At the same time, though, there is a saying that I've always loved that says, in essence, the more you know God, the less you want to talk about God (or, at least, the less you need to). The first line of the 1st Chapter of the Tao te Ching puts it like this (from the translation by Gia-fu Feng and Jane English):
The Trappist monk Fr. Thomas Merton was aware of the paradox of his life -- he was part of a silent order, yet he was also a prolific writer. This tension was something he danced with from his earliest days as a monk. The more words, the less quite. The more time and energy he devoted to his conversations with the outer world, the less time and energy he had for his conversations with his inner world.
In our culture we are so concerned with our busy-ness, with our productivity, with what we're doing in our hours and minutes. Yet the wise ones who have preceded us -- and those living among us now -- have always maintained that it's not in the doing, its not in the noise, that we'll find the deepest truths we seek. Instead, it's in the spaces, the in-between. The 11th Chapter of the Tao te Ching puts it like this:
It was, after all, in the "still, small voice" (or "gentle whisper") that the Prophet Elijah recognized his God. According to the book of 1 Kings, it wasn't in an earthquake, or a raging fire, or roaring winds, and most definitely not in an extended dissertation. It was in the quiet, the stillness.
The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.In Chapter 81, the author says:
True words are not beautiful. Beautiful words are not true.Of course, in between there are 80 chapters of beautiful words telling about the Tao. Go figure.
The Trappist monk Fr. Thomas Merton was aware of the paradox of his life -- he was part of a silent order, yet he was also a prolific writer. This tension was something he danced with from his earliest days as a monk. The more words, the less quite. The more time and energy he devoted to his conversations with the outer world, the less time and energy he had for his conversations with his inner world.
In our culture we are so concerned with our busy-ness, with our productivity, with what we're doing in our hours and minutes. Yet the wise ones who have preceded us -- and those living among us now -- have always maintained that it's not in the doing, its not in the noise, that we'll find the deepest truths we seek. Instead, it's in the spaces, the in-between. The 11th Chapter of the Tao te Ching puts it like this:
Thirty spokes share the wheel's hub; It is the center hole that makes it useful. Shape clay into a vessel; It is the space within that makes it useful.Cut doors and windows for a room; It is the holes which make it useful. Therefore profit comes from what is there; Usefulness from what is not there.
To be sure, there is something that we could call "extrovert spirituality." Not everyone experiences their most rich encounters with the sacred inwardly; for some, it's in reaching out that they connect most fully. There is a dearth of attention paid to this type of spirituality. In fact, Nancy Reeves wrote her 2008 book Spirituality for Extroverts: and tips for those who love them precisely because she'd never seen the topic addressed at all. I will admit that I still have a lot to learn about this approach to the spiritual quest. Perhaps someone reading this will share their experiences with me.
For myself, though, I recognize the same paradoxical tension as did Thomas Merton. I love words, my stock and trade is words, yet I know that I need the silence. To paraphrase the Psalmist, "As a deer pants for water, so my soul longs for silence." And perhaps I need to remember advice St. Francis is remembered as telling his companions, "Preach always. When necessary, use words."
Pax tecum,
RevWik
