Silence Beyond Expectation: A Reflection on Psalm 131
“Mom, Mom, Mom.” I hear this mantra often. Balancing family life and a career is challenging, and sometimes I just want silence. Not any silence, but a silence that requires absolutely no follow-up. A few years ago, I signed up for a silent retreat. I approached the retreat like a spiritual vacation: a little rest, a little God, and absolutely no one asking me for a snack.
Yet peaceful quiet is not the measure of a silent retreat. Neither were many of the expectations I packed for the retreat.
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What Silence Is Not
Silence has a reputation as a mysterious discipline practiced only by saints and the exceptionally holy. Much of that mystery, however, comes from misunderstanding the discipline itself. Silence is not:
- the absence of thoughts or emptying your mind.
- searching every thought or feeling for hidden meaning.
- waiting for a dramatic revelation from God.
- another form of self-improvement.
We might say that silence is like airplane mode—life still exists, but you are not constantly responding to signals. Silence is the capacity to be with emotion without immediately reacting to it, explaining it, obeying it, or trying to make it disappear. Silence allows us to sit with our King and hope without demanding an outcome.
Psalm 131 names what silence invites: a soul calmed and quieted before God.
Psalm 131, Verse by Verse
Verse 1: A Heart That Does Not Need to Be High
O Lord, my heart is not lifted up,
My eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
too great and marvelous for me.
The image of a high heart and raised eyes brings to mind a modern-day luxury selfie or power pose. King David has a genuinely impressive résumé: giant slayer, mighty warrior, king, and a legend in almost every way.
David recognizes that his victories do not make him self-sufficient. In this psalm, he does not pursue his own “legend selfie.” Instead, he sets aside the need to establish his importance: “I do not occupy myself with things too great and marvelous for me.”
Silence gives me space to set aside the occupations of my mind and turn my attention toward what is true, noble, lovely, and praiseworthy (Phil. 4:8), remembering that every good gift comes from the Father of lights (James 1:17).
Verse 2: Like a Weaned Child
But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
At the silent retreat, I was escaping my own children’s “Mom, Mom, Mom,” all the while saying, “Dad, Dad, Dad.” Ah, the irony!
Throughout the Psalms, we see David experience the fullness of human emotion—fear, sadness, despair, joy, love, and comfort. In Psalm 131, we see that David does not respond to every signal or make every interaction about his needs, desires, and distress. He does not seek certainty or the next battle plan. He rests with God like a weaned child with its mother.
A weaned child still depends upon the parent. What has changed is not the need for the relationship, but the demand for immediate satisfaction. I treasured those nights when my children just sat in my lap to be with me. In the same way, David seeks God.
Verse 3: Hope Without Presumption
O Israel, hope in the Lord
from this time on and forevermore.
The Psalms reference hope quite often. Hope does not live in certainty of outcome but in the space between desire and fulfillment. It allows us to wait for something we cannot yet see.
We planted a Texas mountain laurel in our yard. It is a notoriously slow-growing tree. We hope that in five years we will have a beautiful shade tree. I cannot make the tree grow faster by staring at it, worrying about it, or pulling on its branches.
Hope asks us to wait even when we are impatient. Impatience is simply our difficulty tolerating the waiting. I can become impatient with my little tree and still hope for its growth.
Hope inspires confidence without presumption. Hope leaves room for what I cannot control. I know I planted a Texas mountain laurel and care for it diligently. I cannot guarantee that it will thrive through 107-degree Texas summers, storms, disease, or everything else outside my control. The armadillo currently burrowing through the flower bed appears completely unconcerned with my hopeful plans for this beautiful tree.
Silent waiting makes me aware of a hope that can get lost among everyday worries. It gives me space to set my mind on things above rather than on the things of earth (Col. 3:2). This hope is not a promise that things will work out; it is resting in the love of the Lord. As I practice silence, that rest becomes more familiar and easier to carry into everyday life.
A Practice, Never Mastered
Learning to practice silence is ongoing for me. I set aside short periods of silence two or three times a week so I don’t fall out of the practice. I sit in my comfy chair, close my eyes, and notice my thoughts and how my body feels. Then, I simply sit before and with God like the weaned child, with nothing to do but be.
My thoughts don’t become particularly holy just because I have decided to be silent. I remember emails, replay conversations, mentally write paragraphs, wonder what we’re having for dinner, and occasionally congratulate myself on doing such a nice job practicing silence—which is a particularly efficient way to return to Psalm 131’s problem with pride.
Gratitude is a quiet way for me to enter silence. It turns my attention from inward conversation toward God’s gifts and helps quiet my soul. On days when a quieted soul is hard to find, I practice returning my attention to God rather than becoming preoccupied with myself.
Silence brings a different kind of relief. It does not necessarily relieve the emotion itself; instead, it loosens the demand that I do something with it. I can feel hurt without lashing out in offense or anxious without immediately seeking reassurance. The signal remains, but I am learning that I do not need to respond immediately.
Silence gives me space to practice discernment, become more familiar with my thoughts, feelings, and imagination, and be less likely to mistake them for evidence of the Lord’s presence or absence.
A Practice, Not a Feeling
In the faith traditions of my past, I was taught that feeling God was evidence of God’s presence. Treating God as a mood ring left me measuring my own emotions for evidence that He was near, creating guilt, distress, and an unhealthy inward focus.
Silence does not guarantee a particular emotion or even a felt sense of God’s presence.
Longer periods of silence do not increase the odds of having an experience of God. If anything, setting aside several hours or attending a retreat creates more space for remaining, and more opportunity to notice the discomfort we often ignore. This is where healthy expectations and some structure become important.
Preparing for Longer Silence
Longer silence does not require sitting still for hours; it changes how we attend to what we are doing.
For me, longer silence may include Lectio Divina or prayer from the Book of Common Prayer. Praying words given to me by the Church helps turn my attention away from myself and toward God. A journal is also extremely helpful. Writing gives me a place to set down some of the occupations of my mind rather than continuing to carry them, as well as a place to record observations or discoveries. Going back through my journal periodically reminds me of God’s goodness and lets me see how I have been formed.
Ordinary activities like eating, walking, and resting remain. Eventually boredom arrives, usually accompanied by the sudden conviction that I desperately need to reorganize something. When it does, I notice it, perhaps change locations, take a walk, or simply begin again.
The structure helps me remain; it does not guarantee an experience.
Imperfectly Silent
“Dad, Dad, Dad” is just another way of demanding resolution and relief. In silence, I am called to something truly profound: I do not need relief in order to rest with God. Silence offers no magical resolution. My distress and the peace that passes all understanding (Phil. 4:7) can inhabit the same space.
My idealized, impatient, and presumptuous version of silence tells me that a mom vacation, clarity, and profound insight are the rewards for doing silence correctly.
But silence is not transactional. Like the weaned child in Psalm 131, I can simply remain close, resting in the presence and goodness of my Creator.
This is the gift of silence.
Professional Disclaimer: The reflections in this article are offered for educational and informational purposes only. They do not constitute psychotherapy, counseling, or professional advice. Individuals experiencing distress related to religious, spiritual, or institutional experiences are encouraged to seek support from a qualified mental health professional or a trauma-informed spiritual director.
Image: Texas mountain laurel, photo by gurineb from Getty Images, courtesy of Canva. Digitally edited by Jacob Davis.
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