A Story about Truth

In June 1999 I travelled to Israel to participate in an archaeological dig. While the dig was outside Beth Shean in northern Israel, I would travel south to Jerusalem every weekend. There I would enjoy many of the holy sites and museums. Of particular interest was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

According to several Christian traditions, this ancient church marks the locations of Jesus’ crucifixion, burial, and resurrection. Even though recent historians have cast doubt on these claims, millions of Christians still consider this church one of Christianity’s holiest sites. The Holy Sepulchre therefore receives thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of pilgrims from around the globe every year.

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When I visited this church, I still considered myself a Baptist. Because of this, I found the Sepulchre’s ornate chapels with their gilded icons and large altars beautiful, strange, intimidating, and enticing, all at the same time.

Strangest of all was the yearning this church produced in me. As I watched the many pilgrims prostrate themselves and kiss the church’s sacred objects, at times with tears running down their cheeks, there was something about their piety I desperately wanted. The pilgrims seemed to have something my evangelical protestant upbringing had not, and could not, give me.

I cannot name what that “something” was. But part of me still longs for it–deeply.

One evening, after a day spent exploring the city, I and someone I knew from Canada wound up at the Holy Sepulchre. I was not close to this person. In fact, he and I had previously had some deep disagreements when it came to matters I considered important at the time. However, he was the only person I knew in Jerusalem that weekend, so we had spent the day seeing sights together.

When we arrived at the church, it was early in the evening. Most of the pilgrims were gone for the day. The church was quiet after all the earlier hustle and bustle.

I led my companion down into the Armenian chapel, which was on the lowest level of the church accessible to the public.

While I know little about architecture and engineering, this chapel seemed like it had been carved from rock. Its ceiling had a natural appearance that was not shared with the rest of the church. The rest of the of the church was clearly fashioned from human-made materials.

At the front of the chapel was a large stone altar. Behind the altar was a painting of Jesus. The air was heavy with incense, but the scent was not oppressive. Above the altar hung a simple lamp, the light of which, I was told, represented the presence of the Holy Spirit, the third person of the Holy Trinity in most Christian traditions.

As we descended into the chapel, I was overcome with a sense of heaviness. This heaviness was not melancholy. Rather it seemed to indicate the presence of something I couldn’t describe, a presence that was announced by the vast silence that surrounded us in that place.

As we entered that silence, one of us, I can’t recall who, began a conversation. Now, so many years later, it is impossible to remember what we talked about.

Yet I do recall it was the best conversation I ever had with my companion, or would ever have. He and I had had some sharp arguments prior to this evening. In the year following, he and I would have some even sharper conflicts. Unfortunately, those later conflicts would result in me bearing some deep resentments toward him for some time.

But on that evening, that evening in the Armenian chapel in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, we had the most honest interaction he and I would ever have. We talked about things that mattered to both of us. And both of us were moved by the depth and honesty of our conversation, to the point we both commented and reflected on it afterward.

When trying to pinpoint what enabled us to share a conversation of such openness and vulnerability, it could never be one thing. Certainly the setting had something to do with it. Also, at that point, I approached my life from a religious perspective somewhat similar to his. In that sense we had something in common.

But when I reflect on that evening, I believe it was the womb-like silence around us that prompted the depth of our interaction. It was the silence that opened something within us, that enabled us to share something of the Truth of ourselves with one another. It was the silence that revealed to me, in conversation with my companion, something of my own depth and inner beauty.

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As I reflect on the several important interactions I’ve had in my life, often they have been accompanied by silence. Sometimes the silence has indicated there was nothing left to say. Yet sometimes the silence has been like the silence I encountered in Jerusalem that evening: deep, resonant, and inviting.

One of my greatest desires as I’ve explored my spirituality, then, has been to befriend this silence. When entering it, it is like coming home. It is a place where I am held, surrounded by love, and gifted with new possibilities. It is a place bursting with life, while also gently beckoning into the warm tenderness of embrace. It is the place where existence begins and ends, and where all life lives, especially when we are paying attention.

Really, it is our attention that matters most. Because, whether we know it or not, all of us, without exception, live just on the cusp of silence.

For Further Reading

Sardello, R. (2008). Silence: The mystery of wholeness. Berkeley, CA: Goldenstone Press. Kindle ebook.

Disclaimer: The advice and suggestions offered on this site are not substitutes for consultation with qualified mental or spiritual health professionals. The perspectives offered here are those of the author, not of those professionals with whom readers might have relationships as clients or patients. In crisis situations, readers are encouraged to contact these professionals for appropriate support and treatment if needed.