As a youngster, I went to a girls’ Catholic school. Those were the days when an order of nuns were still the teachers and the ones in charge. Our school was across the street from the nuns’ convent, which was adjacent to the church (photo above) built in 1903. This is the church my Mother and I attended and where I was married, but my history with this church and school goes back even further: my grandmother went to this Catholic school, but never converted nor graduated; my Mother went to this Catholic school and converted when she was 12; and I had been “converted” as a baby and so went there for a full twelve years and graduated.

     The school emphasized all religious traditions and holidays, of course, but Lent was taken especially seriously at Nazareth Academy. Each year, we would have a Lenten Retreat of some sort, even in the lower grades. In the upper school, the retreat usually consisted of two full days, during which we were encouraged to be serious in demeanor and not to talk, except out of necessity. Academic classes were suspended so that we could attend religious services, hear speakers, engage in study groups, go to confession, and take time to meditate and reflect. Since the church and convent were in close proximity, we were allowed to wander the quiet convent grounds and gardens in our free time, which made contemplation, prayer and reflection much, much easier. No noise, no distractions — way before cell phones.

     Those early years of retreat may be where my initial association of a sacred silence with a  spiritual life began. Notwithstanding the Old Testament stories of a booming voice in a burning bush, I don’t think God shouts. Rather, I think God can only be heard through our own inner voice in the silence of the heart. Back in the early days of my Catholic education, one could attend Mass and still pray and think and reflect in the moments of silence that existed within the larger ritual of the service. The few prayers that were recited or the songs that were sung were “incantational” in nature, meditative and soothing in their rhythmic familiarity, even if the words were in Latin.

     I sometimes attended Protestant or Jewish services with my non-Catholic friends, but those services were pretty much as reserved and predictable as my own. My first exposure to a different kind of worship was through the Pentecostal tent revivals that regularly came to town. My best friend and I used to sneak into the back of the tents just to see what all the crowds and commotion were about. And commotion it was: the preacher, generally a non-denominational firebrand, oversaw the laying of hands, the expulsion of demons, the speaking in tongues, the conversions to faith, and the general praising, glorifying, singing, swaying and other emotional manifestations attributed to the influence of the Holy Spirit. It was wild, but we didn’t make fun of these revivals, as some people who attended did; we simply watched and listened and then talked about how very different and yes, odd, this kind of experience was.

      The Second Vatican Council of the Roman Catholic Church took place from 1962-1965 with the express purpose of updating and directing the life of the Church into the 20th century and beyond. It was a historic event that introduced big changes to the Church both in liturgy and in structure. The vernacular replaced Latin as the language of the Mass, the importance of scripture was revitalized, the roles of lay people, including women, were  expanded, and the foundation for updating the Rules of Canon Law were laid. As the saying goes, “the windows were opened for the breeze to blow through” — which I welcomed, by the way, but those windows also opened to some of the evangelical influences already stirring in society. Eventually, we had our own charismatic Catholics, healing ceremonies, and congregational celebrations of what used to be private rites and rituals (baptisms, funerals). Everything was about fellowship and community ministry. We got away from the quiet contemplation of religious observance just as society also got away from the quiet contemplation of everything else.

     Last week I went to Mass on Ash Wednesday for the service to be followed by the distribution of ashes, but I left before the ashes. The church was too crowded and I had had enough of people praising and singing, and coughing and talking and babies crying. In the Mass of my local church, there is not even a 30 second period of quiet (I’ve timed it): every single minute is filled with either prayer, singing, praising, preaching, or greeting. It makes me tired. I’m afraid I can’t find solace in the noisy community of a congregation; rather, I now like church best when there is no else one around. 

     This attitude was no doubt solidified by Covid, when for over two years I watched the Mass being live-streamed from a church without attendees in the peace and quiet of my own home. I looked forward to those Masses every week and found them to be the most spiritually rewarding church services I had experienced in a very long time. Once we got passed Covid, though, the whole world seemed to have erupted with some sort of evangelical fervor, whether that fervor is religious, political, ideological, or the “Swifties!” The pre-Covid noise resumed again, at even higher decibels.

     So now I seek the quiet corners in a church when no one else is there. It isn’t easy, because a lot of churches are locked during the day, but I try the side doors. Sometimes I attend a weekday Mass because it is lower-key and there are fewer people, and sometimes I just go to visit at an off-time. I can pray the rosary or make the Stations of the Cross or read my meditations. Most of all, the silence of an empty church invites me to sit and think, or not to think; it allows me to listen to the whispers of the Lord.

     This Lent I will once again recall and try to capture the peace and quiet I found in the Garden of Gethsemane on a trip to the Holy Land in 2015. On dusty paths amid scraggly olive vines, there truly does exist a sacred place of sacred silence in that Garden just outside the city walls of Jerusalem. Christ knew he would be able to hear his Father there before the crucifixion.  Likewise, if I can find some sacred silence in my life, maybe I can hear some words of encouragement for the trials I face. Remember, God doesn’t shout.