Adventures in Silence

Sheep in the fields around LLannerchwen, near Brecon.

My first two tastes of ecclesiastically managed silence were not terribly successful. Anglican Ordinations are always preceded by 'silent' retreats but for these to work, silence really needs to be accompanied by solitude, and a theological college stuffed full of 2 or 3 dozen other retreat-ants, a number of whom have never encountered silence at all and have no idea what to do with it, does not work well; especially for the more extrovert amongst us.

My next proper attempt at silence took me in 2012 to Loyola Hall (now sadly closed) where silence was plentiful, despite the presence of perhaps 20 or so others, but the difference was I didn't know anybody. A guided retreat (this one in the Ignatian tradition) sees you all arrive and eat the first meal together, chatting and settling in, then from day 2 there is silence throughout the building and grounds, except for the acts of worship and 30 minutes of daily one to one spiritual direction. 

Apart from the lovely modern chapel, the building was a bit institutionalised; you needed a bus ride to escape the suburbs; but the Jacuzzi was fun (seriously). I found the evenings long. When you've got no one to talk to, no TV, radio or social media, you do wonder how you can fill all the hours in the day. And silent corridors are very silent. I came away just beginning to glimpse the power of silence to help me enter the presence of God more fully, but it still felt a bit 'difficult' (see here why) http://parttimepriest.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/reluctant-retreatant.html

Beautiful Pembrokeshire, near Ffald y Brenin

In 2013, I decided Pembrokeshire was the place for silence. Having heard lots of amazing stories about Ffald y Brenin, a house of prayer in the Welsh hills, I phoned to see if I could be accommodated. They were full 9 months in advance, but after being encouraged to stay off site, like many other hopefuls, and drive in each day for worship and prayer in the chapel, I found a local hotel and, come July 1st, set off down the M4.

Ffald y Brenin was utterly gorgeous, the countryside stunning and the worship in the celtic style round chapel truly uplifting.

Ffald y Brenin. Wonderful worship but not silent.

But it wasn't very silent. There were lots of fascinating visitors (pilgrims) each day and the temptation to be ultra sociable was too much. In addition, down in the valley for the evenings, I lost the impetus to stay silent and instead would come back about 7pm, eat stodgy hotel food, watch three hours of detective shows on the TV and go to bed. 

I learnt a great deal that week about the charismatic and the celtic (and, obviously, Lewis)  - see here http://parttimepriest.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/eitheror-spirituality.html
however, real silence was still beckoning.

Welsh hills, and the spirituality of the great outdoors had just begun to seep into my consciousness, so I returned to Wales this summer, and on someone's good advice, got a place booked at Llannerchwen, a small Catholic retreat house run by the Society of the Sacred Heart. This time I would be on site all the time, self catering, and have guaranteed silence from sun up till sun down. 

I was nervous: silence AND solitude - I imagined a blasted hillside with nothing to do but pray, but I was determined 'this would be it'. Llannerchwen was suitably tricky to find, up a long winding track off a 'B' road above Brecon. It was gentler, greener and prettier than I'd imagined, consisting of a small cluster of 'hermitages' and a tiny chapel, with the sisters (all 2 of them) taking it in turns to live on site, alternating with an ecumenical team of lay spiritual directors, so there's always someone 'in' with a warm welcome and friendly advice when you knock on the main house door. You also feel connected in a small way to the others staying there, with a half hour of communal silence in the chapel at 5.30pm.

As soon as I arrived in Llannerchwen and saw the view from my window, and took my first walk across the field to meet the sheep, I realised what I hadn't ever properly understood about 'silence': outdoors at least, it's not ever properly silent. Instead of being an absence, what silence is, is space to be: space to listen to creation, to God and to yourself.

A typical self contained residence at Llannerchwen.

Apart from my 2 requested sessions of spiritual direction, which I found very helpful, my main 'guide' was Sara Maitland (or at least, her book). Maitland is a writer and practising Catholic who has sought out silence in some of the remotest places in Britain, and chronicled the effects of silence on human beings, from long distance sailors to hermits and explorers. I knew that rereading her book 'A Book of Silence' (2008) would help me navigate the hours spent alone without talking to anyone. And it did. 

The real joy was discovering I wanted to be outdoors all the time. I was very lucky with the weather. I took long walks in actual walking boots and read OS maps (very unlike me) and I listened. Mainly to sheep. But also to birds, insects, farm machinery, the odd jet, the wind rustling the grasses. I became attached to the sheep at the bottom of 'my' field'. Ridiculously attached, because they never shut up. Not even at night. It was immensely comforting. 

Easy to pray looking at this: you just sit and think 'wow', and watch the bunnies.

And I had one of those experiences Maitland warns about, towards the middle of the five days, when I knew I'd used up all my own spiritual/emotional resources. Reading was boring, I was tired of walking and tired of the inside of my own head. 

It was Paschal who said 'all man's miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone'. It's true. I was thoroughly tired of my poor inner self by then, and low in spirits. I was grateful for the good advice of one of the sisters the following morning, about God's delight in us, and desire to give us everything as a gift. I spent the last day enjoying some more human company in Brecon, glad of the smile of a passerby, the free sunshine, the welcome of an ancient place of worship which cost nothing. Learning that everything that is worth anything in life is free, and that we own too much and consume too much was both freeing and sobering.

St Francis in the herb garden outside Brecon Cathedral

Most precious of all was this revelation: I'd spent a couple of years wondering why it seemed God didn't speak very directly to me. Why does he appear silent so often? In spending hours looking at those Welsh hills, and walking in them, I realised with a shock that God had never stopped speaking. He is constant. He is there. It's just that life is too full, life is too noisy, we want quick results in ministry, we want God to jump to our tune. That's just not how it works. I left that place absolutely steeped in a quiet joy, in gratitude, and in the silence which was in fact full of God and full of creation. A silence full of speech.

At last a retreat where 'silence' did what it does best: bring us to the end of our own resources and reveal the normal default of God's abiding presence everywhere.

Pen y Fan: the view form Llannerchwen.

Sensing Lent 26: A blue bowl

This bowl came back from my retreat on the Welsh coast last summer. It carries with it shades of the sand flats and the harbour at the edge of the small town there, the expanse of sky and the blue of the sea. As soon as I saw it in the local craft shop, I felt the need to bring it home as a reminder of everything the retreat meant to me.

I've never 'thrown' a pot (on a potter's wheel, that is. I've never thrown a pot either) but it must be very physically satisfying, to see something beautiful and useful emerge from a shapeless lump of clay.

It was the pre-Raphaelite William Morris who said 'have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful'. Bowls are useful, but this one's more beautiful than useful, if I'm honest. In fact the glaze has already slightly worn off due to a regrettable turn in the dishwasher, after I tried to serve some food up in it.

Really it's just beautiful. It couldn't be more blue, smooth, shiny, hard and redolent of the seaside. The light bounces off it like sun off water, and brown pigment runs into the base through the streaks of blue like rivers of sand when the tide's going out. 

It's just a bowl. But it signifies something deeper. It was on that retreat that I learnt to love myself a bit more. I sat in God's presence in the chapel. I walked with no bag and no agenda. I spoilt myself, sitting in a cafe eating an expensive salad I hadn't prepared and buying a blue bowl which would almost certainly not be useful.

Because God loves us, full stop. Not primarily for our usefulness. Which is quite a 'useful' thought in Lent.

Either/Or Spirituality

My first significant encounter with Anglicanism came with an enormous dose of the Charismatic. Renewal had touched the Established Church via John Wimber of the Vineyard, USA, and was coming to a church/conference near you. I was immediately struck by the singing, which was intense and personal. To say I was bowled over would be an understatement. Power, intimacy and abandonment were not qualities I had honestly encountered in (non Conformist) church life up till then. 

Simultaneously discovering singing in tongues AND sung Eucharistic liturgy presented no particular problems at the time - I was unaware that later on in my life they would sadly come to be seen, or at least practised, as 'either/or' options. The tendency for some 'charismatic' worship, though, to settle for nothing more than endless repeated choruses eventually drove me to explore the depths of liturgical worship, and the C of E selection and training process would lead me along paths of settled prayer, silence, solitude and stillness. To the sacramental.

Sacramental theology had completely passed me by till the DDO* got hold of me. I read Baptists and Catholics. John E. Colwell's phrase 'no unmediated immediacy' stuck in my mind (after I'd spent a fairly long time working out its meaning). There was no means by which grace could be mediated to humanity save through outward, physical 'stuff'? It seemed like a good idea at first, offering protection from spiritual self delusion, but not everyone was agreed on what 'stuff' could mediate God's salvation. The Catholics said there were seven sacraments, the Anglicans two** - the water of baptism and the bread and wine of Holy Communion. I reluctantly concluded John E Colwell had never been in a renewal meeting lying on the floor while the Holy Spirit ministered inner healing directly to his soul. But each to his own (or was it?)

Sacraments, spiritual direction, silence, solitude, annual retreat  - all these became, not optional, but vital for spiritual/ministerial life. I was drawn to Ignatian reflection and two years on from ordination made a silent retreat at the Jesuit retreat house, Loyola Hall. http://www.parttimepriest.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/reluctant-retreatant.html

There was no singing in tongues - surprise, surprise - but God was powerfully there in the steady, measured silence (though I was never fully convinced the Catholic hierarchy would have embraced the fact that half the retreatants were gleefully taking Holy Communion with less than a fully Roman view on what that really meant. So far, so divided).

Ffald y Brenin, Retreat Centre and House of Prayer.
Chael with domed roof (left).

But either/or spirituality is ultimately unsatisfying. Last year I read of a miraculous healing that a clergy acquaintance received at Ffald Y Brenin in Wales. She too had been seeking God through Ignatian reflection and almost stumbled across the retreat house whilst on holiday in Pembrokeshire. She posted a photo of herself standing in front of the remains of her now defunct wheelchair. http://tracingtherainbow.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/an-unexpected-outpouring-of-grace.html

I sensed a pull. Set prayers were said four times a day in the tiny stone chapel. Miraculous healing AND a Celtic style rhythm of prayer? Streams of sometimes divided spirituality, united?

The earth is never far away, even in chapel.

I went. And discovered our Celtic Christian ancestors were right - God is not an either/or God. Yes, we said Morning Prayer (of sorts!) and Midday Prayer, and Evening Prayer...and there were plenty of long silences, waiting on God in worship. But there was also spontaneous, glorious singing in tongues, prophetic words and inner healing. One evening I went into the chapel at 5.30pm for Evening Prayer (30 mins) but nobody got beyond the first song...God's presence was so palpable, inhabiting the music, interrupting, and then bringing silence, like waves...I emerged three hours later to discover I had missed supper.

There perhaps remains an innate tension between the breaking in of the Spirit and set liturgy. But St Paul was right - order in worship is as important as the exercising of gifts. The Corinthian Church lacked order. Individually empowered members of the body were falling over each other to give a word, prophecy, sing/speak in tongues. If I'm honest I don't generally see that problem in English rural church worship. 

Pembrokeshire coast

The Spirit is like the wind, blowing where He wills, or like waves crashing on the shore one by one, with expectant stillness in between. He also grows in us the fruit of self discipline, though. It's not either/or.

And all through the worship the clear chapel windows let the hillside stream in and the Welsh wind said God is in the 'natural' and the 'supernatural'. It's not either/or. He's the God of creation and re-creation. And what God has joined together, let no man put asunder.
*DDO - Diocesan Director of Ordinands: medium-to-strongly scary person who prepares you for selection to the C of E training process.

**It seems to me that once you start counting sacraments, it's difficult to know where to stop. Either Christ is the only sacrament ('mysterion') or everything is 'sacramental'. Do we have to itemise them?  In fear of Episcopal discipline, however, I am, of course, perfectly happy with two sacraments. Love two.

Back to basics

Mark 12: 28-31

'One of the scribes came near and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well, he asked him, ‘Which commandment is the first of all?’ Jesus answered, ‘The first is, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.” The second is this, “You shall love your neighbour as yourself.” There is no other commandment greater than these.’ '

Isn't it a bit inflexible to command that someone love you?

Or is Jesus saying 'You shall love the Lord your God...' as in: 'this is a promise'?

Hopefully with a heart of flesh instead of a heart of stone, we will love God; love is the fruit of the Spirit, the first listed in Galatians 5: 'For the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness and self control.'

We began looking at the 'fruits of the Spirit' at our All Age service today; one fruit each fortnight should keep us going till next year...

Far from being an inflexible command, love of God is the life spring of everything we do as Christians.

But the well occasionally runs dry (more than occasionally sometimes).

I have been wanting to 'up the anti' recently in my prayer life; something to do with a challenge presented to me on retreat - to spend some time in the middle of the day in contemplation, as well as the usual morning prayer (in which I rush through the daily readings before getting up...)

This would be 'extra'; agenda-less; unhurried; focussed entirely on drawing near to Christ.

Scary...

How would I do this? Where would I start?

Well, I have a 'prayer corner'; the Russians called it a 'poustinia', a special place where contemplation (attempts) to take place.
It's a small chair in the study so I have to be careful to keep thoughts of computers, emails and admin out of my head in order just to contemplate.
The comfort of the chair helps; a candle, a cross, any visual or tactile aid helps to focus on God.


I was encouraged in it all this week by an amazing story of healing (honestly, I don't often major on these; this one however is completely authentic and happened to someone I know). 
http://tracingtherainbow.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/an-unexpected-outpouring-of-grace.html

The special place where the healing took place was a retreat centre in Wales where loving the presence of God is sometimes so strong that people cannot move from the place where they're standing or sitting. To be reminded of this loving powerful presence pervading the world is to be encouraged to keep on entering into the still centre. You can read about the retreat centre in the book by Roy Godwin.

But we don't need to be in a charismatic/contemplative/Celtic retreat centre to experience the well of God's love never running dry. A small corner of a study will do...Come down O Love Divine...

A Reluctant Retreatant

It was time for a silent retreat. 
I knew it. 
My overstretched mind and body knew it. 
My crazy overstuffed diary knew it.
Other (very spiritual) people seemed to be doing them.
Ministers are actively encouraged to do them and there was even a budget in our Ministry Team for doing one....Something about a gift horse...?

Going on past experience, however, I was not fully convinced I was cut out for the experience.
I tried silence on the pre-Ordination retreats but it didn't really work for me.
This was less to do with the actual concept and more to do with being 'on retreat' with 23 other fun people whom you know well, in a place which is rather familiar; in fact, in a place where you remember staying up quite late together on other occasions being very noisy in the bar. Drinking. Talking endlessly. And singing Abba songs. 

Furthermore, being in a confined space, in silence, with people you know well, who occasionally wink or snort in chapel because they can't do silence either, makes for rather a giggly time. (Okay, it was probably just me but I felt I'd failed miserably and couldn't wait for the 'silence' to be over on both occasions.)

So when I found myself in a Retreat House miles from home in a place I'd never been to before, with five days of silence spreading out before me, I naturally felt a bit apprehensive.
Here were my main fears about silence:

• I have a preference for extroversion and like all forms of communication. Especially verbal. Retreats are for introverts.
• I don't much like being alone and I get bored easily. Retreats are for people who like their own company; those ones who look at the floor when someone new introduces themselves.
• I like being busy and achieving things on a daily basis. Retreats are full of nothing much to do.
• I am a social media fan. On a retreat you really need to turn your smartphone off or you will reveal yourself to be a total lightweight.
• I was worried I would miss my family and let them down by being unavailable. They would think I was losing it/experimenting with becoming a nun or something worse.

So...all in all, not a great candidate really...

And yet...

And yet... I rather enjoyed it...

Actually, I REALLY enjoyed it.

Here are some things I learnt (or in the jargon, 'the graces I received'):

• I rush through life and need to slow down. I even walk fast everywhere, in tune with the restless pace of my thoughts. - this slowly changed over five days.
• Multi-tasking and having a smartphone have robbed me of the ability to pay proper attention to any one thing. By 'attention' I mean deep, focussed awareness that enables you to 'see' things as God might.
• Being connected to social media makes you think differently. This may not be an altogether good thing. E.g. I would see something beautiful, like a fat pink foxglove with a bee buzzing inside, and I would think 'That would make a good status update/photo/instagram snap for Twitter.'...... then I would think, 'oh, I have my phone switched off: well, I'll just sit here and thank God for this precious moment instead.' Revolutionary, huh? Just me and God and nobody else, but of great value nonetheless.

• You can feel companionship with other people as you sit and share meals in silence. You may not speak, or know anything about them, but you still have fellowship together. This feeds the spirit.
• You can feel companionship with other pilgrims by reading intensely about their lives, once Twitter, Facebook, texts and emails are not interrupting you. I enjoyed many an hour in the company of the famous Trappist Monk, Thomas Merton, and felt I got to know him well. He kept me company. My life was enriched by his journey. Long book*. Amazing man.
• I need to buy a watch.
• My body clock adjusted to natural light timing; I went to sleep and got up much earlier than usual. Minor miracle: I was sat in a chair praying by 7.30am on the final day. And enjoying it. This is almost unheard of for me.
• The exterior silence enabled an interior silence which is a prerequisite for listening prayer, for adoration, for contemplation. I never thought I could do contemplation but in the end it just happened.

For those of you for whom all this is entirely elementary, forgive the initial misgivings and the now evangelical enthusiasm; but for a once reluctant retreat-er, I can see this silence thing is going to become, God willing, an annual event.

*The Seven Storey Mountain