“Be still and know that I am God.” This familiar verse from Psalm 46 invites, and even compels us into that elusive posture and attitude of stillness. Psalm 37 extends a similar call: “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.” 

The practice of intentional stillness and patient waiting certainly seems counter-cultural in our society that values busyness and productivity over quiet contemplation. We so often fail to realize that through our habit of impatience we are also choosing to disregard or even reject whatever the present moment has to offer us. But our modern-day rebellion against quietude is not a recent phenomenon. Mathematician and Catholic theologian Blaise Pascal pronounced this jarring assertion back in the 17th century—“All human evil comes from a single cause, man's inability to sit still in a room.” 

Jesus modeled a better way. Scripture conveys again and again that he withdrew to a quiet place. And yet, we sometimes resemble the Israelites to whom Isaiah delivered this indicting message:

This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says:

“In repentance and rest is your salvation,

in quietness and trust is your strength,

but [and yet] you would have none of it.” Isaiah 30:15 (NIV)

Elijah’s encounter with the Holy One also has much to teach us about the posture and attitude required for recognizing God’s voice. An exhausted and discouraged Elijah had taken refuge under a broom tree and then in a cave at Mount Horeb where the Lord instructed him to stand and wait for a divine visitation. I Kings 19 recounts a series of powerful happenings that surely signaled the appearance of an almighty God— a wind that triggered a rockslide, an earthquake that shook the very foundation of the mountain, and a fire that threatened to consume all in its path. And yet, only after all the noise and chaos, only in the quiet, only in his waiting posture, did Elijah hear God’s “still small voice.” I wonder if Maya Angelou thought of this scene as she waited to rise into God’s presence. Her final tweet read, “Listen to yourself and in that quietude you might hear the voice of God.”

I began exploring contemplative practices out of a desire to better attune myself to this more intimate voice of God, and the search led me to a concept known as the “still point.” I first encountered it in a devotional book titled At the Still Point: A Literary Guide to Prayer in Ordinary Time by Sarah Arthur. Right away, I wanted to learn more about this still point. Did it have a deeper meaning than just a call to sit quietly for a few minutes? 

In researching its origin and usage, I found that one of the most common uses of the term is in massage or energy therapies where it refers to a process for releasing tension, restoring natural flow in various body systems, and relieving pain. Achieving the still point involves applying pressure to a specific spot so that circulation of the fluids in the central nervous system is temporarily halted. (This is not unlike pressing a finger into our skin. Depending on how long and how hard we press, upon letting go the area appears red from the adjustment of the blood flow.) Skilled practitioners know the correct location and duration for this pressure. They understand how to achieve these therapeutic still points. 

In spiritual terms, this sounds exactly like the work we need God’s Spirit to do within us, a redirecting of our energies so that we function more harmoniously with the divine, so that we live “on earth as it is in heaven.” 

During my research, I also learned that the specific phrase of the book’s title, “At the Still Point,” originated with the poet T. S. Eliot in the first of a set of four long, epic poems. 

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

But neither arrest nor movement…Neither movement from nor towards,

Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,

There would be no dance, and there is only dance.  

Nestled in such a profoundly written stanza, Eliot’s “still point” offers direction, a compass bearing, for our spiritual journey, guiding us to that quiet center of divine communion amid the turning and churning of the world. The poem’s evocation of dance reminds me of hearing Rev. Dr. Joan Prentice speak about sacred rhythm. She has learned from the ancient mystics and contemplatives of the early Church that our lives must be governed by a sacred rhythm. In her poem “Holy Dance,” she portrays our movement through the days and seasons of life as being in step with the divine beat. Her words also describe what happens when we get out of balance, when we fall out of holy time, and the dance turns clumsy and stilted.

Monastic communities ebb and flow via a beautiful sacred rhythm known as the Divine Offices, which guides them in pausing throughout the day to pray, sing, and meditate on scripture. There is a reverence and a holiness in their adoration that our communal worship often lacks. Thankfully, we too can join their “holy dance” by infusing monastic spiritual traditions into our own private devotional practices. 

One such way is through Lectio Divina, a process of reading scripture that invites God’s Spirit to speak to us as a patient messenger gently revealing what we are to know. Contemplatives also offer many rich prayer practices that we can adopt in our individual quiet time. Centering prayer brings us into an attitude of prayer without the need to voice our petitions in sentences. Instead, we enter into stillness, maybe with a chosen intention such as peace or love to govern that time. Then sitting quietly, we pay attention to the rise and fall of our breath and allow a deep communion with God’s presence. A similar type of prayer practice involves adding short phrases to accompany our breathing. Silent breath prayers should be simple, such as thinking on the inhale, “The joy of the Lord,” and then on the exhale “is my strength.” We can also reinforce the stillness intention with— Inhale: “Be still and know” Exhale: “that I am God.” 

When sitting still proves difficult or even painful, these same practices can be done while walking a prayer labyrinth. I find great meaning in the prayer labyrinth located at a Wesleyan retreat center on the shore of Lake Junaluska in North Carolina. Designed with a large circumference and situated next to a stone chapel, this labyrinth requires patience of those who slowly and prayerfully follow its paths. For me, it is one of those thin places where I can sense God's presence so readily. I feel accompanied on my devotional journey by a great cloud of witnesses, generations who have gathered at this hallowed place to worship and to offer up their lives in Christ’s service, as my grandparents did. But prayer labyrinths do not need to be grand. I have a friend who made one in her own backyard. 

We can also experience similar communion with God walking among nature. Eco Divina invites us to use our senses to find God in creation. Trappist monk Fr. Thomas Keating, one of the principal architects of the Christian contemplative prayer movement, taught that God has written two books— the Bible and Nature. Indeed, God instructed Job quite specifically on how nature points to the divine. 

But ask the animals, and they will teach you, the birds of the air, and they will tell you; ask the plants of the earth, and they will teach you, and the fish of the sea will declare to you. Who among all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In his hand is the life of every living thing and the breath of every human being.  (Job 12:7-10 NRSVUE)  

But maybe our first step is just to acknowledge that our lives lack the sacred rhythm of waiting and resting in stillness with God. Maybe we can start by admitting that our high-speed race through life so blurs relationships and potential blessings that we do not even realize what we have passed by. Then, with God’s help, we intentionally carve out five minutes, silencing the noise that clamors both within and without, trusting that the Spirit will lead us to the still point. I am convinced of the spiritual and physical rewards that can come from giving ourselves permission to rest and from embracing the practice of sabbath as a challenge to our culture’s insistence that exhaustion be a point of pride. May God teach us how to carve out an architecture of silence where we might abide. May God meet us at the still point.