Running From and On Empty

I run.  I run a lot.  I run far, I run frequently.  And I often do so sitting on the couch with the remote.  Or surfing the Internet.  Or sleeping.   Sometimes I run by eating.  Or spending.  Anything to avoid facing the dark side of my self.  I distract myself so I don’t have to think.  I numb myself to ward off the demons.  I fear that if I am still very long that either the dark side will suffocate me in the thick pitch of the tar or God will not meet me in the silence and I will completely alone.  There are other times when I run to either deny or assuage the emptiness inside.

So I run.  And our culture values and rewards this running.  If I run by keeping busy I am applauded for being industrious.  “Wow!  That guy is so involved in so many wonderful things!”   In fact, if we’re not busy beyond belief we are regarded as a slacker.  Consequently, this kind of escapist busyness is reinforced by my peers.  I find myself embarrassed if I have time on my hands, particularly time that others don’t seem to have.  A friend calls to set up a time to get together and when he says, “Let me check my calendar,” and I simultaneously say, “My day is open,” I feel so unsuccessful and rather pathetic.  No one else seems to be “free;” why am I?

I run to avoid.  The darkness, the emptiness.  I have come to realize that my running merely reinforces the power of the darkness and exacerbates the emptiness.    I’m like Jackson Browne.  Running on empty.

If it’s the darkness that plagues me I need Light to dispel the darkness but my running prevents my receiving of the Light.  If it’s the emptiness that haunts me I need filling but my running does not allow me to be still in order to experience the needed filling. 

Ironically,  to ward off the emptiness I fill myself with that which doesn't matter and thereby deprive myself of that which ultimately matters.  A busy, preoccupied man visited a Zen master for tea.  The Zen master poured the tea until it overflowed the cup, and still he continued to pour.  Agitated, the man cried out, “Master, stop! Why do you keep pouring?  The cup is full.”  The master replied, “You are like this cup.  You are full of yourself—your judgments, your opinions.  You must first empty yourself.”

Both counter-culturally and counter intuitively, God beckons in this manner:  “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)  It appears that it is in silence and solitude that the “knowing” is cultivated.  It is in stillness that  authentic filling can take place. 

It is in the quiet, in the being still that the emptying can take place.  The question I wrestle with is this:

Will I stop or will I run?

These words are recorded by the Old Testament prophet Isaiah:

This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says:

“In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it..”  You said, ‘No, we will flee. . . “”

Notice wherein lies salvation and strength.  Quietness and rest; silence and being still.  And notice their response.  “No, we will flee.”  That mirrors my typical response.  “No, I will run.”

It’s a new year.  May God give us grace to resist the running and embrace the resting.  May we empty ourselves of the clamor, the distractions, and, in time, receive the Healer and the healing. 

Silence is Golden; Duct Tape is Silver

One of the spiritual disciplines, so I am told by those who are spiritually disciplined, is silence. So I will now produce profuse verbiage about silence. (Is there a contradiction contained therein?)

Last night our church held an Ash Wednesday service in the Apollo Theater. As my great luck would have it I showed up about 30 minutes early. Upon entering, I was handed a card informing us that we would engage in the discipline of silence and instructing us to be silent upon entering and throughout the service. Why can't I show up early and they announce we're having a donut eating contest, first come first served?

I embrace silence like I embrace a snot-nosed, whining, hacking 6 year old. So, our pastor hands me the card, I quickly read it, go into a full-blown panic attack, and tell him I just realized I didn't iron my socks and have to run back home and correct the wardrobe faux pas (all right--so I'm not particularly quick-thinking in a panic.) He puts his index finger to his lips and motions me upstairs to the seating. Each slow step up the stairs I inhale deeply and pray, "God, I receive your peace" and then I deeply exhale, praying, "God, get me out of this NOW or I swear I'll make a door where there is none!" After 37 steps of my own version of The Serenity Prayer I find a seat. Actually, there were ALL available due to my eagerness (now turned to dread) to get there. It's silent. No background music. No previews of coming movies. Just me and God. Where's a great distraction or an escaping addiction when you need one?

I crawl into my fetal position and attempt to pray, to quiet my mind. I attempt to calm the inner clamor. I realize how "full" I am--full of myself, full of avoidance, full of anxiety, full of my own agenda. So full that there is little room for God. So full of inner noise that it is no wonder I have difficulty hearing God.

As I sit there, my mouth motionless but my mind running at a breath-taking pace, I hear a few others entering. It sounds like a couple whispering to each other and then she starts giggling as they continue to violate the vow of silence. I become irritated at them and question their sincerity and want to go over and ask them if they mistakenly thought this was a Jimmy Buffett concert. It hit me--I'm also full of judgment. I had turned this opportunity to quiet myself and position myself to more readily encounter God into a scathing condemnation of my brother and sister who are probably uncomfortable with the silence, also, and just deal with it differently than me.

Finally, my wife, who had to work later than me, showed up and sat beside me. With intensity I whispered to her, "SAY SOMETHING!!! TALK TO ME!!!" She just patted my hand and handed me my "blankie," and bowed her head in tranquil silence. I resumed my fetal position, after her prompting me to get off the floor and into my seat.

Not a word was spoken the entire service. Some instrumental music, some inspirational words and periodic instructions on the screen. No dialogue. Quiet. Stillness. And there were moments where I experienced not only auditory silence, but soul silence.

Moments where it wasn't about ME. Moments where there was a sense of being drawn to God. A beckoning to empty myself of Preoccupation in order to be filled with Presence.

The service ended and I bolted. I ran home, grabbed the remote, and again became preoccupied. I filled myself and darted between American Idol, the Olympics, a Middle rerun. I filled myself and snacked, though not hungry. And I listened to "Margaritaville." At least I have the spiritual discernment and maturity to do so after, not during, an Ash Wednesday service. Jeez.

As you can see, my experience of silence is a two-edged sword. It makes me anxious. Anxious to avoid, anxious for more.

I'd like to hear how YOU do silence. What's your experience?
(I've tried to make it easier to comment and less hoops to jump through. Let me know. Thanks.)