Even Jesus needed an escape now and then to a quiet place. It was a necessity, even for him, for the Son of God himself. And it wasn’t just because great crowds followed him that he needed a break. Jesus do this. Jesus do that. My son is deaf. My wife is blind. No, his reasons were higher than that, and it had everything to do with private communion with his father, that dialogue between himself and his own master.
It was like breathing, or food. Either way, it was sustenance. The call of a deeper appetite.
Most of us have little clue how to quiet ourselves, if we think it necessary at all. There are those of us who are drawn to solitude or quiet, and those who see little point in it, those who are indifferent, and those who actually go to great lengths to avoid it. I am afraid I am of the former. As rare as it is, I kind of like solitude.
When I was a kid, we moved around a lot, and as difficult as it was at times, I had to learn how to be alone. At times, I think I learned too well. But it shaped me and made me who I am. Writing demands a lot of solitude, and my gravitation toward the craft was a natural response to life.
But I also love the company of others. I have come to love the sound of the human voice, even in simple conversation. There is music in it if you listen close enough, and know what to listen for. When two or more voices join together, even in the simplest exchange, there is a kind of harmony to it that is nice, a polyphony that is pleasing to the heart.
I am convinced that this is one of the more agreeable rewards of the devoted life, not only to find beauty where you wouldn’t think to look for it, but to recognize that a kind of poetry exists, a poetry of divine authorship, a psalmody that rises and sings in the midst of us.
It is these small glimpses of Paradise that aggravate my desire, that bring it right up front, that put a sudden dryness in my mouth, a thirst for a higher life. It is only right that we hunger for it, that each of us suffers at least some small pang of homesickness. Eden is the voice beneath all our collected voices, that faint lyric I hear, that sweetness that has no explanation.
Because it is so faint, so elusive, the quiet becomes important to me. This particular quiet does not mean the exclusion of all noise. In this age, that might be too much to ask. There is a quiet we may enjoy in the midst of all the noise, the quiet center.
Quiet is a condition of the heart.
In the context of an acquiring God, a God who seeks us with both a sweetness and a severity we can hardly understand, a God who is willing to be sought by us, quiet is a good thing. Solitude is a necessity at times. It is not exile. It is not banishment. On the contrary, it is a response to the God who ordains it, who says to come inside and sit for a while, that “I long for your company.” His voice is sweet to me. It is the voice of home, the voice of my deep memory, the voice of my origins.
Scripture invites us to become intimate with silence, to befriend it, even as it is a friend to us, a generous friend at that, one who serves us with great benefit. There are many instances in Scripture where Jesus calmed loud and boisterous things, whether it was an unquiet sea or a man gone out of his senses. A word or two was sufficient.
“Peace, be still.” —Mark 4:39, NKJV.
While it can be unsettling, we need not fear whatever quiet that may be asked of us. The silence of God is fertile, revelatory, prolific, redemptive, filled utterly with himself. The hush is profound, bottomless, like his love.
David Teems is a singer/songwriter and the author of several books including Majestie: The King Behind the King James Bible (Thomas Nelson Publishers). He lives in Franklin, TN, with his wife Benita. They have two sons and three grandchildren. This post is adapted from my book And Thereby Hangs A Tale: What I Know About the Devoted Life I Really Learned From My Dog. You can read more of David’s blog at www.davidteems.com
