Make room for silence: let's rediscover our traditions of silence, contemplation, and sitting alone in the dark.

"DON'T THEY EVER SHUT UP?" I THOUGHT WHO knew religion could be so noisy?

Returning after a long absence from Catholicism and years of Zen practice, I didn't know what to make of all the racket. We read out loud, we prayed out loud, we sang, we proclaimed, we told God how great God is, we asked God for stuff, we sang some more.

I would settle into the reflective silence after the homily, all 10 seconds of it, to the rustle of people reading the parish bulletin or leafing through the missalette, then, oops, everybody's standing up and talking again. Then, after Communion, we would have the ceremonial rattling of keys, as people fished through pockets and purses for car keys, zipped jackets, and generally made ready to dash out the door.

The first official Catholic meeting I went to started with what was advertised as "prayer." There were fewer than 10 of us, and I figured, "How much of a whoop-de-do can you make about prayer with 10 people?"

Quite a lot, it turns out. We sang, we read from the Old Testament, we read a long prayer, we listened to a reading from one of Paul's letters, we sang some more, we read one of those prayers that goes back and forth between both sides of the room, and, finally, we sang some more. By the end of it, I was feeling nasty in the way that only breaking things or strangling someone would satisfy. That is, not holy.

It's not that I'm short on time alone--in my room, door shut--for silent, wordless prayer, I'm fortunate to have the time, space, and privacy that give God the opportunity to make reckless use of the skills garnered in sitting meditation. In time, I even came to understand that liturgical celebrations are not the time for silence. Still, I wondered if Catholics ever gathered to sit and listen.

On Friday evenings during Lent this year I tried something different: sitting alone in the dark. A small light near the tabernacle was lit, and a couple spoons of incense burned on a bowl of sand. It was announced in the bulletin, but only a few people came. The incense, backlit by the light from the tabernacle, rose languidly. The smell was deep, ancient, and mysterious, tugging at old memories. It encouraged drifting. Wrapped in a shawl, eyes closed, I found myself deep in wordless prayer, half-smiling, attentive to God's murmur at the ear of my soul. People came and left, unacknowledged and often unnoticed, but we rested together in the solidarity of the few. We had no schedule, no appointments to keep, no goal, no mission, nothing to say, and not much to see. Sitting quietly with God. Listening. Wondering. Praying.

We come from a long tradition of silence and contemplation, a history and practice that has lately engaged even some from other traditions. And yet many of us, myself included, have turned to Eastern religions and practices, fascinated by their discipline of silent meditation, sitting in still rows, observing the acrobatics of our monkey minds. Sometimes we come home with new skills and are stunned as God floods the emptiness, pours over us, drenching our souls, laughing joyously, chuckling, and shaking us as we gasp for breath.

SILENCE DOESN'T LEND ITSELF TO LESSON PLANS. ITS teachers are rare, instructions few, its lessons intimate, lengthy, often difficult. It poses its own invitation for those who might embrace it. In a time when the world exhorts us to be relentlessly self-actualized, it asks us to rest quietly. In a culture that proclaims that we must take charge of our thoughts and heal ourselves, silence teaches us to let go of our thoughts and be healed by the simple presence of God. It invites us to let slip the moorings of rampant self, and gently, gratefully turn toward completion. The gate of our breath opens the door to our hearts.

Let's make a little room in our parishes, then, for the great drafts of internal silence that seem to be so inviting to God. Let us sit alone together in the dark. Let's set aside a time for a single candle and a bowl of incense, for stepping into this great tradition, for the mystery of resting in the arms of God. Let us be a witness to this ancient silent prayer, and an invitation to those who would come and see.

Hardly anyone will.

But maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

ANN LEBLANC, a forensic psychologist in Maine. She is the author of How to Go to Confession if You Don't Know How (St. Anthony Messenger Press, 2003).