Quiet

Returning to the Center in a World of Noise

When I walked into the sanctuary, my eyes struggled to adjust from light to dark. My bare feet bumped into a step leading to the circle of chairs and cushions where everyone was already seated and quiet. It was seven minutes before what I thought was the 9 a.m. start time. I nervously sat down in the first available chair, put my face in my hands, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.

I had been to the Meditation and Centering Prayer group at Church of the Epiphany in South Haven, Michigan several times over the years. I thought it started at 9 a.m., but it appeared I was late. I wiped beads of sweat from my forehead, still hot from the early morning humidity. I scratched an itch on my leg. I shuffled in my chair to get comfortable. My mind raced—would I only have five minutes of meditation, I wondered. The minutes passed quickly, and then someone began to read aloud. I had definitely shown up late.

But no one stood up. I looked around—no one moved. Maybe I wasn’t late. Maybe they started early.

I wiped more sweat. Scratched my leg again. Fidgeted once more in my seat. In the silence, my mind kept churning. I wonder if I’ll cool down eventually. I wonder if this is the same carpet they’ve always had. I wonder if the fire alarm will chirp for the next thirty minutes like it did last year. I wonder why my leg keeps itching.

I took another deep breath.

My mind went blank.

My pulse slowed.

My body began to cool.

Where do you want to go? I asked, prayerfully.

“Let’s begin with the people you have hurt or not given your best to,” the voice gently whispered.

So that’s where we journeyed.

I often think about our frenetic, goal-oriented, rat race culture—the incessant pull and tug of technology and dopamine hits. Commercials, TV shows, and movies edited to minimize boredom, with no single shot lasting more than two seconds. The slot-machine-like addiction when we pull down the screen to refresh our feeds. The steady barrage of texts that make no distinction between day or night, sleep or awake, busy or free.

We are stimulating ourselves to death. And I think I really mean that.

I confess: I need more meditation and centering prayer in my life. The fact that it took me fifteen minutes to quiet my inputs and slow my head and heart proves it. And I worry that unless we intentionally make space for the necessary inner work that grounds us and makes us whole, we may never recover our center—individually or collectively. We will be people ravaged by the addiction to things that don’t matter, to the detriment of the only thing that does matter: our souls.

For when our souls flourish and thrive, our relationships—with each other and with creation—do as well. But when we neglect our essence for the noise, the speed, and the shine, we forget what it means to be human.

Question

Have I mistaken stimulation for aliveness—and what might it look like to return to my center?

Peace,

Brandon

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