Stillness and The Sound of Metal

(Mild spoilers ahead for The Sound of Metal)

I can't stop thinking about a movie I watched last night, The Sound of Metal. It technically came out in 2019, but made it on several "best of" movie lists last year. It's the story of a heavy metal drummer, Ruben, on tour with his bandmate/girlfriend, who suddenly and rapidly starts losing his hearing.

When this happens, the shock is palpable. You see and feel how hard and disorienting it must be to stop being able to hear. Ruben eventually gets connected with a deaf community, where he gets mentored by a Vietnam vet and recovering alcoholic named Joe. Ruben is clearly lost and scared. Joe wants to help Ruben learn how to be deaf and indicates that the battle at this point is not about the hearing, but about mentally learning to deal with this new reality. One thing he suggests is that Ruben start getting up early every morning, to write out his thoughts with pen and paper.

While this does not seem to go well, Ruben does eventually start settling into the community, learning sign language, and experiencing connection and joy. However, something happens to shift his thoughts on to an expensive surgery and the small bit of hearing he might get back from it, so that he can go back to his old way of life.

When Joe learns of this, he is disappointed. He not only sees how Ruben broke trust with the community there, but also sees how Ruben is acting like an addict, frantically grasping for what was lost, instead of learning to be content. Then, Joe says:

“All these mornings, you’ve been sitting in my study, sitting: have you had any moments of stillness? Cause you’re right, Ruben. The world does keep moving, and it can be a damn cruel place. But for me, those moments of stillness: that place, that’s the kingdom of God. And that place will never abandon you.”

Stillness. The place where the kingdom of God can enter in. Ruben hadn't learned this secret yet. Joe had. And what strength and contentment is on display for someone like Joe, who is in a constant state of silence, to still seek this stillness.

I began to think about Blaise Pascal's famous words, "All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” I think about the noise in my life. The constant interruptions and distractions, that both come to me and that I seek out.

Shortly after this scene, Ruben gets cochlear implants which bring back some of his hearing. He is delighted, but soon after, sobered to learn that it's nowhere near the quality and volume that he once had. It's distorted, and lots of input only increases the distortion.

In the final scene, after reuniting with his girlfriend and coming to the realization that life is not going to go back to normal, we see Ruben walk to a park bench in the middle of Paris. The church bells begin to ring, but again, they are loud and distorted. He decides to take the implant receiver off of his head, so that there is only silence. At this point, we see Ruben taking in the beauty of the day, and finally getting to a place where he is at peace with the silence.

Great movies can stir up the soul in the direction of the divine. The Sound of Metal is a movie that stirs me up to not only to be the type of person who can sit in silence and stillness more often, in order to experience true soul rest (Matthew 11:29) by more clearly listening to the voice of the one who calls me beloved (Nouwen), and experiencing his beauty, but also to take this stillness to those I come in contact with through a strong and unhurried presence.

Silence in Life and Death

Yesterday, I began a class called "Grief, Loss, Death, and Dying" with David Augsburger. I can already tell it's going to be very beneficial. One of the things Dr. Augsburger did was read an excerpt from Thomas Merton's work No Man is an Island. It was one of the most profound things I've read in a while. I hope you'll take three minutes to slowly read through it and consider its implications.

Silence does not exist in our lives merely for its own sake. Silence is the mother of speech. A lifetime of silence is ordered to an ultimate declaration, which can be put into words, a declaration of all we have lived for.

Life is not to be regarded as an uninterrupted flow of words which is finally silenced by death. Its rhythm develops in silence, surfaces in moments of expression, returns to deeper silence, culminates in a final declaration, then ascends quietly into the silence of Heaven.

Those who do not know that there is another life after this one, resist the fruitful silence of their own being by continual noise. Even when their own tongues are still, their minds chatter without end and without meaning. Or they plunge themselves into the protective noise of machines, traffic or radios. When their own noise is momentarily exhausted, they rest in the noise of others.

How tragic it is that those who have nothing to express are continually expressing themselves, like nervous gunners, firing burst after burst of ammunition into the dark, where there is no enemy. The reason for their talk is: Death is the enemy who seems to confront them at every moment in the deep darkness and silence of their own being. So they keep shouting at death. They confound their lives with noise. They stun their won ears with meaningless words, never discovering that their hearts are rooted in a silence that is not death but life. They chatter themselves to death, fearing life as if it were death.

Our whole life should be a meditation of our last and most important decision: the choice between life and death.

We must all die. But the dispositions with which we face death make of our death a choice either of death or life.

If, during our life we have chosen life, then in death we will pass from death to life. Life is a spiritual thing and spiritual things are silent. If the spirit that kept the flame of physical life burning in our bodies took care to nourish itself with the oil that is found only in the silence of God's charity, then when the body dies, the spirit itself goes on burning the same oil, with its own flame. But if the spirit has burned all along with the base oils of passion or egoism or pride, then when death comes, the flame of the spirit goes out with the light of the body because there is no more oil in the lamp.

We must learn during our lifetime to trim our lamps and fill them with charity in silence, sometimes speaking and confessing the glory of God in order to increase our charity by increasing the charity of others, and teaching them also the ways of peace and of silence.

If, at the moment of our death, death comes to us as an unwelcome stranger, it will be because Christ also has been to us an unwelcome stranger. For when death comes, Christ comes also, bringing us the everlasting life which He has bought for us by His own death. Those who love true life, therefore, frequently think about their death. Their life is full of a silence that is an anticipated victory over death. Silence, indeed, makes death our servant and even our friend. Thoughts and prayers that grow up out of the silent thought of death are like trees growing where there is no water. Thy are strong thoughts, that overcome passion and desire. They turn the face of our soul, in constant desire, toward the face of Christ.

If I say that a whole lifetime of silence is ordered to a final utterance, I do not mean that we must all contrive to die with pious speeches on our lips. It is not necessary that our last words should have some special or dramatic significance worthy of being written down. Every good death, every death that hands us over from the uncertainties of this world to the unfailing peace and silence of the love of Christ is itself an utterance and a conclusion.

A silent death may speak with more eloquent peace that a death punctuated by vivid expressions. For the eloquence of death is the eloquence of human poverty coming face to face with the riches of divine mercy. The more we are aware that our poverty is supremely great, the greater will be the meaning of death."

Thomas Merton, No Man is an Island (1955), pgs. 260-264