On Stillness
Or, how doing nothing might lead to everything
Lately, I have been reading the Bible.
All the way through.
To be clear, this is likely my fifth or sixth time doing so.
And with a slight nod to Marcus Aurelius—who reminds us that we never step into the same river twice—I am finding something new this time around:
Stillness.
It is there in 1 Kings, with Elijah on Mount Horeb.
And it is there in Job, sitting among friends who choose silence over explanation.
At the close of chapter three we read:
“and they sat down upon the ground with him seven days and seven nights, but none of them spoke a word to him, for they saw how great was his suffering.”
Can you imagine doing so?
Seven days.
No phone.
No clever commentary.
No status update reading, “Just hanging with Job in silence.”
Just presence.
And quiet understanding.
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The Disease of Busyness
Thomas Merton was once asked what modern spiritual disease most afflicted the world. His answer: “efficiency.”
Busyness, productivity, the constant pressure to do more—all of it crowds out the space needed to understand one another.
Without silence, it becomes difficult to hear the small, still voice of conscience.
Harder still to hear the cry of our soul asking for rest.
Stillness provides separation from the noise.
It allows us to step back from the churn of headlines and obligations.
Our world is loud—unceasingly so.
And in that noise, discerning what is true, kind, and good becomes a challenge.
Silence, by contrast, clarifies.
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The Discipline of Reflection
When we are quiet—alone or alongside another—we are given an opportunity to examine ourselves.
In the Stoic tradition, Seneca wrote, “Is there anything finer than this practice of examining one’s entire day?” He continues: “Think of the sleep that follows this self-inspection… how peaceful, deep, and free, when the mind has been either praised or admonished.”
The Christian tradition echoes this practice in the examen, popularized by St. Ignatius of Loyola—a daily rhythm of gratitude, reflection, attention to emotion, and preparation for tomorrow.
Stillness, it seems, is not passive.
It is, in fact, disciplined attention.
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Bright Sadness
Perhaps it is fitting, then, that I am reading Job during Lent.
The Eastern church calls Lent a season of “bright sadness.”
And who better embodies that paradox than Job?
No,I have not lost children or possessions as he did.
But I have lost relationships.
I have asked aloud what I did wrong.
I have wondered what, if anything, I deserved.
And like Job, in moments of sorrow, I have been surrounded by friends who simply sat with me.
No fixing.
No platitudes.
Just presence.
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Becoming More Human
When we sit in silence—when we take time to examine ourselves—we begin to see who we truly are.
Warts and all.
And in that vulnerability, something opens.
We become more able to sit with another’s suffering.
More willing to forgive.
More inclined toward kindness.
Stillness does not diminish us.
It enlarges us.
So, in these forty days ahead, consider the gift of doing less.
Of being quiet.
Of allowing examination without bitterness.
This season of Lent does not end in despair. It moves toward Easter morning, toward resurrection, toward joy.
And, if we want, it can be an opportunity to experience this bright sadness as well.