some examples—when seeking a place for meditation, Isaac went out to a field alone (Genesis 24:63); and this, one may assume, was his normal practice, and not an isolated incident. Likewise, it was when Jacob was alone, having dispatched his retinue ahead of him, that he saw God face to face (Genesis 32:24-30), and was thus favored with a blessing and a new and better name, thus receiving more in one moment of solitude than in a whole lifetime of social contact.

Scripture also tells us how Moses, Elijah, and Elisha esteemed solitude, and how conducive they found it to an even deeper penetration of the divine secrets; and note, too, what perils constantly surrounded them when among men, and how God visited them when alone.

Overwhelmed by the spectacle of God’s indignation, Jeremiah, too, sat alone (Jeremiah 15:17). He asked that his head might be a fountain, his eyes a spring for tears, to mourn the slain of his people (cf. Jeremiah 9:1); and that he might the more freely give himself to this holy work he exclaimed, “O, that I had in the desert a wayfarer’s shelter!” (cf. Jeremiah 9:2), clearly implying that he could not do this in a city, and thus indicating what an impediment companions are to the gift of tears.

Jeremiah also said, “It is good for a man to await the salvation of God in silence” (Lamentations 3:26)—which longing solitude greatly favors; and he adds, “It is good also for the man who has borne the yoke from early youth” (Lamentations 3:27)—a very consoling text for us, many of whom have embraced this vocation from early manhood; and yet again he speaks saying, “The solitary will sit and keep silence, for he will lift himself above himself” (Lamentations 3:28). Here the prophet makes reference to nearly all that is best in our life: peace, solitude, silence, and ardent thirst for the things of heaven.

Later, as an example of the supreme patience and perfect humility of those formed in this school, Jeremiah speaks of “Jeering of the multitude and cheek buffeted in scorn, bravely endured.”

John the Baptist, greater than whom, the Savior tells us, has not arisen among those born of women (Matthew 11:11), is another striking example of the safety and value of solitude. Trusting not in the fact that divine prophecy had foretold that he would be filled with the Holy Spirit from his mother’s womb, and that he would go before Christ the Lord in the spirit and power of Elijah (cf. Luke 1:11-17); nor in the fact that his birth had been miraculous, and that his parents were saints, he fled the society of men as something dangerous and chose the security of desert solitude (cf. Luke 1:80); and, in actual fact, as long as he dwelt alone in the desert, he knew neither danger nor death.

Moreover the virtue and merit he attained there are amply attested by his unique call to baptize Christ, and by his acceptance of death for the sake of justice. For, schooled in sanctity in solitude, he alone of all men became worthy to wash Christ (cf. Matthew 3:13-17)—Christ who washes all things clean—and worthy, too, to undergo prison bonds and death itself in the cause of truth (cf. Matthew 14:3-12).

Jesus himself, God and Lord, whose virtue was above both the assistance of solitude and the hindrance of social contact, wished nevertheless, to teach us by his example; so before beginning to preach or work miracles he was, as it were, proved by a period of fasting and temptation in the solitude of the desert (cf. Matthew 4:1-11); similarly, Scripture speaks of him leaving his disciples and ascending the mountain alone to pray (cf. Matthew 14:23). Then there was that striking example of the value of solitude as a help to prayer when Christ, just as his Passion was approaching, left even his Apostles to pray alone (cf. Matthew 26:39-44)—a clear indication that solitude is to be preferred for prayer even to the company of Apostles.

We cannot here pass over in silence a mystery that merits our deepest consideration; the fact that this same Lord and Savior of mankind deigned to live as the first exemplar of our Carthusian life when he retired alone to the desert and gave himself to prayer and the interior life; treating his body hard with fasting, vigils and other penances; and conquering the devil and his temptations with spiritual arms (cf. Matthew 4:1-11).

And now, dear reader, ponder and reflect on the great spiritual benefits derived from solitude by the holy and venerable Fathers—Paul, Antony, Hilarion, Benedict, and others without number—and you will readily agree that for the spiritual savor of psalmody; for penetrating the message of the written page; for kindling the fire of fervent prayer; for engaging in profound meditation; for losing oneself in mystic contemplation; for obtaining the heavenly dew of purifying tears—nothing is more helpful than solitude.

The reader should not rest content with the above examples in praise of our vocation; let him gather together many more, either from present experience or from the pages of Holy Writ.

Guigo I (1083-1136), fifth Prior of La Grande Chartreuse

Carthusian Statutes 2:1-12

A WAITING SILENCE

The most obvious quality that people notice and feel about a hermitage is its silence. This is not merely the silence of the place, or even the silence of the hermit in his cell; very often it’s the silence of God. We go to a hermitage expecting to hear God’s voice, and when all we get is silence, we’re surprised and shocked. It’s easy to doubt one’s faith at such moments. We’re disappointed with God. We expected better of Him. After all, we’ve gone to considerable time and trouble to establish contact with the Holy One. We begin to wonder if there’s something wrong with us that makes God unwilling to show Himself. Or (worse yet) maybe this whole God-thing is a delusion. Even people with a lifelong commitment to their faith can begin to doubt it when they come up against a silence that is so complete, so deep, and in response to such earnest pleading.

I remember the story the Desert Father told about himself when, as a seminarian, he went through a time of arid meditation. In response, his spiritual director told him simply to lengthen the time of meditation. The answer to silence, it seems, is more of the same. It’s hard for those of us who visit for short spells to break through God’s silence by extending our periods of prayer. But even in a few days we encounter God’s silence in a manner that will stay with us long after we leave. Bethlehem Hermitage is different. When we’re away from it, in the confusion of our daily occupations, we don’t hear God because we’re not listening or haven’t got time to listen. His silence is a sign of absence or irrelevance. When we’re at the hermitage we don’t hear God because we are listening. His silence then is a sign of His mystery. His silence becomes revelation.

After we get past the first shock of it, the silence of God has its own particular character. It’s a waiting silence—the kind of silence, for instance, one experiences in a room during the moment before someone speaks. Lying in my hermitage at night I hear the hunters’ guns in the woods, and I reflect that God’s silence is not the silence that sweeps in after the explosion, but the silence that builds up before the next one. It’s a different quality of silence.

The second great lesson we learn is how to break the silence. If this silence has a deep and sacred quality, then the first word spoken to break the silence is crucially important. It falls on us like thunder. At Bethlehem the silence is often broken by a phrase from the liturgy or Scripture. We who have been waiting with some disappointment for God to break His silence are often jerked awake when the first words of worship sweep over us. The shepherds at the first Bethlehem must have felt something of that shock when their silence was interrupted by angels.

God’s silence will always remain a problem. It’s disappointing, annoying, uncalled-for, yet also mysterious and appealing. His silence is more profound than ours. Often we leave Bethlehem with still no word from Him. But at least the silence is more tangible. To use a common expression, it grows on us, and we know God is inside it somewhere. We leave Bethlehem with the feeling that we have become the silence. We have become, ourselves, hermitages where God sits in silence, and His silence has become our Word.

One can learn the discipline of silence by faithfully reflecting on God’s presence in word and works, and take the time to listen and wait patiently for His answer. One would grow in awareness of this lived reality and may even try to extend these valuable periods of silence alone with the Alone.

Layman, Husband, Father, Editor

Source: In the Silence of Solitude: Contemporary Witnesses of the Desert, compiled and edited by Eugene L. Romano, HBHJ (New York: Alba House, 1995), pages 24-25.

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In order to hear God’s Word to us, we must accustom ourselves to a life of regular prayer in silence and solitude.

“If you’re too busy to pray, you’re too busy.”—Mother Teresa of Calcutta