“To You, Even Silence is Praise”

Psalm 65:1-8

God of Zion, to you even silence is praise.     Promises made to you are kept— 2     you listen to prayer—     and all living things come to you.

3 When wrongdoings become too much for me,     you forgive our sins. 4 How happy is the one you choose to bring close,     the one who lives in your courtyards! We are filled full by the goodness of your house,     by the holiness of your temple.

5 In

righteousness you answer us,

    by your awesome deeds,

    God of our salvation—

    you, who are the security

        of all the far edges of the

earth,

        even the distant seas.

6     You

establish the mountains by your strength;

    you are dressed in raw power.

7     You

calm the roaring seas;

        calm the roaring waves,

        calm the noise of the nations.

8 Those who

dwell on the far edges

        stand in awe of your acts.

    You make the gateways

        of morning and evening sing for

joy.

A week ago, I spent two and a

half days at a retreat on Celtic Spirituality. The retreat was held at Roslyn

Retreat Center, which if you have never been there, I highly encourage you to

go for a personal retreat or conference. The grounds are spectacular. Rolling

hills, wooded walking paths, Adirondack chairs, hammocks, and patios to gather

along, talk, pray, meditate, and breathe. Their chapel is especially beautiful.

It sits on top of a hill and the entire back of it is glass. So as you are

worshiping inside of it, you look out upon the trees changing color, the canal

and river below, and birds flying past.

The first day I was there was

one of those rare perfect fall afternoons in Virginia, with sun shining, and

white clouds moving slowly in the sky. It was easy to see God that day. But the

next morning we woke up to about a twenty degree drop in temperature, dark

clouds rolling in on the horizon, and soon rain pouring down upon us. We met

again in the chapel that morning, worshiping and hearing the story of George

MacLeod, who restarted in the 1930s the Iona Community off the west coast of

Scotland, an ancient pilgrimage site of music and prayer, literature and

worship, justice and ecumenical mission. MacLeod’s famous phrase was “Matter

matters,” inviting people to see God and the holy in everyday, ordinary

substances and people, locations, and creations. We were invited to take the

next 45 minutes and go wherever we would like to meditate, to pray, to watch,

to wake up, to walk, to sit, to do whatever our soul was calling us to do. But

to do it in silence.

I knew exactly where I wanted

to go. On the side of the dining hall, where I knew I could get some more

coffee to wake me up, was a covered patio. I put on my jacket, grabbed a mug,

and sat outside on the brisk and a little bit damp patio chairs. Sitting there,

I first thought I needed to say or do something or come with a litany before

God. But something was calling me to instead just sit and watch and be silent.

It was still raining hard in front of me, and I was grateful for the overhang.

As I sat there for a few minutes my eyes made their way down the hill to an

outdoor altar that stood there. And all around the altar were these geese,

walking and playing, honking back and forth to each other, without any cover at

all. At first I thought, what are these geese doing? It’s wet. It’s cold. It’s

raining harder and harder. They should be running or flying for shelter. They

should be upset and worried about this new, rainy weather instead of happy and

playing, splashing and talking out in the middle of this field.