Father Marie-Eugene of the Child Jesus (Grialou), OCD
In our twentieth century, contemplative people often think with a certain melancholy of the times when Saint Teresa traveled (at a slow pace in a carriage) across the desolate plains of Spain in a wagon adapted as a Carmelite cell. And she still felt the need to have more hours for solitude and asked her guides to respect that. We live in a feverish movement and activity. The problem is not only in the organization of modern life, or the rush that compels our actions, or the speed and ease of our travels. The deeper problem lies in the feverishness and nervousness of today's people. They can no longer wait or be silent. And yet they seek silence and solitude. They leave their familial environment to seek new horizons, a different atmosphere. But most often it is only to distract themselves with new impressions.
No matter how times change, God remains the same, Tu autem idem Ipse es (Ps 102:28), His Word is still spoken in silence – and in silence, the soul must also receive. The "law" of silence applies to us just as it did to Saint Teresa. The feverishness and nervousness of the modern temperament make this law even more urgent and compel us to a more vigorous effort to respect it and submit to it.
Forms of Silence
There is external silence of the tongue and natural activities and silence of the internal faculties of the soul. Each of these forms has its own rules, so distinct that we must examine them separately.
1. Silence of the Tongue
In ordinary speech to be silent means not to speak. This highlights the importance of mortifying the tongue for the sake of silence.
Of the tongue, it could be said that it is simultaneously the best and the worst. It can do immeasurable good, but it is also a source of the gravest evil. The Apostle James clearly states this in his epistle (James 3:2-9):
For we all stumble in many ways. If anyone is never at fault in what he says, he is perfect, able to keep his whole body in check. When we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we can turn the whole animal. Or take ships as an example. Although they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot wants to go. Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark! The tongue also is a fire. (...) All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and sea creatures are being tamed and have been tamed by mankind, but no human being can tame the tongue. (...) With the tongue, we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God's likeness.
This is a relevant indictment of the tongue. Emphasizing the seriousness of the sins that the Apostle James warns about in connection with the tongue, is not necessary in our case, for souls devoted to prayer are already well-educated or at least sufficiently warned in this matter. Nevertheless, how valuable such instruction on the significance and difficulty of mortifying the tongue is for us and it directly leads to our topic!
Speech communicates, thus it expresses the innermost thoughts and feelings of the soul, that is, what is most intimate and personal.
Communication can be beneficial for both parties. For the one communicating, the love given develops, finds strength and joy. Conversely, the recipient is enriched by the teaching and all that love shares in its expression. The sharing of words is the foundation of social relationships, all education, progress in all areas, including the development of faith. "Faith comes from hearing," says the Apostle Paul (Romans 10:17). "And how can they believe without someone preaching to them?" (Romans 10:14.)
However, excess is detrimental. To maintain the right measure in speaking, the mortification of the tongue is necessary.
The word that comes outwardly exposes the depths of the soul. The depth temporarily disappears, its twilight and silence are dispersed. To our God, who has retreated into the depths of the soul and carries out His creative work of divine life in this twilight and silence, such expression seems to hinder.
Similarly, external communication, which should enrich, sometimes only disrupts the silence of the soul and God's work in it. It introduces distracting trivialities, objects of temptation, in short, causes of disturbance that increase the difficulty of recollection and can paralyze God's work in the soul.
Before the harm that conversations cause, the soul may be warned by a certain feeling that something is wrong. Saint Teresa of the Child Jesus admits that she was long distressed that she allowed the secret of the beauty and smile of the Virgin Mary, to whom she belonged, to slip away. Who has not felt at some point that the fragrance of deeper prayer or the Eucharistic touch has disappeared in trivial conversation? These experiences alert us to the harm that is typically present in such cases, even if we do not notice it.
Therefore, loquacity, this tendency to reveal all the treasures of the soul through communication, is supremely harmful to the spiritual life. It goes precisely in the opposite direction of spiritual life. The spiritual life constantly turns inward to draw nearer to God. In contrast, the need to speak of everything drives the loquacious person outward and thus inevitably distances them from God and from all deep activity. Their entire inner life flows out onto their lips and is swept away in streams of words, carrying off (ever poorer) fruits of their mind and soul. The loquacious person no longer has time and soon no longer even the desire to recollect, to think, or to live deeply. The disruption they create around themselves prevents others from fruitful work or fruitful recollection. The loquacious person is, due to their superficiality and emptiness, actually dangerous.
However, loquacity cannot be construed as conversations, even lengthy ones, that a person is duty-bound to engage in and that well-ordered love imposes. Many truly contemplative people have also been very much involved in worldly affairs or have been fruitful writers, like Saint Vincent Ferrer, Saint Bernardino of Siena, Saint Francis de Sales, or the same Saint Teresa and Saint John of the Cross. Through this necessary and loving communication, the spiritual person is connected to God's will and joyously surprised that when they again enter the depths of their soul, they meet there the vigilant Holy Spirit, who is already waiting to celebrate their return.
However, during spiritual conversations, when revealing our intimate life with God, the danger of loquacity is always present. Certainly: informing about our dispositions and received graces is sometimes a duty; usually it is the only means to present them for the check of spiritual guidance and to receive instruction and help from it. Thanks to notes, they can be specified; sometimes we learn of their richness and in less bright times, we can recall them (because of this). Nevertheless, the strict rule of Carmel, while not overlooking the usefulness and necessity of communication, states in the spirit of Isaiah: "In silence and hope will be your strength" (Isaiah 30:15): in silence that keeps the soul's powers intact and pure and protects them from fragmentation; in hope that is inclined towards God and seeks light and support in Him. Lengthy spiritual effusions indeed distract, and thus weaken the received insights and strength. When we speak at length, we waste, and the soul becomes empty. When the soul fully expresses to God its ardent feelings from the fervent reception, it deprives itself of strength for action: all the strength, drawn from God, flows away in this sweet stream of words.
Moderation should also be observed in writing (for personal use as well as for the spiritual director). Our notes should not be too frequent or too extensive. Are not the discussions and clearer understanding of the things that flow from them often more harmful than beneficial? When writing, we must focus on ourselves and thus stop on our path to God. Furthermore, there is a risk that judgment will feed pride and spiritual gluttony, from which beginners almost cannot escape. Each must see whether their records are not mainly flattering mirrors in which the soul delights to look, and whether they would not use God's gifts better if they left them behind in twilight or forgetfulness and walked directly to God Himself.
Cultus justitiae silentium est, silence is the effort for justice (Isaiah 32:17, quoted in the rule, chapter 16): silence is both the fruit and the demand of holiness. Therefore, Saint Teresa warns beginners at many points about the danger to which their desire to proclaim exposes them (Life, chapters XIII and XIX). To give without exhausting themselves, they must wait until they can constantly renew their strength through habitual unity at God's fountain.
“I don’t want to be a spiritual chatterbox,” writes Elisabeth Leseurova. “I want to preserve that great peace of soul... To give only what others can profitably receive, and to keep the rest in the depths, as the soul keeps its treasure, but with the intention of giving it when the hour comes.” Saint Teresa of Avila and Saint Teresa of the Child Jesus will give all the treasures of their souls in immortal writings, but only at the request of their superiors and when the overflowing fullness of their love can only be enriched by total self-giving.
The asceticism of silence is so important that monastic rules have precisely outlined its specific methods for each religious order. Carmel has preserved from its desert beginnings the so-called great silence. It lasts from Compline to Prime1 of the next day – and during the night hours, which are more favorable for deep prayer, it turns the monastery into a desert. During the day, Carmel maintains relative silence, for the rule prohibits all idle words.
However, in order for silence not to become stress, it must be interspersed with rest. Even rest, or recreation, is part of the asceticism of silence. According to Saint Teresa, it is one of its most important and delicate elements. After all, before founding the first convent of barefoot brothers in Durvel, the saint took the young Father John of the Cross to establish the convent of sisters in Valladolid, not to spiritually instruct him or test his virtue (which she considered heroic), but to show him how the Carmelite sisters live and especially what their recreation looks like. Teresian recreations! Was it not sometimes seen of the saint how joyfully she directed her choir of daughters with castanets or a little drum, or how she strictly reprimanded an overly pious sister who wanted to prioritize prayer over recreation during the feast? It is also recorded that when one day in 1571, the young novice Isabella of Jesus sang a song:
“Oh, to see you with my own eyes,
my sweet and good Jesus!
Oh, to see you with my own eyes,
and die at once!”
the saint fell into ecstasy and was dying because she was not dying.
During recreations, the sisters sometimes spoke of how remarkably beautiful Teresa's niece Teresita was, or they discussed the misfortune of the French Church ravaged by Protestantism, or the wretched souls of people in the West Indies. During these recreations, the entire life of the saint's soul always shone through and all the gifts of her daughters revealed themselves. When the souls thus relaxed at God's feet, they again took on their burdensome habit and, refreshed and revived, found the sweet company of their Beloved in the silence of their convent.
(Excerpt from the forthcoming translation of the book “I Want to See God”
edited by Eva Jelínková.)
