Silence and Solitude

"When I was silent and still, not even saying anything good, my anguish increased." - King David

 

I am in the heart of my first, 3-week-long Sabbatical (rest) from the regular duties of my preaching position at the Southwest church. I call it the heart, not because I'm smack dab in the middle of it (which I am), but because I am on the last of a 3-day-long retreat of silence and solitude. I have not seen nor spoken to another human being for 2 days now, and will spend one more night here and then reunite with my family and my world tomorrow. If you asked me right now about it, I'd tell you that I wish it were longer. But the pause I'm now taking to write this email suggests to me that I am longing for human contact more than I might admit.

 

I had elevated this 3 days "with God" as the pinnacle of this "productive rest", everything I've done previously building up to it, everything that I will do starting tomorrow coming out of it.

 

My friend Andy, on the Sunday of this Sabbatical's beginning, wishing me well articulated my hearts desire for this time (something like) these words: "We all wish, and probably should, do what you are about to do, but either don't or won't. As you do it, do it for all of us." 

 

While standing under the shade of a tree, listening to the deafening silence, asking God to break it with His voice...I was compelled to open my Bible to a random Psalm, which ended up being the 39th one. The comment of David above comes from there, and probably best describes my time here.

 

I have immersed myself these last two days in the Gospels of John and Luke, the teachings of historians Thomas Cahill and Ray Vander Laan concerning the times and peoples surrounding Jesus' appearing, and the memoirs of George Muller (who's courageous and literal dependence on prayer is what my heart both longs for and is unwilling to try). When I have been sleepy, I have slept. When I have been hungry, I have eaten. I have gotten to see some cool wildlife in action (it doesn't take much of this to impress me), was interrupted by an awesome lightening storm that I watched travel from the distance and pass right over me (admittedly scary, but awesome to stand with in).

 

A I have paused many times in order to, unsuccessfully, be still and know that God is God.

 

Each time, my anguish increased. I felt I must do something. Read something. Study something. Serve someone. Be interruptible. Plan a sermon series. Go to the bathroom. Listen to a tape.

 

So, what I have learned? Many things.

 

1. I need to take extended time with God much more than I do now.

2. My prayer life stinks. Extended time with God is only beneficial for those who know how to be with God.

3. God wants me to be dependant on Him day by day for things like sermons, and more dedicated time spent on them will not earn me a better sermon (no, I'm NOT saying I don't need to study...he who has an ear, let him hear).

4. Having people in need around me to serve is a gift from God, so that I can do here on earth what is done in Heaven.

5. That earthly luxury and security gets in the way of knowing what it is to have God's luxury and security.

 

I am going to go out again and be still and know that Yahweh is God. I've mastered the "be active and know that Yahweh is God" thing, and I've flirted with the "be still" thing, but I've got a long way to go. King David continued in that Psalm to say "My heart grew hot within me, and as I meditated, the fire burned, then I spoke with my tongue." That may be what just happened to me with this email, although in an atypical tamed sort of way for me.

 

David went on to ask God to show Him exactly when he was going to die so that he could understand how puny his life really is in the big scheme of things. How fleeting his efforts on earth are considering the hugeness of God and His efforts.

 

That's what I need before I go home, too. It just occurred to me that I have not yet cried while being here alone. That is not like me, and it is a sure sign that I am not connected to the overwhelming heart of God. I go out into my lonely "wilderness" one last time tonight, looking not for tears, but for the God that I always find when they come. As in David's last words in this Psalm:

 

"Hear my prayer, O Lord, listen to my cry for help; be not deaf to my weeping. For I dwell with you as an alien, a stranger, as all my fathers were. Look away from me, that I may rejoice again before I depart and am no more."