In Search of Silence

by Chris Chatteris SJ · December 11, 2008

One of the problems with ‘silent’ retreats is that they sometimes aren’t silent at all because the place where the retreat takes place might be actually quite noisy. This is sometimes true of retreat houses themselves where one would think that silence could be assumed. Why is this? Part of the problem seems to be to do with the reality of money. Retreat houses are notoriously difficult to finance, and therefore those who run them need to maximise the number of groups and individuals that they welcome. The more guests, the better the budget balances.

But this means, for example, that two groups might be on retreat simultaneously, one Pentecostal and the other Ignatian, which is fine for the Pentecostals but hard for the Ignatians. Or one might have a group of hearty clerical holidaymakers who watch a lot of television staying at the same time as the ‘silents’. Recently I was staying in a large mission with a retreat house on the grounds, near which my living quarters were situated. One night I was kept awake by a Pentecostal group doing what sounded alarmingly like exorcisms. There were loud shouts of, ‘Phuma Sathane! Phuma!’ And in case Satan was an English-speaker, they added, ‘Out Satan! Out!’ Happily I was not on retreat but one can only imagine what it would have been like for anyone seeking silence and recollection.

Sometimes the problem is just poor organisation. There really is no excuse for allowing the gardener to time his cutting of the grass to coincide with a silent retreat. If the administrative office or the kitchen of a retreat house are adjacent to the chapel, they shouldn’t be and the house needs to be re-designed. And if no one has ever told the staff that silence is important during a silent retreat and therefore they should keep their voices down, this is surely a failure on the part of the house’s administration.

The silent retreatant is by definition silent and therefore not likely to complain. His or her problems with noise are therefore unlikely to be noticed. If, however, when we are organising our silent retreat, we enquire whether the house will be quiet when we are there, then we might make our point in a subtle form of negotiation � no silence; no show.

I suspect that the subtlest level of this problem lies in the vague notion from certain spiritual writing that it is up to the retreatant to provide his or her own silence, inner and outer. Of course there is truth to this idea. Unless I keep quiet and cultivate an inner attitude of recollection, I will never be able to make a silent retreat even in a Carthusian monastery. But the retreatant does not lose the sense of hearing when on retreat; indeed, the senses are often sharpened up. Therefore silence in the sense of a real absence of human and mechanical noise is indispensable.

It has to be said that most retreat houses do make an effort, especially when those running them know that the group wants eight or thirty days of Ignatian silence. But it takes continual effort to maintain silence, especially with the group that may be so quiet you begin to forget it’s even there.

There is one establishment in this country in which silence is guaranteed, and it is perhaps instructive to note how it is achieved. The director keeps a firm and determined control of everything that might cause noise. He only does silent retreats. He disallows casual visitors and only accepts people he knows to be serious about silence and silent retreats. He pre-empts potential sources of noise � e.g. the kitchen � by doing the cooking himself! By now, some readers will have identified this quiet and beautiful spot. Few retreat houses could emulate such an example perfectly, but they might take a leaf or two out of its book.