Occasionally, I have the opportunity to preach at a small church near our home. Their pastor has turned to us on occasion when she takes a vacation, to lead the congregation in worship. Each time I have the opportunity, I am thanked by the pastor and by members of the congregation. I try to be gracious and simply say, “You’re welcome,” but it seems like it should be me who is thanking them. I find myself so grateful to be invited. I really enjoy preaching. I don’t think I knew before I retired how much I would miss the gift, given to preachers of being able to speak in public.

I used to get pretty nervous before I had to deliver a sermon. I still do. I have to be intentional about calming myself. I practiced my sermons early in the morning in an empty sanctuary. I spent time sitting in the pews, recalling the members of the congregation and where they usually sat, thinking about how my words might be received.

Although those days have passed, I still have opportunities to speak in public. Not long ago, I read a poem at an open mic event. Last Saturday, I taught a class on Zoom. I participate in a writer’s group and a poetry group and I enjoy opportunities to present.

In a way, I guess, it might be fair to say that I earned my living by preaching. That is a bit of an exaggeration, however. There were places I visited when I was an active minister where I never preached a sermon. I’ve led Bible study in a jail, and I’ve visited a lot of people incarcerated, but I never preached in that setting. When I visited in the jail, however, I was often called “preacher man,” by inmates who had never heard me preach. It wasn’t that my reputation preceded me. It was an association that the inmates made with the clerical collar I often wore for jail visits. I used to joke that if I was going to visit the jail, I was going to dress in a matter that would encourage the guards to let me back out again. I never had a problem leaving a jail, and I knew most of the guards, but there were some occasions when being seen as a clergy person made my visits simpler.

Looking back now, however, I don’t think that the moments when I was speaking out loud were the most critical moments of my ministry. I can recall many times when I was silent and said very little that were important times of ministry.

As a passionate believer in congregational polity and the power of the members of the church, I tried to say as little as possible during congregational meetings. I trusted the process and I wanted other leaders to speak. I was not disappointed. There are others who shared my concerns and carried them to those meetings.

Some of the most powerful times of silence, however, were in pastoral visits. I often sat with people as they were dying. I would pay a visit and sometimes family members gathering with their loved ones needed a break. It was a simple thing for me to offer to sit with their beloved as they got a meal or a nap or ran an errand or two. Sometimes I would read scripture or sing hymns. Sometimes I would pray out loud. Most of the time I simply sat. My presence did not require words and the person with whom I was sitting didn’t need me to speak to know that they were not alone.

I learned that when it feel to me to deliver traumatic news, the best thing I could do was to simply allow people to react after I told them what had to be told. People receiving the news of the sudden loss of a chid or spouse or parent will often react with a lot of tears. Sometimes they will shout and moan. Sometimes they will fall on the floor. At those moments they don’t need my words. All they need is my presence. People are remarkably resilient. They do not fall apart when they are gripped by shock and grief. The moments of their loss of control are brief. Most of the time in ten or fifteen minutes the grieving person regains composure. Often they have questions. Often I had answers for them.

I was often called upon to offer public prayer. On the advice of a teacher, although I was able to pray spontaneously without notes, I disciplined myself to write certain prayers. I used manuscripts for funerals and weddings. i wrote out invocations for events. I have a collection of prayers that I wrote for classes that I taught. But some of the most powerful moments of prayer were times when I invited others to share in times of quiet. I was reluctant to call those times silent, and often invited quiet prayer rather than silent. I appreciated the sounds of a congregation sharing quiet. Babies stirred, people coughed, there was shuffling in the pews. We could hear the sounds of nature, and sometimes the sounds of traffic outside of the building. The building itself had its own noises. Listening to all of those sounds didn’t require my words. Sometimes there are no words for our prayers and at those times it is good to know that we aren’t the only ones praying. Holding hands as we stand next to a hospital bed, I have often realized that our small circle is all breathing in sync with the patient.

In the mix of speaking and listening, often listening is the better part.

Still, there have been and continue to be times when I cannot be silent. There are moments when I am called to speak. Too much silence can become awkward. Too much silence can invoke loneliness. Sometimes we need words to express our feelings.

I continue to reflect on the power of speaking and the power of silence. Yesterday I took a long walk around the neighborhood and down the beach. The fog had rolled in and quiet was peaceful. The birds were still and few people were out. I had the beach to myself. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the waves hitting the shore. The quiet soothed my soul.

I’m still learning the art of living. The quiet has much to teach me.