The Rule at Lanier

Listening for God in the Silence: A Benedictine Meditation

Today's reading in the Rule, Silence after Compline, offers us a unique opportunity to look closely at the noise in our lives.

Noise is not merely a condition of the modern world; many of us recognize it as a spiritual ailment. We tend to think of noise as an external reality — the music that never quite stops, the slammed door down the hall, the ceaseless chatter, a grating voice that scrapes against the surface of our mind. Yet Benedict understood something far deeper: noise is not only measured in decibels. It is measured in its power to agitate and harden the heart.

When noise becomes habitual, when it fills day after day and month after month, something thickens inside us. The walls of the mind grow dense and impenetrable. The soul becomes hard of hearing. What we lose is not simply quiet; we lose access to the inner voice — that gentle, steady voice within us that reveals our pain, clarifies our truth, and whispers of the presence of God.

The Loss of Inner Hearing

The Fathers and Mothers of the desert warned that a noisy life becomes a scattered life. Scattered people cannot discern. The soul that never rests cannot see. What is drowned out by the noise is not merely our thoughts but our capacity for interior truth.

We can become so conditioned to the outer roar that we no longer feel the subtle movements of God within us. The agitation becomes normal. The distraction becomes comfortable. The inner ear stiffens, and what once could be heard — the stirrings of conscience, the gentle nudges of grace, the invitations to wisdom — fades into a distant hum.

To listen for God requires more than a quiet room; it requires the cultivation of silence within.

Why Silence Alone Is Not Enough

We often imagine that silence is the solution. We seek a quiet retreat, a calm morning, a few minutes of stillness before the day begins. These are good and necessary. But Benedict points us further: silence is not an end in itself.

Silence can be empty. Silence can be merely the absence of noise rather than the fullness of presence. Silence, if unguided, can even lead us deeper into our own anxieties.

So Benedict does something profoundly pastoral: he shapes the night.

He instructs that the day should end not with the ferocity of Scripture’s battles nor with the clang of human struggle, but with the gentle Word of God — passages chosen intentionally to soothe rather than provoke. He wants the heart to be laid down in peace, not agitation.

For Benedict, silence must be inhabited. It must be filled with the softening presence of God. Only then does it become the kind of silence in which the soul can rest and hear.

The Night as Teacher

Most spiritual traditions underestimate the night. Benedict does not. He knows that what we absorb before sleep lingers long after consciousness drifts away. A soul unsettled at bedtime wakes in fragments.

Benedict offers a simple discipline: end the day in the presence of the gentle Word. Do not feed the mind on stories of violence or contention. Allow Scripture to become balm. Let the night itself become a monastery of quietness. In this way, silence becomes not merely absence, but nourishment.

Learning to Listen for God

Listening for God is not passive. It is an act of consent:

I grant God access to the inner room of my life,

I loosen the walls that noise has built,

I place myself in the condition where grace can be heard.

This listening grows slowly. It begins with moments, then becomes a posture, and finally a disposition of the heart.

We listen for God when:

we choose to pause instead of react,

we choose gentleness instead of agitation,

we end the day with something holy upon our lips,

we allow the night to teach what the day has obscured,

we cultivate an inner stillness that remains even when

      the world clamors.

In such silence, God speaks not in thunder but in truth. Not in spectacle but in subtlety. Not in the noise of our striving but in the openness created by our surrender.

The Gift of Being Quieted

Ultimately, Benedictine silence is not something we achieve; it is something God offers. It is a healing, a softening, a gentle clearing of the inner space where grace prefers to dwell.

When we listen in silence, we hear not only God but also ourselves — our wounds, our longings, our hopes, our fears — held in a Presence that neither condemns nor abandons us. The silence becomes communion.

And then something unexpected occurs:

unwilled change begins, and

grace reshapes the soul. Peace returns. The heart loosens.

The truths of life rise quietly to the surface.

 

In listening for God in the silence, 
we discover that God has been listening to us all along.