I remember driving nearly two hours outside of Austin in my old ’98 Buick, trying to find a little camp where our church was doing a silent retreat. I’d never been on a silent retreat, and I had PLANS. I was going to get quiet, hear from God and get some clarity around a few things on my plate. My phone started dying and I didn’t have a charger because #98Buick, but I finally made it, just in time for dusk on a Friday evening.
I’d been late because I had to stop at Target and buy a watch since mine had recently given up the ghost. No phones at the silent retreat—not even for keeping time. So I walked in, was met by some church members assigned to make meals and take care of things while we sought the silence and things felt normal. We made some small talk and then, Christine, our hostess, started to lay down some ground rules. No talking (which feels obvious,) No cell phone usage, No music listening, etc. I thought I was ready.
The first hour or so was settling in. Smiling and trying not to laugh if you saw someone and felt awkward. We went to our cabins, unpacked and went to dinner. Nothing but the sound of plates and forks clicking together as we ate. We had some prayer and were dismissed until a service later in the night centered around prayer. I found that my mind was still full. Full of to-do lists, that task I forgot to finish at work before I left, the person I needed to text back (was it too late? can I sneak that really fast?), the song that was stuck in my head. In fact, it wasn’t until part way through the second day that my mind actually was beginning to get silent.
And this is what we need to know about getting there—to that place of actual stillness: it’s a fight. It’s hard to focus when your mind wants to distract itself. And in these days of quarantine, I’ve seen that old habit die hard. It’s easy to keep pretending we’re “reconnecting” with others or partaking in some holy practice, when in reality, we are keeping our minds over-occupied. And we can’t stop posting about it. Look! we’re getting around to those tasks we had been putting off. We’re learning to cook new dishes. We’re calling everyone we forgot to call back for the last 15 years. We’re challenging each other to do fitness regimens or diets or learn 15 new skills.
Everyone keeps doing push-ups.
And this whole time, I’ve been weighted down because I see that we keep on refusing to get there. To face the things that maybe it’s time to face. To accept the strange reality of what is often missed. A tone of voice or a lie we keep repeating or a grief we aren’t paying attention to.
Because this is the thing: we’re not afraid that something is going to happen—we’re afraid that maybe nothing will happen.
Let me say it this way: silent retreats are not for clarity or vision or productivity. In fact, they remind us that when we clear away everything for an extended period of time, we’re able to see what’s really going on. Like clear water settling in a lake after all of the boats get docked and the swimmers go to bed. The next morning, as fog stretches out across the surface, you can stand on the shore and see deeper, down to the very bottom, and like a breakthrough in a counseling session, you think, “Oh, there it is. There’s the thing that’s tearing me apart.”
This time of quarantine is one in which we all seem to have a plan and I’m here to say: you can’t. No one has a plan for a pandemic. No one has an easy solution for how you should spend your time. This is not some cosmic test to see if the people of God can get it all done. This is not a moment to try and ignore the grief you’re feeling in your gut late at night. God is not impressed by your over-scheduling and how much you’re getting accomplished. He just wants us to be. To sit for a dang moment and be still.
One could argue that we’re in a fight. That this is a war. That nothing like this has happened in anyone’s lifetime and therefore we have to hyper-vigilant. Stay informed. Stay ready. Protect yourself. Fight the feelings that aren’t happy or certain or upbeat.
And I get it. There is a place for taking every thought captive. There is a place for spending time wisely. There is a place for having something to show for yourself.
But hear this: if you take your boat and you bring it to shore and you sit on the edge of the dock long enough, things might calm down. But only if you’re willing to stop churning the waters long enough to allow that to happen.
I’m not saying that we need to use this time to be monks and take a vow of silence. But I am saying that sometimes, we’re making noise because we’re afraid that if we allowed ourselves to sit in the silence it might overwhelm us and Jesus won’t be enough. And that right there is usually a good sign that it needs to be faced. You can’t understand what’s happening in the first 24 hours of quarantine. And you likely won’t fully grasp it as the days and weeks go on. Anyone who thinks they’ve arrived at a place of totally understanding about all of this is in denial.
I drove home from the retreat with no major ideas or crossed-off task lists. But I did drive home those two hours in total silence, learning maybe for the first time to be comfortable with the stillness I’d so long avoided. I don’t know why you’re staying busy. I don’t know what you’re running from or not wanting to address in your heart. Maybe it’s the fact that you don’t trust that God is bigger than this. Maybe you’re over-compensating with constant spiritual cheerleading (read: how many times have you listened to only victorious worship songs) because you’re afraid God can’t be found in morgues and unanswered questions. What I know is this: it’ll take a long time. It won’t make sense anytime soon. And that’s okay.
Because if you anchor your soul on Truth and let it sit with you in the silence, you’ll at least be living with honesty and humility and some semblance of slowness. Getting there is hard, but you owe it to your heart and the hearts of those around you to get there, call it what it is, and lay it all down at the feet of Jesus.
That’s when living in Not Knowing starts to get good. I promise.