“Be still . . . and know that I Am God.”  Psalm 46

“Empty yourself of everything.  Let the mind become still. . . Returning to the source is stillness, which is the way of nature.”  Verse 16, The Tao Te Ching

Today I awoke to stillness.  Quiet.  No traffic sounds.  The first real snow of the season covering the earth like a blanket. The frigid whiteness of the new snowfall provided a comforting sense of pristine solitude and peace.  Peaceful.  So very peaceful.  For a time all was well in my soul, and right with the world.

This was nature’s invitation not to move.  This was the encouragement, perhaps even creation’s coercing to remain lying in bed, wrapped in the shroud of silence, hearing nothing yet being aware of everything.  I was awake and aware of all the non-existent sounds that the noise normally conceals.  For a brief moment in my imagination I was transported to the time before time when nothing but darkness covered the face of the deep and only the Deep Peace that surpasses all understanding existed.

The fact that today is Sunday didn’t escape my notice.  The day of new beginnings, new creation, and in the West a day traditionally observed for rest and worship.  In my pastoral past “sabbath rest” was an oxymoron, as it was my busiest and most draining day of the week.  Not anymore.  Now I enjoy not having to do for others, but only be for myself.  Today provides ample time and space to do nothing but be still.  There is no inner critic convincing me that what I do may not be enough, no compelling task which requires me to begin making mental lists of everything that simply must be done,  no overwhelming need to get moving simply for the sake of being in motion.  There is nothing but stillness.

After a time marinading in the quiet I take a delightful stroll through the delightful dawning of this new day. “The stillness of the first sabbath of eternity shedding it’s shadow upon the dimly lit streets.”  The senses come alive; The site of the glistening white, the skin stimulated by the 16 degree temperature, the smell of smoke from fireplaces kindled early, even the unique sensation of the small snowflakes touching my tongue, transporting me back to childhood and the times spent reveling in the wonder of this season.

And as I walk, enamored in the first glimpse of this winter wonderland I wonder “Why?” Why does it take nature’s prodding to compel me into the cozy and comforting welcome of the stillness of the divine? Why, I wonder, do we place such value on the doing of something, anything, rather than the being of nothing?  Why do we so value frantic activity that distracts us and drains us and diverts us from the magic of the present moment and ultimately drives us to the brink of despair and sometimes over the edge of dark depression?  Why do we prefer  a mode of living that is machine-like, mindless and meaningless, sacrificing our own humanity that is a sacred space renewed soul-ly by silence and stillness?

There may be a myriad of excuses, but I wonder if maybe it’s because we are so seduced by the unconscious existence of the false self that we are not only unaware and anesthetized, but also averse to spending time with our true self, our divine self.  I wonder if we are fearful that if we turn off the noise which, like a noose is slowly strangling our souls, that we would actually hear the still, small voice of God.  Like Elijah did in the cave.  Like the psalmist is calling us to do. 

God speaks most clearly in silence.  That is the message of the Tao.  That is the message of the manger scene which captures part of the magic of Christmas.  It is also the message of Good Friday.  For three hours silence and darkness covered the earth.  God was doing the best work when nothing at all seemed to be happening. Somehow we sense this truth deep within. 

It shouldn’t take a snowfall to remind us of this reality, though nature may be the very best ambassador of this message. The stillness of the soul can be practiced intentionally, whether it be in the quiet of our “closet” where the Christ invites us to enter into to pray, or in the clamor of the day to day when we intentionally take the time, even for a moment, to close our eyes and our ears so that our hearts can be opened to hear that small voice speaking quietly and filling us with peace.

“When you cease to fear your solitude, a new creativity awakens within you.  Your forgotten or neglected wealth begins to reveal itself. You come home to yourself and learn to rest within.”  John O’Donahue.