Thank you! Love this ... Silence practice ... a "letting go" practice ... is dear to my heart as its most profound nourishment. I also appreciate the academic citations. I wrote a master's thesis in theology on the practice of Silence, based on Psalm 46: "Be still, and know that I am God."
This was a most meaningful read this morning. It is also reassuring and full of wise, attainable approaches to silence during prayer. There are days when the mind wants to controll what is thought and spoken! Great suggestions for redirecting thought patterns that would interfere with silence and solitude moving toward prayer, reflection and communion with the Lord.
C.S. Lewis once wrote a short book about a senior demon in Hell exchanging letters with his nephew, offering him guidance in his role as a junior tempter here on earth. One of the letters to his nephew went something like this: "Music and silence—I can't stand either of them! Thankfully, ever since our Father arrived in Hell—so long ago that humans couldn't measure it, even in light-years—not a single inch of this place or moment of its time has been surrendered to those awful forces. Instead, it's been filled with Noise—glorious Noise, the sound of everything bold, ruthless, and strong—Noise that keeps us safe from pesky doubts, moral scruples, and hopeless dreams. One day, the entire universe will roar. We've already made great headway on Earth, and the songs and silences of Heaven will be drowned out. Still, I have to admit, we're not quite loud enough yet. "
This got me thinking about a famous pop/folk song of the '60s—Simon and Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence." The following story is the result.
Screwtape stood at the edge of the city, grinning as neon lights pulsed, and speakers shook the streets. Gangster rap blared from passing cars; heavy metal screamed from basements, and every device hummed with endless playlists. "Noise, the grand dynamism," he whispered. "We will make the whole universe a noise in the end."
But in one small house, an old woman sat by her Bible, listening to her radio playing the gentle, heartbreaking lyrics of "The Old Rugged Cross." Her grandson swaggered in, his words dripping with bravado, echoing the rhythms of the street. She fixed him with a stern gaze and snapped: "Where have you been?"
"I be rapping with my Niggas down at the crib!"
She jumped up, her hand slapping his cheek—in a stinging correction. "Don't you talk that hippity‑hop nonsense to me!"
The slap was a punctuation mark, a refusal to let chaos reign in her home. In the stunned silence that followed, something else broke through. A melody, fragile yet piercing, like a whisper in the dark, broadcasting from her old radio: "Hello darkness, my old friend…" It was Simon & Garfunkel's voice of the 1960s, lamenting a world where silence had been forgotten, where people "talked without speaking" and "heard without listening." Their song was a prophecy: that noise would drown meaning, and silence would become a stranger.
The boy had heard the song before, of course. Everyone had. But always as background—mall speakers, waiting-room playlists, ironic TikTok clips. Never like this: naked, deliberate, filling the small living room until the walls themselves seemed to lean in and listen. Static flickered for an instant—not the usual hiss, but something colder—and then, impossibly, the heavy metal group Disturbed blasted from the speakers—the same words but now clothed in fire—a heavy metal version of anguish, a cry against the overwhelming roar of modern distraction. The gentle lament had become a battle hymn, demanding that the world hear the warning. And in that moment, the boy heard both voices: the whisper of the original and the roar of the remake. He realized that silence was not emptiness but presence—the place where truth could be heard.
In that same moment, Screwtape recoiled. For even in a world of gangster beats and metal riffs, silence had found a way to speak again.
The boy's grandmother sat back down, Bible closed on her lap, eyes on him but not pressing. She had simply let the song do its work. And as the final chord faded, the house felt larger, as though the silence had pushed the furniture farther apart.
The boy swallowed incredulously. "Gran… what was that?"
She smiled, small and tired— "Sometimes the truth needs quiet to get through all the shouting. That song knew it even back then. And when the world got louder, someone had to shout the quiet back at it."
He thought of the Disturbed version—heavy guitars, David Draiman's voice like gravel and lightning. Same words, different armor. He'd loved the fury of it, how it matched the anger he carried around like pocket money. But now he understood the silent warning beneath the lyrics. As the boy sat down across from her, for the first time in months, he didn't reach for his phone. Outside, a car thumped past, subwoofers rattling windows. Inside, nothing answered it.
In the city beyond the curtains, Screwtape paced the rooftops, ears twitching at every siren and ringtone. Yet from one unremarkable house a stubborn pocket of stillness spread, thin as spider silk but unbreakable. Silence, it turned out, was not the absence of sound. It was the refusal to add to the noise until something worth hearing arrived. And sometimes, if you waited long enough, it did.
It’s kind of interesting, but ever since I was a teen I’ve measured my anxiety or the “health of my soul” so to speak in how comfortable/uncomfortable I feel about being alone, in silence, journaling or praying or simply thinking. I’ve since noticed that, usually, when the discomfort of this is high, there’s something going on I know I need to address!
Griffin Gooch @cslewisofficial quotes Lewis about our need for quiet. “Our minds are in ruins before we bring them to Him and the rebuilding is gradual.”
In my book The Quiet: Poems of Endurance I needed quiet because my mind was in ruins and there were no easy answers. I was not sure that the ruin was complete or not, or if the rebuilding had actually begun. And yes it was gradual.
One of the poems I wrote is "Describing Poetry" where I Iooked at quotations from poets that had gone before and how they described what poetry was. The second stanza reverses it like looking into the mirror of a lake and I describe my process.
Describing Poetry
Eliot’s escape
Frost’s finding
Wordsworth’s tranquility
Poe’s rhythmical creation
Levertov’s practice of attention
Thomas’ contribution to reality
St. Vincent Millay’s valuable mistakes
Auden’s expression of mixed feelings
Collin’s reassembling of what has been scattered
Shakespeare’s giving airy nothing a local habitation and a name
I write because before I do my thoughts are anonymous hobos
This was perhaps one of my favorite insights of the piece,
“Silence is a natural means toward intimacy. When we first begin to pray, we tend to fill every void with rambling, petitioning—explaining ourselves as if God requires a briefing. Over time, persistence guarantees that we start to say less. We trust He already knows our hearts because He is greater than them.”
I remember driving with my wife a day after we decided to officially be exclusive. One of the things I loved about her was that we always had so much to talk about. In my youthful naïveté, I exclaimed, “I can’t imagine a day when we won’t have something to talk about. I could go on talking with you forever.”
Oh, how wrong I was! And thank God. Sometimes the silence bubbles up from and creates a deeper intimacy than our voices. Conversation is important. But silence is the punctuation that gives it meaning and power.
Thanks, Griffin. I needed the encouragement to bring that to my relationship with God today.
But for the silence on the other side of emptiness, when all is shed that is self and we are alone in sacred Presence, it is almost mandatory to get lost in the numerous noisy addictions life endlessly offers. I have been blessed to walk into that blessed space many times, whether off shore sailing, alone on a ski lift, sitting in an ancient Indian shelter on my Ozark land. And that silence saved me from myself corporately and personally when all else was failing. Yet, I confess, I don’t live there but in snippets. I only pass through. Screwtape lives despite “intentions.” At least by now in late days, I get it: peace is always there in the quiet surrender. If for me, then anyone.
Thank you! Love this ... Silence practice ... a "letting go" practice ... is dear to my heart as its most profound nourishment. I also appreciate the academic citations. I wrote a master's thesis in theology on the practice of Silence, based on Psalm 46: "Be still, and know that I am God."
This was a most meaningful read this morning. It is also reassuring and full of wise, attainable approaches to silence during prayer. There are days when the mind wants to controll what is thought and spoken! Great suggestions for redirecting thought patterns that would interfere with silence and solitude moving toward prayer, reflection and communion with the Lord.
had a darn good time writing this
Really enjoyed reading it
Great piece, Griffin Gooch! Thank you for reminding us about the joy of silence in a world of noise and chaos …
A Parable of Noise and Silence
C.S. Lewis once wrote a short book about a senior demon in Hell exchanging letters with his nephew, offering him guidance in his role as a junior tempter here on earth. One of the letters to his nephew went something like this: "Music and silence—I can't stand either of them! Thankfully, ever since our Father arrived in Hell—so long ago that humans couldn't measure it, even in light-years—not a single inch of this place or moment of its time has been surrendered to those awful forces. Instead, it's been filled with Noise—glorious Noise, the sound of everything bold, ruthless, and strong—Noise that keeps us safe from pesky doubts, moral scruples, and hopeless dreams. One day, the entire universe will roar. We've already made great headway on Earth, and the songs and silences of Heaven will be drowned out. Still, I have to admit, we're not quite loud enough yet. "
This got me thinking about a famous pop/folk song of the '60s—Simon and Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence." The following story is the result.
Screwtape stood at the edge of the city, grinning as neon lights pulsed, and speakers shook the streets. Gangster rap blared from passing cars; heavy metal screamed from basements, and every device hummed with endless playlists. "Noise, the grand dynamism," he whispered. "We will make the whole universe a noise in the end."
But in one small house, an old woman sat by her Bible, listening to her radio playing the gentle, heartbreaking lyrics of "The Old Rugged Cross." Her grandson swaggered in, his words dripping with bravado, echoing the rhythms of the street. She fixed him with a stern gaze and snapped: "Where have you been?"
"I be rapping with my Niggas down at the crib!"
She jumped up, her hand slapping his cheek—in a stinging correction. "Don't you talk that hippity‑hop nonsense to me!"
The slap was a punctuation mark, a refusal to let chaos reign in her home. In the stunned silence that followed, something else broke through. A melody, fragile yet piercing, like a whisper in the dark, broadcasting from her old radio: "Hello darkness, my old friend…" It was Simon & Garfunkel's voice of the 1960s, lamenting a world where silence had been forgotten, where people "talked without speaking" and "heard without listening." Their song was a prophecy: that noise would drown meaning, and silence would become a stranger.
The boy had heard the song before, of course. Everyone had. But always as background—mall speakers, waiting-room playlists, ironic TikTok clips. Never like this: naked, deliberate, filling the small living room until the walls themselves seemed to lean in and listen. Static flickered for an instant—not the usual hiss, but something colder—and then, impossibly, the heavy metal group Disturbed blasted from the speakers—the same words but now clothed in fire—a heavy metal version of anguish, a cry against the overwhelming roar of modern distraction. The gentle lament had become a battle hymn, demanding that the world hear the warning. And in that moment, the boy heard both voices: the whisper of the original and the roar of the remake. He realized that silence was not emptiness but presence—the place where truth could be heard.
In that same moment, Screwtape recoiled. For even in a world of gangster beats and metal riffs, silence had found a way to speak again.
The boy's grandmother sat back down, Bible closed on her lap, eyes on him but not pressing. She had simply let the song do its work. And as the final chord faded, the house felt larger, as though the silence had pushed the furniture farther apart.
The boy swallowed incredulously. "Gran… what was that?"
She smiled, small and tired— "Sometimes the truth needs quiet to get through all the shouting. That song knew it even back then. And when the world got louder, someone had to shout the quiet back at it."
He thought of the Disturbed version—heavy guitars, David Draiman's voice like gravel and lightning. Same words, different armor. He'd loved the fury of it, how it matched the anger he carried around like pocket money. But now he understood the silent warning beneath the lyrics. As the boy sat down across from her, for the first time in months, he didn't reach for his phone. Outside, a car thumped past, subwoofers rattling windows. Inside, nothing answered it.
In the city beyond the curtains, Screwtape paced the rooftops, ears twitching at every siren and ringtone. Yet from one unremarkable house a stubborn pocket of stillness spread, thin as spider silk but unbreakable. Silence, it turned out, was not the absence of sound. It was the refusal to add to the noise until something worth hearing arrived. And sometimes, if you waited long enough, it did.
love it...
Wonderful
Beautiful and thought-provoking.
It’s kind of interesting, but ever since I was a teen I’ve measured my anxiety or the “health of my soul” so to speak in how comfortable/uncomfortable I feel about being alone, in silence, journaling or praying or simply thinking. I’ve since noticed that, usually, when the discomfort of this is high, there’s something going on I know I need to address!
Griffin Gooch @cslewisofficial quotes Lewis about our need for quiet. “Our minds are in ruins before we bring them to Him and the rebuilding is gradual.”
In my book The Quiet: Poems of Endurance I needed quiet because my mind was in ruins and there were no easy answers. I was not sure that the ruin was complete or not, or if the rebuilding had actually begun. And yes it was gradual.
One of the poems I wrote is "Describing Poetry" where I Iooked at quotations from poets that had gone before and how they described what poetry was. The second stanza reverses it like looking into the mirror of a lake and I describe my process.
Describing Poetry
Eliot’s escape
Frost’s finding
Wordsworth’s tranquility
Poe’s rhythmical creation
Levertov’s practice of attention
Thomas’ contribution to reality
St. Vincent Millay’s valuable mistakes
Auden’s expression of mixed feelings
Collin’s reassembling of what has been scattered
Shakespeare’s giving airy nothing a local habitation and a name
I write because before I do my thoughts are anonymous hobos
wandering shepherdless bleating sheep
lost, confused, individual voices
false starts, yet starts the same
making the meaningless mean
focusing past distraction
composing tempos
relaxing restraints
discovering
liberation
https://wipfandstock.com/9798385275564/the-quiet/
Thank you for that insightful read... I do love the silence. and prayer. when alone... A walk and my flowers are a great place to feel closest to God.
We live in a world that’s addicted to noise. The Lord says, be still and know that I am God. Spend time quietly with God.
@markrichardsondmin
This stirred deep parts of my heart when I read it. Thank you.
Woods walking, better sitting, truly is a healing discipline, a gift of silence from God❣️🙂
This was perhaps one of my favorite insights of the piece,
“Silence is a natural means toward intimacy. When we first begin to pray, we tend to fill every void with rambling, petitioning—explaining ourselves as if God requires a briefing. Over time, persistence guarantees that we start to say less. We trust He already knows our hearts because He is greater than them.”
I remember driving with my wife a day after we decided to officially be exclusive. One of the things I loved about her was that we always had so much to talk about. In my youthful naïveté, I exclaimed, “I can’t imagine a day when we won’t have something to talk about. I could go on talking with you forever.”
Oh, how wrong I was! And thank God. Sometimes the silence bubbles up from and creates a deeper intimacy than our voices. Conversation is important. But silence is the punctuation that gives it meaning and power.
Thanks, Griffin. I needed the encouragement to bring that to my relationship with God today.
In the silence heaven speaks. It's where truth, conviction, revelation come. No wonder we are so starved of them now.
But for the silence on the other side of emptiness, when all is shed that is self and we are alone in sacred Presence, it is almost mandatory to get lost in the numerous noisy addictions life endlessly offers. I have been blessed to walk into that blessed space many times, whether off shore sailing, alone on a ski lift, sitting in an ancient Indian shelter on my Ozark land. And that silence saved me from myself corporately and personally when all else was failing. Yet, I confess, I don’t live there but in snippets. I only pass through. Screwtape lives despite “intentions.” At least by now in late days, I get it: peace is always there in the quiet surrender. If for me, then anyone.
ah, yes, the loveliness of quiet and contemplation and enjoyment of the abundant beauty with which we've been so abundantly blessed...
thank you, commenters, for the things you've shared
Silence is, indeed, golden.