A Quickening Stillness amidst the Quicksand of Silence

Ruminations from within Centering Prayer

Songbirds signal the dawn ahead of the sun. We arrive singly with hellos and comments about the temperature, the talk of folk only freshly awake. Through heavy wooden doors we leave the morning chill for church basement odors—moldering wood, children’s crafts, mechanical closets adjacent to storerooms of folding chairs and Christmas garlands. The chapel seats fifty, maybe. Only four of us have gathered today to pray, not us alone, but we few gathered with centuries of saints from every corner of the earth. It’s quite a crowd.

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Attention is the currency of affection. That is why we pay it. The muffled cry of the wrongfully ignored asks, “Are you paying attention to me?” It doesn’t make sense except in terms of compensation: “If you want my love, can I not expect in return your concentrated interest in my world?” An inattentive mind translates into the slouching language of disinterest in the body. No relationship is safe amidst such neglect.

This exchange applies in another direction as well, for human connections mirror a more ancient union. Attention, it turns out, is also the currency of piety. The modern world hates the word piety because it calls to mind the insincerity of so-called “vain repetitions,” those motions of religion that, in their more authentic aspect, form the musculature of spiritual discipline. Sincerity comes and goes with attention. Done without consideration, these acts truly are vain and meaningless and constitute no real piety. But, attention to our worship cultivates the desire for the aims of worship, for that posture is powerful—back straight, hands still, eyes locked on the target of adoration. Thoughtful effort, through the Holy Spirit’s magical mayhem, transforms lip-service into devotion, choreography into liturgy, recitation into reverence. This is piety.

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The room is silent. Already we have heard from the scripture and from some long buried mystic in the faith. Now we sit. “With my house all stilled within me”—that is the goal. In fact, my mind races from one thought to the next, like a capricious capuchin capering high across the Columbian canopy. I am that monkey, careening through the treetops, one branch to the next, one thought to the next. What is my next errand after this? How much of my to-do list can I accomplish today? When will I finish this undertaking or that project? The buzz grows loud enough to underscore the unsettled quality of my spirit.

My attention returns to prayer. I imagine myself standing on steps that lead to a vast doorway. Therein lies the Holy of Holies, the inmost chambers of God’s accessible presence. My feet do not enter though. Only a titanic and unnecessary effort, it seems, would carry me through. Instead, I wait on the steps and listen. My heart lies open to the words or silence of God.

“I am the door,” said the Master, beckoning all to the sheepfold. But, having walked through that door long ago, I now find this new door, one that lies open, one from which glories stream, and one which I cannot imagine myself entering right now. So I wait, and I listen, and often my mind slips back to its apish ways. It swings from thought to thought and drifts back to the questions. Will I get home in time to take the trash can to the curb?

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The monkey analogy isn’t original. The Buddhists call it the mind monkey, but you don’t have to be Buddhist to call it that. And this distraction is available to anyone on any day of the week for a low price: zero effort. Other days, often as I can get by myself, I pray out loud. I do this not so that my wife and children will hear me, though that wouldn’t bother me. Rather, it is a safeguard against the mind monkey (the “monkey mind” as we have come to call it in the West). Praying in my head is a quicksand of anxiety, disinterest, to-do listing, boredom, and exhaustion. When I pray in my head, sleep prowls like a purring lion, seeking whom it may put under.

In the prayer chapel though, my purpose is different. There, I close my mouth and listen. They say—and it seems a bit trite when they do say it—that God gave us two ears and one mouth so that we will listen more often than we speak. Here in the third millennium A.D., can we apply this maxim to prayer? Well over a thousand saints in well over two thousand years say that we can.

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This morning, I listen for the still, small voice. I am a babe in this form of prayer. One sign of my infancy is the fact that I sit here thinking about this infancy instead of listening. “Be still, and know that I am God.” It is a tall order, to still one’s mind, when that same mind fights to write an article about the challenges of contemplative prayer while simultaneously attempting contemplative prayer.

I need a focal point, a word to whisper as a whip to my impetuous spirit. Almighty God, give me a word.

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John the Baptist called it: the kingdom of the heavens is near. The King of Glory whispers a symphony of life into the cracks and curves of this place. And for most of us most of the time, it passes by unheard. We seldom commune with God Most High because we do not hang in suspense for the next word of life. Would that every breath were a prayer and every inhale a pause. Would that we always bent our very souls to catch merely an echo of that still, small voice. We have kids to feed, rides to catch, checks to sign, people and deadlines to meet – and a God who is quite near.

Tranquil, attentive spaces are dress rehearsals. We clothe ourselves in stillness and quietude to discipline our restless bodies, our prattling tongues, our glancing eyes. The King speaks through his Word. He speaks through sermons and scripture and fellow travelers. We have only to listen. In our labors for the kingdom, may our hearts grow ever more attentive to the Shepherd’s voice.

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The alarm chimes. We each stir in our seats. A word of benediction, and then we leave. Did I fall asleep? Yes. Am I a sleep deprived dad just doing what he can? Yes. I’m pretty sure I stayed awake most of the time though, because at least three times I thought, “This is hard, and where is that alarm, and oh yeah, I’m supposed to be silent right now...”

As we exit the chapel, we return to the quotidian of traffic and work and weekdays. My hand keeps brushing the awkward lump of a prayer rope in my pocket. During contemplative prayer, I only hold it, thumbing through its measured knots casually, though not idly. It grounds me like a lightning rod for my attention. That’s the idea at least. I need all the help I can get.

Perhaps when age has gnarled my hands, I will find this prayer easier. For now, I find the exertion worthwhile. Later today, a smell will remind me of the chapel. A sound will make me long for silence. My hand will brush the prayer rope. And then I will remember that …

…the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

- Gerard Manley Hopkins, “God’s Grandeur”

Alexander Jackson lives in Lynchburg, Virginia with his wife and three kids. With a degree in English and a Jack-of-All-Trades background, he writes about the Christian faith, beauty, technology, and (on occasion) robots.