An Experiment with Silence (Part II of II)

For the first week of Lent I practiced silence. That means I didn’t talk for a week! (Well, at least not with my Mission Year team, but that is pretty much my whole life.) In Part I of this post, I wrote about why I chose silence. In Part II I will explore what I learned.

I had hoped that my silence would create moments of reflection. Instead of speaking, I would pause to consider the words that I wanted to speak. In this way, I would learn from my silence. I even hoped to create more space for prayer in the midst of interaction. I thought, “Silence will leave so much room in my brain for other activity!”

In actuality, that extra room in my brain was devoted to finding other ways to communicate. It takes a lot of work to be silent! There are constantly questions of how to engage with what’s going on without speaking. In fact, my first reaction was to be somber and non-participatory. But I quickly realized that silent doesn't mean non-existent! I was still present, and I still had to engage.

How did I engage? For starters, I found myself laughing a lot more. I consider myself a fairly active listener, verbally affirming what people say as they share with me. Laughter is a great way to do that without words. It wasn’t a conscious choice on my part; I wasn’t wracking my brain to figure out how to affirm people. It just happened. I laughed more.

Similarly, I smiled more often. My somber approach to silence quickly got old, and I embraced my usual warmth and felt a need to share in some way that I was enjoying what was going on. Again, not with much thought or intention behind it, I smiled more.

I also touched more. In some ways this was just practical. Bereft of my ability to call someone’s name or refer to them using their name, I had to tap them to get their attention or grasp their arm to show of whom I “spoke.” But touch communicates much more than information, and my touches, like my smiles, became a way to connect with people without words. Instead of showing that I cared by asking, “How was your day?” I would pat a teammate on the back or gently hold their shoulder for a moment to connect with them.

By removing my voice, I remembered that there are many more ways to communicate. We often choose what’s easiest and forget that some of the more meaningful ways to “speak” actually don’t involve words.

Silence also taught me trust. With words we say so many little things: “God bless you” when some sneezes. “Thank you” when someone blesses you. “Yes” when someone inquires if you’re finished with your plate. “Okay” when someone reassures that they’ll do the dishes later.

Without the ability to say those simple things, I had to trust my teammates in simple ways: that they knew I gave them my blessing when they sneezed, that I was thankful their blessing, that I heard their inquiries and would make my objections known if I had any.

But when I had objections, I usually had to extend grace. Conflict resolution, something my teammates and I value and practice, becomes incredibly difficult without words. When I was annoyed or hurt or misunderstood, I just had to let it go. Sometimes I was tempted to record the transgressions to share at the end of my experiment, but I took those times as opportunities to extend grace and forgive.

Something else that happened: I got lonely. I didn't spend any less time with my team during the week. But after a while, even laughter, smiles, and touch could not sustain me. I needed interaction! On the last night of my fast I did some incredibly silly things with a few of my housemates that stayed up later. While they tried to read or write or text friends, I kept doing ridiculous things to get their attention because I had gotten so little of it over the past few days. It wasn’t as though they had been ignoring me. Without words I drew less attention, so I was making up for it that night. My silliness was an expression of an isolation that I often felt during the week.

At certain times others joined in solidarity with my silence, sometimes with intention and sometimes with no other option. A few moments with others that I deeply appreciated during my silence:

• Denise sat with my at the table while I finished up my meal after everyone else had finished eating.
• Sophie and I walked to church together on Wednesday night and worshiped together at the service.
• On our long commute home from our weekly citywide gathering on Thursday night, Walter sat in silence beside me on the trolley…without music. He always listens to music on the trolley, so his simple act showed solidarity with my silence.
• Matt, from the Kensington team, came to our house on our Sabbath to watch Star Wars with me. All we did was sit and watch the movie.

There were moments when it was much more difficult than others to keep my mouth shut. Those moments usually came when I knew something that no one else knew. It killed me to not share. It was so painful sometimes that I had to leave the room to keep quiet. Those moments were not unexpected. In fact, you may remember from my first blog about this that I hoped this experiment would expose my pride and humble me.

Those moments became opportunities to practice submission. On one level I submitted to silence, restraining myself from sharing knowledge. On another level I submitted to what was agreed upon or decided by my team. I had to abide by a decision that was made without my special knowledge, a painful yet useful practice.

New ways of communicating, trust, appreciation, humility: these things I learned. So what now? 

Well, silence was just the beginning of my Lenten journey this year. There are still several more weeks until Easter, and my team and I continue to withhold negative comments about others or ourselves. My silence was impactful indeed, but I can't continue in life without speaking. Speech is powerful, as James wrote in the Bible, "The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one's life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell" (3:6). I've heard of Christian communities who live forever in silence to keep from unleashing the potential evil of the tongue.

But I don't want to live in fear of my potential sin. I'm striving toward the perfection of my whole being, including my tongue. Silence was impactful as an experiment, but ultimately the goal is not silence but refined speech. I'll continue to say hurtful things, I'm sure, but little by little I hope my words sound like those of Christ.

Want to read Part I? Click here! 

An Experiment with Silence (Part I)

This year I started off Lent in silence. I don’t just mean I took some time on the morning of Ash Wednesday to quietly pray by myself. I mean that for the first week of Lent I didn’t speak—at least not very much. For several reasons, I decided that experimenting with silence would be helpful. This post will explore some of those reasons.

I first considered practicing silence several months ago. You may remember early on in my Mission Year experience a post about solitude and new prayer practices I had enjoyed at a retreat one weekend. In the extended time of silence, I had the opportunity to explore prayer, scripture reading, meditation, and contemplation in ways that I longed to for a while. Excited by my experiences, I continued to read about solitude and silence and found Richard Foster’s suggestion to try it out for a day. I wanted to learn more about myself and God through silence, and I casually tossed around the idea of prolonged silence with my Mission Year team who supported the idea.

Time went on, and the experiment and excitement was filed away. Now I'm reading through Foster’s classic book on spiritual disciplines, Celebration of Discipline. When I reached the chapter on solitude, I decided to take up the idea of silence once more. The timing was perfect. The week after I read the chapter, Lent started. And silence aligned well with the fast that my church is practicing this Lenten season: no negative words about people (others or self). I figured silence would be a perfect way to launch into this fast.

Why?

I was excited about silence for several reasons:

The Lord has been convicting me about my speech for several years now. I have realized that sarcasm, playful jokes at the expense of others, and flippant responses like “Your mom!” may seem harmless but actually can be deeply damaging, especially over time. The way we talk to one another is so ingrained in us that I haven’t yet found a good approach to changing it. Silence seemed simple—and drastic—enough to make some dent.

I’ve also become more aware over the past few months of the ways that I use speech to manipulate and convince people. I enjoy ideas, words, and communication. That’s why I write so much. My strong grasp of how to use language can be a tool for my selfish desires. What is a good thing can be used toward a not good end. I've noticed I use language as a way to control conversation and steer it where I would have it go, especially in a conversation over some disagreement. Living in community, we have many discussions where we make group decisions, and in those times have I realized this trend.

I fear the way I use language. My skill in communication gives me power, and I don’t want to use it take advantage of others. So I silenced myself. As an act of submission, as a tool to expose my speech patterns, as a reminder to listen, I silenced myself.

Well, not totally. Mostly just within my house was I silent. I still had to talk at work and church, and when neighbors came over I would entertain them just the same. You may be able to imagine that it’s kind of difficult to explain to someone why you won’t speak to them…without using words. But whenever possible, and always when I was with my team, I was silent. I participated normally in our weekly schedule—morning devotions, team meetings, family dinner, grocery list-making, even curriculum discussions!—silently.

And I learned so much. But I’ll save those thoughts for another blog. Watch for part II, and if you want an email notification when it’s posted, use the form box in the top right corner of this page.

UPDATE: Read Part II by clicking here!

Thanksgiving

As we approach Thanksgiving, I offer some thanks for these experiences I (probably) would not have had were it not for Mission Year:

• I’ll start with the obvious: I moved to Philadelphia and took up residence in a row house with six other people I didn't know.
• Raised $10,000+! (If part of it came from you, then thanks!)
• Volunteered over 250 hours.
• Hand-washed laundry for the first time because I had waited a month and ran out of clean underwear.
• Became an urban biker, turning my 30-minute (one-way) trolley ride into a 30-minute workout!
• Fasted from technology for 8 weeks and simplified my use of technology thereafter. (Read more here.)
• Tried water ice, a Philadelphia frozen treat.
• Had the thought, “In this setting, I’m the only white man,” about once a day.
• Went without a shower for three days for lack of heat or hot water on a cold winter weekend.
• Wrote out a covenant with my teammates. (Read it here.)
• Got a library card at the Free Library of Philadelphia…and paid $3.00 in overdue fines. That’s 5% of my monthly stipend!
• Earned back one of those dollars by eating a whole onion, raw and covered in chocolate. (Don’t ask.)
• Saw seven of my neighbors join my church, Grace Christian Fellowship. (Read more here.)
• Developed enough cooking skills to look into the fridge and come up with a decently tasty dish with what I found there.
• Worked through conflict with a teammate derived from a game of Monopoly.
• Spent a day on the streets with new homeless friends. (Read more here.)
• Embraced regular solitude, silence, and new prayer practices. (Read more here.)
• Mastered SEPTA, or Southeast Pennsylvania Transportation Authority.

I am thankful for all of these experiences, and they are just the tip of the iceberg. They don’t begin to explain the spiritual experiences for which I am so much more grateful. It’s only been a couple of months, but I already have much for which to be thankful.

I am also thankful for you, who follow my blog and support these experiences and others through prayer, letters, financial gifts, phone calls, and other encouragement. Keep it coming, and offer a prayer of Thanksgiving for what the Lord is doing in Southwest Philly this year.

Reflections on Solitude

Last weekend my team gathered with the two other teams in Philly to take a retreat of silence. We drove about 2 hours out of the city, past the suburbs, to the hilly countryside of rural York County, PA (on the other side of Lancaster County). Recently we’ve been reading Henri Nouwen’s book The Way of the Heart, in which he discusses the practices and stories of the Desert Fathers (and Mothers) who retreated from society in the 200s to seek the Lord with the whole of their lives, uninfluenced by the tainting effects of the world. We have discussed what we can learn from such communities and have adapted practices like a daily quiet hour every morning to allow space for solitude in our otherwise busy schedules.

These are elements of Mission Year that have been a pleasant surprise. There are many reasons I applied to MY: relocation to an under-resourced neighborhood, living in Christian community, cross-cultural church experience, work experience in a non-profit…but spiritual disciplines has surfaced as a bonus to my MY venture!

This retreat served as a culmination of all that we’ve learned so far about ancient practices in solitude. As an introvert who uses solitude and isolation often to rest and recharge, I entered the retreat excited to engage in some of the new practices I’ve learned about.

Early on in the twenty-four hour retreat I realized that I have mastered the physical aspect of solitude. I fully participate in the busy-ness of our society, and as an introvert I cope with it by retreating to my empty room. I often choose the comfort of a quiet room to the stimulation of a crowd. I’ve grown very comfortable with hanging out with just myself. While others on the retreat expressed discomfort with silence or isolation, it was normal for me.

I may have mastered the physical aspect of solitude, but the busy-ness I faced at the retreat was busy-ness of my mind. Usually in my introverted isolation, my main task is thinking. I’m constantly figuring things out, and I find peace in the solutions I come up with. Often in prayer I struggle to steady my mind and thoughts. I am so used to racing through ideas that I often find myself trying to remember how I digressed so far from the starting point. I realized that I use practices such as journaling, scripture study, and praying from lists to help focus my thoughts. I avoid open, unstructured practices because I know my mind will leave them.

Considering these things, I prayed “I need a solitude that is not so selfishly about me figuring things out. Lord, open me up, out of my head, to encounter you—not me—in solitude.”

The hours that followed were filled with practices such as breath prayer, prayers from the saints, and assuming physical positions to express the attitudes of my heart. I spent time (lots of time) clearing my mind and when I finally did, I asked, “What next?” My runaway thinking patterns finally subdued, I wanted to do something with the silence of my mind! In the face of my persistent busy-ness, I sought more patience and contentment with simplicity of prayer. I had to accept the idea of having no agenda to my time except to empty my mind.

I am excited for this process. The retreat gave me time to explore things I’ve wanted to do for a while. And ultimately my question, “What next?” is not entirely foolhardy. Nouwen writes that the objective of solitude is what he calls “prayer of the heart,” which forms and re-forms the one praying. I concluded the retreat excited to keep pushing toward transformation through prayer practices. I have committed time each week on my Friday Sabbaths to these practices, seeking the ‘way of the heart.’ As you pray for me and my team, pray not just for relationships or safety or opportunities to love others. Pray also for the formation of our hearts through encounter with God in prayer.