The Discipline of Quieting our Hearts
In the life of the Curé of Ars, Jean Marie Vianney, there is a story of an old peasant who used to spend hours and hours sitting in the chapel motionless, doing nothing. The priest said to him, “What are you doing all these hours?” The old peasant answered, I look at him, be looks at me, and we are happy.” This can be reached only if we learn a certain amount of silence. Begin with the silence of the lips, with the silence of the emotions, the silence of the mind, the silence of the body. But it would be a mistake to imagine that we can start at the highest end, with the silence of the heart and the mind. We must start by silencing our lips, by silencing heart and our body in the sense of learning to keep still, to let still, to let tenseness go, not to fall into daydreaming and slackness, but, to use the formula of one of our Russian saints, to be like a violin string, wound in such a way that it can give the right note, neither wound too much to the breaking point, nor too little so that it only buzzes. And from then onward we must learn to listen to silence, to be absolutely quiet, and we may, more often than we imagine, discover that the words of the Book of Revelation come true: “I stand at the door and knock.”
—Archbishop Anthony Bloom,
Beginning to Pray
The discipline of quieting our hearts is not about achieving stillness for its own sake, but about making space to recognize the presence of God. In a world driven by noise and urgency, learning to be still is a sacred act of resistance. Like the old peasant in the chapel, we are invited to sit in the presence of Christ—not always with words or requests, but simply with love and attention. This kind of communion doesn’t come quickly or naturally; it must be practiced. It begins with small, intentional acts: silencing our lips, softening our bodies, letting go of restless thoughts. Only then can we begin to hear the deeper silence where God waits for us. True silence is not emptiness—it is presence. When we slow down and still our hearts, we may find that the door of our soul is not as closed as we thought. Christ is already there, knocking—not with force, but with quiet persistence. The discipline of quiet is the way we open that door, not by effort but by surrender. As we learn to sit with God—wordless, watchful, and at peace—we discover the beauty of simply being seen and known by Him. And like the old man said, “He looks at me, I look at Him, and we are happy.” In that holy quiet, we are made whole. —DH
—David Hoskins, Founder & Care Guide, Sanctuary Clinics