Introduction from Cardinal Sarah’s book: The Power of Silence against The Dictatorship of Noise

July 24, 2022

Introduction from Cardinal Sarah’s book: The Power of Silence against The Dictatorship of Noise

My inner quiet-blessed by God--has never really isolated me. I feel all human-kind can enter and I receive them thus only at the threshold of my home.. Alas, mine is but a very precarious shelter. But I imagine the quiet of some souls is like a vast refuge. Sinners at the end of their tether can creep in and rest, and leave comforted, forgetting the great invisible temple where they lay down their burden for a while.

- Diary of a Country Priest by Bernanos

Why did Robert Cardinal Sarah decide to de-

vote a book to silence? We spoke for the

first time about this beautiful subject in April

2015. We were returning to Rome after spend-

ing several days in the Abbey in Lagrasse.

At that magnificent monastery, located be-

tween Carcassonne and Narbonne, the car-

dinal paid a visit to his friend, Brother

Vincent.

Shattered by multiple sclerosis, the

young religious knew that he was reaching the

end of his life. In the prime of life, he found

himself paralyzed, confined to his bed in the

infirmary, condemned to merciless medical

protocols. The smallest breath was an im-

mense effort for him. On this earth, Brother

Vincent-Marie of the Resurrection was already

living in the Great Silence of heaven.

Their first meeting had taken place on Octo-

ber 25, 2014. That day left a deep impression

on Cardinal Sarah. Right away he recognized

an ardent soul, a hidden saint, a great friend

of God. How could anyone forget Brother

Vincent's spiritual strength, his silence, the

beauty of his smile, the cardinal's emotion, the

tears, the modesty, the colliding sentiments?

Brother Vincent was incapable of uttering a

simple sentence because the sickness deprived

him of the use of speech. He could only lift

his gaze toward the cardinal. He could only

contemplate him, steadily, tenderly, lovingly.

Brother Vincent's bloodshot eyes already had

the brightness of eternity.

That sunny autumn day, as we left the lit-

tle room where the monks and the nurses

ceaselessly took over from one another with

extraordinary devotion, the Abbot of Lagrasse,

Father Emmanuel-Marie, brought us into the

monastery gardens, near the church. It was

necessary to get some air in order to accept

God's silent will, this hidden plan that was in-

exorably carrying off a young, good religious

toward unknown shores, while his body lay

tormented.

The cardinal returned several times to pray

with his friend, Brother Vincent. The patient's

condition kept worsening, but the quality of

the silence that sealed the dialogue of a great

prelate and a little monk grew in an increas-

ingly spiritual way. When he was in Rome,

the cardinal often called the Brother. The one

spoke gently, and the other remained silent.

Cardinal Sarah spoke again to Brother Vincent

a few days before his death. He was able to

hear his breathing, husky and discordant, the

attacks of pain, the last efforts of his heart, and

to give him his blessing.

On Sunday, April 10, 2016, when Cardinal

Sarah had come to Argenteuil for the conclu-

sion of the exhibition of the Holy Tunic of

Christ, Brother Vincent gave up his soul to

God, surrounded by Father Emmanuel-Marie

and his family. How can the mystery of

Brother Vincent be understood? After so many

trials, the end of his journey was peaceful. The

rays from paradise passed noiselessly through

the windows of his room.

During the last months of his life, the lit-

tle patient prayed a lot for the cardinal. The

monks who cared for the Brother at every mo-

ment are certain that he remained alive for a

few additional months so as to protect Rob-

ert Sarah better. Brother Vincent knew that

the wolves were lying in wait, that his friend

needed him, that he was counting on him

This friendship was born in silence, it grew in

silence, and it continues to exist in silence.

The meetings with Brother Vincent were a

fragment of eternity. We never doubted the

importance of each of the minutes spent with

him. Silence made it possible to raise every

sentiment toward the most perfect state.

When it was necessary to leave the abbey, we

knew that Vincent's silence would make us

stronger to confront the world's noises.

On that Sunday in spring when Brother Vin-

cent joined the angels of heaven, the car-

dinal wished to come to Lagrasse. A great

calm reigned over the whole monastery. The

Brother's silence had descended upon the

places that he had known. Of course it was not

easy to walk past the deserted infirmary.

In the choir of the church, where the

Brother's body reposed for several days, the

prayer of the monks was beautiful.

An African cardinal came to bury the young

religious with whom he was never able to have

a discussion. The son of the Guinean bush

spoke in silence with a little French saint; this

friendship is unique and indestructible.

The Power of Silence could never have existed

without Brother Vincent. He showed us that

the silence into which illness had plunged him

allowed him to enter ever more deeply into the

truth of things. God's reasons are often mys-

terious. Why did he decide to try so severely

a joyful young man who was asking for noth-

ing? Why such a cruel, violent, and painful

sickness? Why this sublime meeting between

a cardinal who had arrived at the summit of

the Church and a sick person confined to his

room? Silence was the salt that seasoned this

story. Silence had the last word. Silence was

the elevator to heaven.

Who was looking for Brother Vincent? Who

came to take him without a word? God.

For Brother Vincent-Marie of the Resurrec-

tion, the program was simple. It fit into three

words: God or nothing.

Another stage marks this spiritual friendship.

Without Brother Vincent, without Father Em-

manuel-Marie, we would never have gone to

the Grande Chartreuse.

When the idea germinated of asking the

Father General of the Carthusian Order to take

part in this book, we scarcely thought that

such a project was possible. The cardinal did

not want to disturb the silence of the princi-

pal monastery of the Order, and it is extremely

rare for the Father General to speak.

Nevertheless, on Wednesday, February

3,2016, in the early afternoon, our train stopped

at the station in Chambéry..

The gray sky was suspended over the moun-

tains that surround the town. The sadness of

winter seemed to set the landscape and the

people in a sticky glue. As we approached

the Chartreuse mountain range, a snowstorm

started and covered the valley with a perfect

white. After coming through St. Laurent du

Pont on the famous way of Saint Bruno, the

road became almost impassable.

Driving along by the high walls of the mon-

astery, we came across the novice master,

Father Seraphico, and several young monks

who were returning from their walk. They

turned around as the cardinal's automobile

passed, greeting him discreetly. Then the car

stopped in front of a long, solemn, austere

building: we had arrived at the Grande Char-

treuse. Thick clumps of snowflakes fell, the

wind rushed into the fir trees, but the si-

lence already enveloped our hearts. We slowly

crossed the main courtyard, then were dir-

ected to the large priors' house, built by Dom

Innocent le Masson in the seventeenth cen-

tury, which opens onto the imposing officers'

cloister.

The seventy-fourth Father General of the

Carthusian Order, Dom Dysmas de Lassus,

welcomed the cardinal with an especially

touching simplicity.

At the heart of this mystical geography,

Saint Bruno's dream of solitude and silence

has taken shape since the year 1084. In the

historical anthology La Grande Chartreuse, au-

delà du silence, Nathalie Nabert speaks about

an incomparable blend: "Carthusian spiritual-

ity was born of the encounter of a soul and a

place, from the coincidence between a desire

for a quiet life in God and a landscape, Cartu-

sie solitudinem, as the ancient documents de-

scribe it, the isolation and wild beauty of

which attracts souls to even greater solitude,

far from the 'fugitive shadows of the world',

allowing men to pass 'from the storm of this

world to the tranquil, sure repose of the port'.

That is how Bruno of Cologne would refer to

it in the evening of his life in the letter that

he writes to his friend Raoul le Verd to attract

him to the desert."

Quickly, after a conversation that lasted no

more than five minutes, we arrived at our

cells. From the window of the room where

I was settled, I could contemplate the mon-

astery, clothed in its white mantle, nestled

against the overwhelming slope of the Grand

Som, more beautiful than any of the images

that have built up the immutable myth of the

Grande Chartreuse. The long, solemn series

of separate buildings lined up in a row, then,

down below, the buildings housing the "obedi-

ences" or workshops of the lay Brothers.

Very rarely can an outsider pass through the

doors of the citadel. In this inspired place, the

long tradition of the eremitic Orders, the tra-

gedies of history, and the beauty of creation

cross paths. But that is nothing compared

with the depth of the spiritual realities; the

Grande Chartreuse is a world where souls have

abandoned themselves in God and for God.

At half past five, Vespers (Evening Prayer)

gathered the Carthusians in the narrow, dark

conventual church. In order to get there, it was

necessary to walk through endless cold, aus-

tere corridors, where I kept thinking about the

generations of Carthusians who had hastened

their steps in order to participate in the Div-

ine Office. The Grande Chartreuse is the house

of the centuries, the voiceless house, the holy

house.

I thought again also about the hateful, dis-

turbing eviction of the religious on April 29,

1903, following the passage of Émile Combes'

law on the expulsion of the religious congre-

gations, which was reminiscent of the dark

hours of the French Revolution and the forced

departure of the Carthusians in 1792. It is ne-

cessary to reflect on that profanation and the

arrival in the ancient monastery of an infan-

try battalion after it had smashed the heavy

entrance gates, then of two squadrons of drag-

oons and hundreds of demolitions specialists.

The magistrates and the soldiers made their

way into the church, and the Fathers were

brought out of their choir stalls one by one and

led outdoors. The enemies of God's silence tri-

umphed in shame. On the one side were the

fierce supporters of a world liberated from its

Creator, and on the other--the faithful, poor

Carthusians, whose only wealth was the beau-

tiful silence of heaven.

On that February evening in 2016, from the

first gallery, I saw the white, hooded shadows

who were taking possession of the stalls. The

Fathers quickly opened the large antiphonar-

is that allowed them to follow the musical

scores of the Vesper texts. The light dimin-

ished little by little, the chanting of the psalms

followed; the cardinal, who had taken his place

beside Dom Dysmas, cautiously turned the

pages of the ancient books to follow the prayer.

Behind him, the rood screen that separated the

stalls of the Fathers in choir from those of the

lay Brothers sketched in the half-light a large

cross that seemed to lend still greater dignity

to this striking darkness.

Carthusian plain chant imparts a slowness,

a depth, and a piety that is sweet and at the

same time rough. At the end of Vespers, the

monks intoned the solemn Salve Regina. Since

the twelfth century, every day, the Carthu-

sians have intoned this antiphon to the Virgin

Mary. Today there are hardly any monasteries

where these notes still resound.

Outside, night had fallen, and the faint lights

of the monastery finally stopped time. The

only thing that broke the silence was the rum-

bling of the packs of snow that fell from the

roofs. A fog seemed to climb from the depths

of the narrow valley, and the black mountain

slopes provided grandiose, gloomy scenery.

The monks went back to the cells. After

walking through the immense corridors of the

cemetery cloister, each one returned to the

cubiculum where he passed such a significant

part of his earthly existence. The silence of the

Grande Chartreuse reasserted its inalienable

rights. While walking through the gallery of

maps, where depictions of the Charterhouses

from all over Europe decorated the walls, it

was easy to see how far Saint Bruno's Order

lay Brothers sketched in the half-light a large

cross that seemed to lend still greater dignity

to this striking darkness.

Carthusian plain chant imparts a slowness,

a depth, and a piety that is sweet and at the

same time rough. At the end of Vespers, the

monks intoned the solemn Salve Regina. Since

the twelfth century, every day, the Carthu-

sians have intoned this antiphon to the Virgin

Mary. Today there are hardly any monasteries

where these notes still resound.

Outside, night had fallen, and the faint lights

of the monastery finally stopped time. The

only thing that broke the silence was the rum-

bling of the packs of snow that fell from the

roofs. A fog seemed to climb from the depths

of the narrow valley, and the black mountain

slopes provided grandiose, gloomy scenery.

The monks went back to the cells. After

walking through the immense corridors of the

cemetery cloister, each one returned to the

cubiculum where he passed such a significant

part of his earthly existence. The silence of the

Grande Chartreuse reasserted its inalienable

rights. While walking through the gallery of

maps, where depictions of the Charterhouses

from all over Europe decorated the walls, it

was easy to see how far Saint Bruno's Order

had been able to spread so as to satisfy the

thirst of so many religious who wanted to find

heaven, far from the noises of the world.

While the earth is sleeping, or trying to for-

get, the nocturnal Divine Office is the burn-

ing heart of Carthusian life. On the first page

of the antiphonary that Dom Dysmas had

prepared before I arrived, I could read this

notice: "Antiphonarium nocturnum, ad usum

sacri ordinis cartusiensis." It was quarter past

midnight, and the monks were extinguishing

the few vigil lights that were still lit in the

church. Perfect darkness covered the whole

sanctuary when the Carthusians intoned the

first prayers. The night made it possible to ob-

serve more clearly than ever the glowing point

of light marking the presence of the Blessed

Sacrament. The sound of the wood in the old

walnut stalls seemed to blend with the voices

of the monks. The psalms followed one after

the other to the slow rhythm of a Gregorian

chant tone; those who regularly attend the

Divine Office at Benedictine abbeys might re-

gret the lack of purity in the style. But Night

Prayer does not lend itself well to merely es-

thetic considerations. The liturgy unfolds in a

half-light that seeks God. There are the voices

of the Carthusians, and a perfect silence.

Toward half past two in the morning, the

bells rang for the Angelus. The monks left the

church one by one. Is the nocturnal Divine

Office madness or a miracle? In all the Char-

terhouses in the world, night prepares for day,

and day prepares for night. We must never

forget the sweet, powerful statement of Saint

Bruno in his letter to Raoul le Verd: "Here God

gives his athletes, in return for the labor of

the combat, the desired reward: a peace that

the world does not know and joy in the Holy

Spirit."

The Prefect of the Congregation for Divine

Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments

was profoundly touched by the two nocturnal

services that marked his stay. He shares with

Isaac the Syrian this beautiful thought from

the Ascetical Homilies:

Prayer offered up at night possesses a great power, more

than the prayer of the day-time. Therefore all the right-

eous prayed during the night, while combatting the heavi-

ness of the body and the sweetness of sleep and repelling

corporeal nature. ... There is nothing that even Satan

fears so much as prayer that is offered during the vigilance

at night.

.. For this reason the devil smites them with

violent warfare, in order to hinder them, if possible, from

this work [as was the case with Anthony the Great, Blessed

Paul, Arsenius, and other Desert Fathers]. .

But those who have resisted his wicked stratagems

even a little, who have tasted the gifts of God that are granted

during vigil, and who have experienced

in themselves the magnitude

of God's help that is always nigh to them, utterly dis-

dain him and all his devices.. Which of the solitaries,

though possessing all the virtues together, could neglect

this work, and not be reckoned to be idle without it? For

night vigil is the light of the thinking, and by it the under-

standing is exalted, the thought is collected, and the mind

takes flight and gazes at spiritual things and by prayer it is

rejuvenated and shines brilliantly.

For the Cardinal, night warms a man's heart.

The one who keeps vigil at night goes out of

himself, the better to find God. The silence of

night is the most capable of crushing all the

dictatorships of noise. When darkness des-

cends upon the earth, the asceticism of silence

can acquire more luminous dimensions. The

words of the Psalmist are final: "In the night.

I think of God, and I moan; I meditate, and my

spirit faints. You keep my eyelids from closing;

I am so troubled that I cannot speak. I consider

the days of old, I remember the years long ago.

I commune with my heart in the night; I medi-

tate and search my spirit" (Ps 77:2-6).

Before we departed, the cardinal wanted to

have a moment of recollection in the cemetery.

We walked through the monastery, those long,

magnificent galleries, like labyrinths carved

out by prayer. The large cloister measures 709

feet from north to south, 75 feet from east

to west, or a quadrilateral with a perimeter

of 1,568 feet. The foundations of this Gothic

complex go back to the twelfth century; since

then, permanent silence has reigned. In the

Carthusian deserts, the cemetery is located at

the center of the cloister.

The graves bore no names, dates, or memen-

tos. On the one side, there were stone crosses,

for the generals of the Order, and on the other

-wooden crosses for the Fathers and the lay

Brothers. The Carthusians are buried in the

ground without a coffin, without a tombstone;

no distinctive mark recalls their individual

lives. I asked Dom Dysmas de Lassus the loca-

tion of the crosses of the monks who had been

his contemporaries and whose deaths he had

witnessed. Dom Dysmas no longer knew. "The

gusts of wind and the mosses have already

done their work" he declared. He could find

only the grave of Dom André Poisson, one of

his predecessors, who died in April 2005. The

former general died at night, alone, in his cell;

he departed to join all the sons of Saint Bruno,

and the vast troop of hermits, in heaven.

Since 1084, Carthusians have not wanted to

leave any trace. God alone matters. Stat Crux

dum volvitur orbis-the world turns and the

Cross remains.

Before leaving, in the sunshine beneath an

immaculate blue sky, the cardinal blessed the

tombs.

A few moments later, we left the Grande

Chartreuse. The Benedictine monk who had

come to pick us up declared: "You are leaving

paradise.

In the Dialogues of the Carmelites, Georges

Bernanos wrote: "When wise men reach the

end of their wisdom, it is advisable to listen to

the children." The Carthusians are wise men

and children together.

During this year of work, a phrase from the

Diary of a Country Priest by Bernanos was the

reliable compass of our reflection:

My inner quiet-blessed by God-has never really isolated

me. I feel all human-kind can enter and I receive them

thus only at the threshold of my home…… Alas, mine is but

a very precarious shelter. But I imagine the quiet of some

souls is like a vast refuge. Sinners at the end of their tether

can creep in and rest, and leave comforted, forgetting the

great invisible temple where they lay down their burden

for a while.

Similarly, in Le Silence comme introduction à

la métaphysique [Silence as an introduction to

metaphysics], the philosopher Joseph Rassam

The words of the silent are often true proph-

ecies but also lights that people seek to extinguish.

In this book, Robert Cardinal Sarah had only

one aim, which is summed up in this thought:

"Silence is difficult, but it makes man able

to allow himself to be led by God. Silence is

born of silence. Through God the silent one,

we can gain access to silence. And man is un-

ceasingly surprised by the light that bursts

forth then. Silence is more important than

any other human work. For it expresses God.

The true revolution comes from silence; it

leads us toward God and others so as to place

ourselves humbly and generously at their

service" (Thought 68, The Power of Silence).

What virtue does Cardinal Sarah expect from

the reading of this book? Humility. From this

perspective, he can adopt as his own the step

taken by Rafael Cardinal Merry del Val. Having

retired from the public business of the Church,

the former Secretary of State of Saint Pius X

had composed a beautiful "Litany of Humil-

ity", which he recited every day after celebrat-

ing Mass:

O Jesus, meek and humble of heart,

Make my heart like yours.

From self-will, deliver me, O Lord.

From the desire of being esteemed, deliver

me, O Lord.

From the desire of being loved, deliver me, O

Lord.

From the desire of being extolled, deliver

me, O Lord.

From the desire of being honored, deliver

me, O Lord.

From the desire of being praised, deliver me,

O Lord.

From the desire of being preferred to others,

deliver me, O Lord.

From the desire of being consulted, deliver

me, O Lord.

From the desire of being approved, deliver

me, O Lord.

From the desire to be understood, deliver

me, O Lord.

From the desire to be visited, deliver me, O

Lord.

From the fear of being humiliated, deliver

me, O Lord.

From the fear of being despised, deliver me,

O Lord.

From the fear of suffering rebukes, deliver

me, O Lord.

From the fear of being calumniated, deliver

me, O Lord.

From the fear of being forgotten, deliver me,

O Lord.

From the fear of being ridiculed, deliver me,

O Lord.

From the fear of being suspected, deliver

me, O Lord.

From the fear of being wronged, deliver me,

O Lord.

From the fear of being abandoned, deliver

me, O Lord.

From the fear of being refused, deliver me, o

Lord.

That others may be loved more than I,