Silence is the new black...

Silence is golden. The sound of silence. "Be still and wait..."

It is late on Wednesday evening. My arm is bruised from three weeks of being pinched. I have to pinch myself often. I am sure that I am dreaming this life, living in New York as a seminarian. Then *pinch*! Reality, in all its many bold colors flashes and I find myself being coaxed to "engage".

If there is one thing that I have noticed since my move from a small, unknown southern town to this city, it is the amount of speed with which the natives move from here to there, and the amount of noise it takes to do that motion. I guess that would count as "two things" that I have noticed, not just one. I miss the quiet attitude of my small home town. I miss the general ease with which the locals converse, drive, eat, and so on. I swear that I will never again complain about the unnecessarily slow driver with the handicap license plate driving unnecessarily slowly in front of me. There is little patience here for the guy with the out-of-state tag on his car.

And so, silence. *pinch*!

I am sitting next to the dean of the seminary in total silence. He has just led us in a few moments of an abbreviated compline service in the low light of the chapel in the dark of the evening. A portion of the Gospel of St. John was read in the style of lectio divina, or holy reading, and we were allowed the opportunity of simply letting the Holy words pass through us and around us. Then...silence. In the silence, repeated very often, "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner".

What does it all mean? What am I doing here sitting with these incredible men and women? I don't deserve this. I shouldn't be here! This is not my place! How will I do this? How will I make it through—.

Silence. The chance to still the heart and fight the demons with prayer. A chance to face your...my...own lack of humility and fight it by slowly wading into the waters of death: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.

And then it is over. Venerate the icon, a whispered blessing from the priest, and out of the chapel into the night. We are leaving this space still each wrapped in his own silence, taking it back to our homes on campus like a candle that is lit and must be protected from the wind, unless it would be blown out. With every step we protect that flame of silence: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner. The prayer rope slides through one's fingers and we capture these moments, stealing them from our passions, fighting our own two-faced motives, fighting the demons that accuse us of our very-real hypocrisy. Who do you think you are? A saint? The demons rage.

Into the silence of an apartment where everyone is already in bed. The small candle flame of silence burns more brightly in the stillness. Some brief prayers before sleep.