Everything arises out of silence

I often consider the tumult of this world—both the outer and inner turmoil that seems to pervade the lives of many people. However, nearly everything ‘outside’ this one small planet is silence. The primary function of the Universe is silence. We are the rarity; I think it’s not so much that life is rare, but perhaps the more significant rarity is the situation of a whole system in which sound is generated and received. We have a place where those vibrations can emerge and we can be a witness.

I think the situation of our encountering one another (both the ordinary and in crisis) offers the opportunity to generate a space of silence. Unlike sight, for instance, where we can close our eyes, there is no ready muting of sound; silence is something we have to create or protect. So I think there is some kind of spiritual significance to making that space (in that silence is the norm for everything outside this environment we are in; it’s as if we are given a special opportunity where we must actively return to silence). That becomes more difficult—and more necessary—as we make the world a giant mechanism of noise. We evolved in quiet spaces and formed ourselves and social interaction in that space. There is so much talk of our inability to communicate properly now. We have not lost the ability to communicate, we have lost the ability to be quiet. 

When we are really present; people sense both the respect we have for the individual and, I think, the respect for the sacred space of silence. When we speak we begin to codify and form and then ‘everything arises’. That’s necessary as well; but the arising can’t come without a space of silence to begin (and then perhaps everything returns to silence in the end). Perhaps ‘Everything that has Arisen’ was created simply to witness and eventually comprehend the Silence that was before and to follow. I wonder often about all that’s been written about God and, though it’s maybe a necessary effort, it’s not the end of understanding (this is why I am so wary now of any faith that professes ‘the Answers’). The understanding of God and the silence—or God in The Silence—is something arising and, I think, will continue to emerge till it all folds back into silence.

That, maybe, is what people sense when we sit with them quietly. That’s why just being present is so dearly important and healing. It’s not that people so much need an abundance of words and sound; they need to find a passage back into silence. It’s a situation equally helpless and empowered; that sharing that vulnerability and strength with someone in an honest way is the most healing thing one could do. There is an opportunity for emancipation. There is the ability to take up strengths that haven’t emerged before. 

Some years ago, I had an extraordinarily painful surgery which rearranged my entire ribcage…all at once. I remember, during my time in the hospital and recovery, though I was the one in pain, I became the pivot point of reassurance and support for those concerned for me. It activated an understanding of the place of pain and comfort in me—and I was the one in that situation who could become a conduit for others. I certainly had the support of my parents and carers in the hospital but I had to actively engage with the whole thing to make the cycle complete. I have heard many times before people wishing they could ‘take on the pain’ for people living through it; they can’t (and I wonder if that somehow diminishes the experience of the person in pain). How does one face pain with people in the midst of it and, equally so, how do you work through that pain in what is voiced and what remains in silence?

The argument for a diminished god

I’ve written a page in my notebook some time ago; it’s on my mind this morning as I sit awake, jet-lagged, in a Dallas airport hotel at two in the morning:

“An argument for a diminished god; a system based on ‘Almighty God’ does not allow for a society based on self-governance. It sets up ‘leaders’, not representatives. We have set ourselves a god that is harmed by insult, whose face and name we must protect at all cost. This has led to much suffering for both ‘ourselves’ and ‘the other’. A god of jealousy and grudge can never be stable—who can look up to a god that embodies the worst of our nature.”

It seems to me that, deep in the kernel of ‘organised religion’ that this is the crux of conflict; it’s not that people have faith and disagree over this in general, it’s that people become obsessed with the power of their proclaimed god and, by extension, their own power. When that power is defamed or threatened, there is a vigorous response (all involving some kind of spiritual or physical violence to either oneself or the other). When that power remains unchecked, there is hubris and the entitlements of power. 

When one’s god is beyond all question of power and the norms of reality and you are part of or under the charge of that god, there is always the risk that you extend yourself beyond what you, as an individual, have any warrant to do. This can, of course, lead to great creative beauty and humanity; however, the more trodden path (or at least the more currently visible one) spans the range from everyday pettiness to violent martyrdom. It is the same hierarchal framework of war that we’ve been living under since the first king was set up over a given square of land (and there is  a story in the Bible where God warns about the nature of kings). We’ve put the sceptre and sword in god’s hand and look for the opportunity of blood.

Last night, I continued a conversation with a friend begun after Easter weekend. We had spoken about the continuing process in us of learning to live in this life; the difficulties of learning hard lessons and having death and resurrection as we go. I wrote to her,

“I think that is just the model of the spirit of Christ within us; there is always this talk about ‘dying to self’ from the view that one has to sacrifice and leave behind everything that makes us human (so much so that the dying leaves the human part so deeply buried and removed and we are almost expected to be this inert perfected spiritual being). But the resurrection part, the living on and evolving, is what too often is forgotten. I think people are not so afraid of dying; they are afraid of the struggle of coming back to life afterward.”

We cannot make death the focus of god in our lives (either calling upon the vengeful god to support us in our violence to others or pleading with the merciful almighty god who will save us in the end). I want to listen for the quiet diminished god who is there in the much more difficult process of life and resurrection; the god who is close as the slow process of growth comes to bear or my wounds are healing cell by cell. That is the god who is everywhere regardless of these confusions of creed and conflict. I don’t wish for a more almighty god of power and sudden intervention; that’s not going to bring healing. I wish for a diminished god working slowly in this quiet Cosmos; that may be an idealist’s dream but I would rather close my eyes to dream on this than shut them in fear when the terrors come.

The Constant

I've just yesterday flown back to Sydney from a holiday in the States; as I left the country, the story of the attacks in Paris were unfolding and unfinished. Every news channel in the hotel displayed a barrage of information—'experts' spoke of the social situation in France, issues over immigration and inculturation, economic pressures among migrants, dissatisfaction over political reforms, involvement of the French military in North Africa, the 'War on Terror', various riots in The Republic over the past years, the history of Colonial power, religions intolerance, religious tolerance, freedom of expression, temperance of that expression, a new device that can hold any smart phone in your car's air vent, the upcoming Super Bowl, how the French government should respond, what mistakes were made by French Intelligence, the inevitable surveillance state, and so on. 

Then, I flew for fourteen hours from Los Angeles to Sydney and all that fell silent. Most international flights are, for now, still free of any internet or broadcast news incursion. You've only your own reflections on current events to mull over (my 'entertainment display' was non-functional so I also did not have the selection of films to peruse either). 

All these diverse and discordant voices—everyone has some opinion. Some are willing to voice them; some turn to violent action. How can I comprehend the situation of someone whose life is so different—who has a whole set of values and beliefs that are either many degrees separated or outright antithetical to mine? It takes significant dialogue (and, of course, a willingness to engage in that for both parties). But what, in the human experience of our engagement with one another, is the constant? All discussions and interactions involve variables; some of the elements can be reconciled but the equations seem to be too dynamic in the moments of conflict and confusion. What is the static constant that we all share no matter our culture, history or faith? It's silence; we are forgetting how to respect the silence of our togetherness and risk losing the only thing that we can always hold in common.  

I know that the news is necessary; but I wish, for a given event, there could be an embargo for some time—that the first response, in the face of tragedy, would be silence and time to reflect. The immediate impulse to find blame, identify the early childhood traumas of the perpetrators, or trace the path of money and weapons is not, primarily, the issue at hand. These events all spring from our inability to hold a balanced space together; there is a rupture in society that tears right down through individuals because they can't find a way to hold life on common terms. 

We recognise, after the fact, the necessity of silence; in memorials, in the streets, in Parliaments, there is 'a moment of silence' held by all, no matter what their political bent or religion. We need to find a way to hold silence together beforehand; we need to find these ruptured men and women in their time of injured vulnerability and learn to be silent together; to hold the quiet that leads to a discussion. What they are receiving, instead, is that onslaught of noise and rage from every quarter that drives them into further despair. If every space of mind and spirit is filled with the clamour of so many competing ideologies, there will be no room left for the common silence. What remains for the catalyst of peace? We'll face a future of desperate commentators trying to unquietly uncover why?

Giving in Time

My mother is in hospital at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore; she had, last Friday, major surgery to remove a rare cancerous tumour from deep within her liver. It was a very long and complex procedure that requires a surgeon of great skill and care surrounded by a hospital that can support the whole endeavour. The surgery itself went well and she is recovering now although she's having some (expected) complications and challenges. I'll write more about her journey through this in the coming weeks.

My father and I are staying on the hospital campus in a special facility provided for cancer patients and family whilst they are here for treatment. Johns Hopkins covers this vast swath of Baltmore; it's consistently rated one of the top hospitals in the United States. It was started by a Quaker man in the 1800's with an endowment that was equivalant to eleven billion dollars in today's money. I'm struck by such generosity from a man who gave what was needed in his time and now his stewardship gives back so many times more (there is a lot more to explore about Hopkins, he was an abolitionist and insisted that blacks and whites be served equally in the hospital and also set up orphanages and schools for blacks in a time when that was considered illegal). I, once again, find the subtle spirit of Quakers still resonating down through time.

I've included an image I made the other day here in the old entrance to the hospital (which is now buried in the enormity of what the campus has become). It's called Christus Consolator, though Hopkins himself was a non-sectarian and was an early advocate of multi-fatith counsel in hospitals, this was placed as an iconic symbol of guidance and comfort. I think it still stands well deep within the quiet heart of this place.