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! 

A Day in the Park

On Saturday the Mission Year teams in Philadelphia embarked on a retreat of solidarity with those experiencing homelessness. We went into Center City, Philadelphia’s downtown area, broke off into pairs, and visited several parks that several folks call their homes. Our goal was simply to talk to people. We took nothing with us: no clothes, blankets, hygiene products, or food to donate, realizing that such items create a position of power. With nothing to give but ourselves, we ventured into new relationships.

I was paired with Matt, one of the guys from another Philly team. At our first destination, we spent some time observing interactions within the park. This stillness in the midst of a busy city center felt uncomfortable at first. Most people had some objective, some place to go. Our discomfort quickly slipped away, and we began to appreciate being in the city with nothing to do. We soon realized that was an important step toward solidarity with those experiencing homelessness.

Our first two friends were a pair of old white men who came to the U.S. from the British Isles several decades ago. They have both been on the streets for a long time and when they me a few months ago they appreciated each other’s company enough to stick together. We enjoyed several hours talking to them, and learned about a simple life comprised of Sudoku, spending retirement checks on motel rooms, finding bars that allow you to watch soccer games, and behaving enough to be able to use the bathroom at Barnes and Noble.

We continued with a few more interactions like this, and gave away our simple bag lunches to a diabetic women who panhandled to buy her insulin needles. My most meaningful experiences came toward the end of our day. Matt spotted a large concentration of homeless folks off the beaten path from the more touristy parks where we had spent much of our day. Still very much exposed to the view of the public, we stumbled upon the hang-out spot (and, at night, bunking area) of about 60 people experiencing homelessness: men, women, black, white, young, old. Somewhat weary from the day, we entered the space not intending to interact any longer but to just be there and observe.

Matt and I picked different corners and sat down, positioned to see and experience as much as we could. Soon after I sat down (and curled up as much as I could to curb the cold), I was twice approached by a man asking if I was “looking to earn a couple of dollars.” He thought I was. Not long after I told him I wasn’t interested, another man asked me if I knew the schedule of a local homeless ministry. He, too, assumed I was homeless. Although many would be offended, and in other context I may have been, in this case I was pleased! As a college-educated white male, my interactions in Mission Year are often colored by the power my physical features and speech patterns communicate. But not this time. The only people who hung out where I was had no other place to go, or they came to give out food. Because I had nothing to give and I wasn’t going anywhere, I had to have belonged.

This location is known for its homeless crowd, so folks often pull off from the busy road and pass out donations—usually food. Having given away our lunches, Matt and I got in line when one group set up a table to distribute brown bag lunches and hot drinks.

In line in front of me was a younger white man, whom I assumed was weathered by many nights on the streets. He turned around and asked if we were also living in that area. When we said, “no,” he assumed we were volunteers. We left our status ambiguous, hesitant to reveal that we were accepting donated food to join in solidarity with those who live off donations, an admittedly controversial position to be in.

His spirits were low, so he didn’t say much, but I could sense a desire for interaction. Just a few minutes into our conversation, sparse with words, he had shared that this was in fact his first week on the streets of Philadelphia. Kevin was his name, and he had recently moved into his mom’s house, trying to get away from his heroin-addicted brother. When he relapsed into his own “habit,” his mom kicked him out. He went to the only place he knew he would be somewhat safe, fed by donations, and free to figure out if he wanted to check into rehab.

This story was hard for me to swallow. I had never met anyone who had used hard drugs, much less been addicted to them (at least not that I knew of—I’m sure there’s been someone…). But he was so simple, kind, and warm. It broke my heart to see Kevin in this place, and I knew so little of what I could do to help. So Matt and I did what we could. We shared a meal with him. Having received the same donated food as him, there was no power dynamic to our interaction with him. We just ate lunch together and raved about how much we appreciated a warm drink in our hands. We didn’t even say much. We didn’t offer the Good News of Jesus or even a word of encouragement. Although sometimes I wish I had verbally communicated some hope for his life, I sill appreciate the utter simplicity of our meal together.

As much as it pained me to hear Kevin’s story, it hurt so much more to walk away. I wanted so badly to stay and offer the only thing he needed: solidarity. Lonely, uncertain, and afraid, Kevin needed a friend at this confusing time in his life. Matt and I could provide that for the duration of one meal, but Kevin needs it for a lifetime. Alas, our retreat was ending, and we had to return to the group to process our experiences together.

A sign a created in response to my day, expressing how I felt about it.

I still don’t know what to think of my experiences that day. I don’t have much time to return and offer much more to Kevin than my prayers, and I do that often. He mentioned that he was considering checking into rehab, so I pray that he can overcome addiction. I pray that he will encounter the Living God, the only entity larger than his addiction.

He also mentioned that he wants something better for his kids, although he doesn’t have any kids. He spoke of his future kids—kids he would have after he got his life together. I pray for his hope of a better life to intensify and be fueled by faith in Jesus Christ.

I ask you to join me in prayer for Kevin, and all the others in his position, in Philadelphia and in cities around the world.