“To petition is to connect, really though mysteriously.” –Paul Knitter
The church I serve was planted among several acres of evergreen trees, meaning Chapel in the Pines is aptly named. The sanctuary is constructed of wooden beams and large windows afford views of “the timbered choir” outside, swaying to nature’s hymns.
But travel just beyond the church grounds and experience the jarring cacophony of an asphalt jungle. The university and healthcare systems are expanding at almost unbelievable rates. The population of the small town just south of us is expected to grow from 6,000 to 60,000 residents in the next five years!
At Chapel in the Pines, we want to engage this growing culture. To be faithful to our calling, we want to serve others beyond our walls. And …
At the same time, we understand our ministry to provide a respite and refuge, an environment set apart to offer a temporary stay against the confusion caused by the rapid acceleration around us.
Every other Monday night before the pandemic, we gathered for a contemplative service. Regular attendees have included congregation members and also folks from other churches and faiths. Some are Buddhists, some are Quakers. Others would not claim to adhere to any faith tradition. After a simple song or two, and readings of Scripture and poetry, we took 20 minutes to sit in silence together. This silence is part of our commitment to one another.
The service closes by passing the peace and, I confess, there have been many evenings when I was ready to cheer that the silent meditation was finally over! I’ve found that it’s hard enough to sit still, much less quiet my monkey mind swinging from the wooden rafters.
A while back, I lamented to a friend who is Buddhist, “I’m not very good at meditating.”
He chuckled kindly. “It’s not about ‘being good.’ Or ‘being bad’ for that matter.”
“I mean, you know, meditation is hard.”
“No,” he softly countered, “it is thinking that is hard.” He let those words hang for a moment. “Meditation is easy. Your thoughts will come and go. Just don’t try to do anything with them.”
The confusion must have been written across my face.
He lifted both his fists into the air, then opened his hands to reveal his empty palms. “Just let them go.”
As I entered into the time of silence on the Monday after our conversation, I reminded myself of his advice. But, rather than spiritual enlightenment, his phrase only served to call to mind the Disney movie “Frozen.” The “Let It Go” tune played in my head, stuck on repeat. The harder I tried to turn it off, the more frustrated I became until, finally, I noticed how quiet the other 20 or so people in the room had become. They made it look easy.
For the rest of the meditation, thoughts flew into my mind about my family and my kids, about Sunday’s sermon, about the novel I was reading, about politics and more politics. But after each intrusion, I returned my attention to my fellow meditators. Rather than trying to empty my mind, I attempted to root myself in the quiet stillness we were creating together.
Theologian Paul Knitter refers to meditation as the Sacrament of Silence. The more I practice, the more I realize that I am not a lonesome pine, but part of a true chapel in the pines. I am reminded of a definition by Wendell Berry: A community is the mental and spiritual condition of knowing that the place is shared. The same thing that is true about meditation can also be true with people: a special community is built when we don’t try to “do anything” with each other, save experience our present connection as a gift.
This is not to suggest that we don’t have work to do. In light of our changing community, questions loom for the church: How will Chapel in the Pines engage the population growth of our area? What is our vision for the next five years? How can we both welcome people into our space and witness to others outside our comfort zones?
Although 20 minutes is not a lot of time, this sacrament of communal silence is slowly affecting my entire outlook, providing not so much answers as reducing my anxiety around the questions. A Zen master said long ago: Abide in me, and I will abide in you. The irony is that, in this communal silence, I’ve started to hear a gentle voice: I am the vine and you are the branches.
