The sound of silence

I found myself alone and still on the mountain the other day. It’s more unusual, at least in my experience, than you might think. I tend to ski with groups, and when I am not with others I tend to be heading off somewhere, which is why I have gone off on my own.

On this occasion, though, I was by myself and still… and the silence was almost physical. 

It was quite shockingly beautiful, and to my surprise I almost resented it when skiers shot past making noise that broke the peace. (I wasn’t surprised at all that the boarders broke the peace; they always do!)

It’s well known that Elijah fled to the mountain of God in fear and confusion and when there witnessed earthquake, wind, and fire. “But God was not in [them]”, the text says. “Then came the sound of silence” is how it goes on, although it is usually translated as “a still small voice”.

What am I working towards? Some say that all silence is holy, but this patently cannot be true. The silence of the lonely is a mocking expression of pain. The silence of the mortuary is a constant reminder of our mortality. Silence is, at one level, simply an absence of noise and as such is morally neutral.

It is, however, often a moment of respite in a mad, noisy, and demanding world. This, in itself is deeply precious. I love the silence of home after a long drive, for example. I lie in bed and can still hear the drumming of the tyres on the road, but am at peace in the knowledge that it is but a memory.

Silence, however, can be more. It is a space in which we can search, and find God. Or, more accurately, it is a space in which we can recognise that God is on the hunt for us, and respond as He finds us. 

Silence is precious, it is beautiful, not merely as a gift in its own right, but because of the one who inhabits it and will meet us if we dare to raise our eyes.