The quiet life: Mary Brown considers different kinds of silence

‘Silence can be frightening, but it can be sacred.’

by Mary Brown 15th December 2023

Over forty years ago, one of my daughters, then aged eleven, asked if she could bring a schoolfriend to Meeting for Worship. Of course I said yes, but left it to her to explain to her friend what Meeting was. After Meeting I asked the friend how she had found it and she replied, ‘Terrifying’. Apparently she had asked my daughter what would happen in the silence, and got the answer ‘nothing’.

Twenty years later, when I was the Quaker chaplain at a local prison, I held a weekly silent meeting, which I advertised on notices as: ‘Multifaith Silent Meeting for Meditation, Mindfulness, Prayer, Worship: This is open to anyone of any faith or none, who would like to share about half an hour’s silence. Silence is in short supply in prison, but many find it very precious. It can be healing. Silence lies at the heart of many religious faiths, and is deep within each of us. For some that deep place is God, or where we can meet our God. Others find that we leave a silence refreshed, renewed, healed. Meeting with others in silence can be even more powerful. We support one another, as we share our silence, and feel the good within us strengthened. We remain alert and open to the silence, to the spirit, to each other, to our God. Quakers base their worship on silence. A group of Quakers comes into the prison on Mondays to give you the chance to join us in a time of silence. At the end there will be a time for discussion, you will be very welcome, do come.’

I was surprised by how popular it became. We were occasionally disturbed by giggling, and once we had to close the meeting, discuss the giggles, and start again. More often the meetings were very deep. Visiting Friends sometimes remarked that it seemed deeper than some Meetings in Meeting houses. I think there was a sense of shared pain, which was often evident in the following discussion.

I will always remember one man who, before the meeting started, said, ‘I’ve got ADHD and I can’t sit still, but I’ll give it a go.’ He sat absolutely still and silent for the entire time. When it was over he jumped up and said, ‘I’ve never been still for half an hour before in my life!’ He came every week after that. Each time he would declare, slightly threateningly, ‘I’ve got ADHD. This is the only time I can be quiet, so none of you spoil it for me!’

These memories returned to me recently, after two silent vigils for the war in Gaza. One was at the local parish church, which has recently rebranded itself as: ‘St. Laurence Parish Church: the Stroud Centre for Peace and the Arts’. About 100 turned out for an hour’s vigil, sitting with a large candle and an olive branch on the table. Half way through the silence an imam prayed to ‘God, the Merciful’, for peace. Then a rabbi sitting beside him sang ‘Hevenu shalom alechem’ (peace to you); then a Christian minister sang, ‘I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield, down by the riverside’, followed by ‘Kyrie eleison’. Then members of the congregation lit candles, bringing more light to the olive branch. The silence was incredibly profound, like a gathered Quaker Meeting for Worship.

A similar silence was present at another vigil, just fifteen minutes long, outside the offices of our local MP, demanding a ceasefire. Stroud seems to have a tradition of holding vigils rather than noisy marches.

These silences have led me to think about the different kinds of silence that can be experienced.

Every Tuesday morning in the local parish church there is what is called: ‘Silent Sitting’, advertised as: ‘Half an hour of silence for meditation, mindfulness, prayer and worship. Peace in oneself, peace in the world. Open to anyone of any faith or none who would like to share half an hour of silence in the early morning.’ Between ten and twenty people usually come. The silence there is different again. I think we have mainly Anglicans, and I feel there is a lot of praying going on. But the silence changed imperceptibly when the two Buddhists who started it left Stroud, and with the death of a Quaker who had attended regularly. I am reminded how in the prison meetings a group of Irish travellers joined us for a few weeks, bringing their rosaries. In that context it felt right. We often had a few Buddhists there too. I always felt they brought something to the meeting, but I could not define what. I find my mind wandering more in Silent Sittings now.

Meetings for Worship, as all silences, are created by those who come, and what they bring with them. ‘We seek a gathered stillness’, says Advices & queries 8. We do not always achieve it, but, to me, when we do it is always amazing. The sense of oneness is something I have seldom felt in other silences.

Meetings for Worship in public places, like at military bases or arms fairs, have an added political ingredient, perhaps following Advices & queries 34: ‘Remember your responsibilities as a citizen.’ These public Meetings create little pools of silence amid the noise of everyday life. I have experienced a deep sense of peace while bombers filled the air above with violence.

The title of Pierre Lacoute’s booklet, God is Silence, says it all. For some, silence can be frightening, terrifying, even threatening, perhaps empty, but it can be sacred, living, and essential. Quakers do not have a unique claim to silence: the desert mystics practised it long ago. Other faiths have silent retreats. When deaths or disasters come, silence seems the only obvious response. Even football crowds of thousands can fall silent. It is our Quaker privilege to enjoy silence weekly.

I think it was in a Silent Sitting that this brief verse came to me:

I offer my silence
The earth is on fire!
All life endangered!
Where are the hosepipes?

Silence can only do good.

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