The following excerpts from my friend, Corin, are exquisite. He wrote them as part of an update while in Budapest, Hungary, for several months:
“As I sat on the tram going around Gellert Hill (Budapest), I wondered at the deep silence that each person carries in their hearts, the silence that we are often so afraid of, the silence that is loneliness to most people, solitude to some, fellowship with God to others — the closest we come to eternity. We use our minds to cover this silence, but at moments even our minds fail us and we are abandoned to the fearful enchantment of the passing moment. I realized that the tired old tram carried a treasure worth far more to God than all the kingdoms of the world; it was a vessel carrying God’s creations, the evocations of His glory and the objects of His passion. It was for these weary and dusty tourists and teenagers that Jesus shed His blood; they were objects of His romantic exchange of blood for life, so deeply romantic that human romance is only a flimsy shadow of this mighty flame, these flames of fire, the love that cannot be quenched, the love as strong as death, the unrelenting pursuit of the everlasting God.”
“This is the Jesus I have just begun to know on this mission experience, to see the world in the light of fire and blood. It has transformed the way I see humanity, the world around me, myself, the passing moments, music and silence. These are intimate changes within the heart that only God can make — the changes that have taken place in my own inner quiet, the quiet I have often run from because of loneliness, because I was afraid of letting Him pour Himself into my moments, making them beautiful with the delicate echoes of eternity.”
Corin writes about silences, moments of quiet. I’ve found that I think about those silences a great deal, I feel the slow grip of them often, and I find myself attempting to fill them as quickly as possible, with noise, with relationships, with achievements, with entertainment, and with my own circular patterns of noisy thought and imagination.
Emily, “Be still and Know that I am God.” He’s saying that to me. To you.
If we can make the choice not to fill them or run from them, the silent spaces in our lives becomes a poignant opportunity to taste the tender goodness of Christ, to feel the embrace that a busy life drowns, to feel our loneliness melt under the warm light of His gracious attention.
Be still. Let the silence — which at first feels much like loneliness — become a source of fellowship sweeter than human touch, conversation, or distraction.
Quiet your heart. He will speak, and you will know the intimately freeing power of His voice.