Silence and Sacred Space

It is hard to imagine the kind of silence that existed in the world before the coming of machines. In today’s world, in even the remotest of places, it can be difficult to escape the din of our mechanized society, whether the sound of airplanes above or the ping of mobiles in our pockets. In our cities especially, it is virtually impossible to escape noise.

On a trip to Japan recently I was amazed at how quiet and peaceful some temples and shrines were even in the busiest cities. This got me thinking about the way in which religion has long understood the value of silence. Whether it is a Buddhist temple, a church or a mosque, religious spaces are often, not only places of architectural beauty, but places in which tranquility and silence are central.

The kind of silence I’m talking about is one in which soft noises like the sound of birds chirping, leaves rustling or wind chimes tinkling in the breeze are not out of place. What is it though about the latter kind of silence that seem so central to forms of worship and religious practice? I’ll start with the observation that our bodies and minds were originally adapted to the kind of world our hunter-gatherer ancestors lived in. That world would have been very, very quiet by today’s standards with the auditory environment consisting mostly of things like the hum of insects, the sound of wind in the trees or running water. Loud noises would probably have signaled powerful and potentially dangerous entities – triggering stress hormones and our readiness to fight or flee. So we’re naturally inclined to associate quietness with peaceful, non-threatening environments and to the extent that sacred spaces are about offering refuge from the stresses of life, silence would therefore have been essential. 

So much for my musings in pop-psychology. The more immediate reason why silence is central to many kinds of sacred space is that noise draws our attention away from the voice within. Spiritual practices like meditation, prayer and deep contemplation are usually aimed at a sense of at-oneness with what are conceived to be fundamental aspects of existence whether God, the Buddhafield or the Zen state of ‘emptiness’. This kind of communion helps cultivate an inner tranquility, or what Leigh Andersen in an article for SNS last year called “stillness”, allowing us to slow the stream of uncontrolled thoughts pulling our minds this way and that, and make room for that other, wiser voice that often comes to us in such moments. In this state of tranquility we learn to see things in the context of the bigger picture, reducing our identification with and emotional attachment to our petty concerns whether regarding money, reputation or romance, and steer a path through life that is more principled and righteous. It is obviously difficult to cultivate such modes of consciousness if we are distracted by jarring noises or a hubbub going on nearby. 

But silence is only one factor in the makeup of sacred space. There are also visual and corporal elements that come into play. Most Buddhist and Shinto architecture in Japan is located, if not in something like a cedar forest, then at least a walled garden with an arrangement of moss-covered rocks, trees and other plants, whose beauty and composition have a soothing effect on the soul. The buildings are also often designed so that fresh air, sunlight and the sound of birds, wind etc. are carried in from the outside. Wherever you look, buildings and other structures like Tori gates frame the pleasant, green surroundings in symmetrical, harmonious ways. Considering that many of these temples were designed and built over a thousand years ago, one can only marvel at the deep appreciation the ancients had of the close connection between visual beauty and the sacred. One can also imagine how much greater their aesthetic impact would have been in times when their surrounds were far less populated, had less noise pollution, and were much closer to wilderness than today.

In his book Religion for Atheists’, Alain de Botton argues that we need good architecture to grow into good people. In considering a Catholic cathedral he says the ecclesiastical authorities understood that a cathedral is like “a devotional poem written in stone, wood and fragments of colored glass” (251). Such structures he says were permeated by the platonic idea that Beauty alludes to, and can remind us about virtues like trust, intelligence, kindness, and justice” (253-254). He then calls for secular temples to similarly “educate and rebalance our souls” (275). Such secular spaces are virtually non-existent in our modern, tech and commerce-driven world. Even in many of the more famous temples in Japan, any sense of tranquility is drowned out by throngs of tourists and hoards of trinket-selling shopkeepers. Ideals of beauty have also been largely abandoned in favor of modernist architecture which values brute ‘functionality’ (i.e. functional in terms of economic efficiency and profit-making) above all. As such, many of our public spaces are designed to maximize flows of consumers, workers and goods through shopping malls, offices, factories and the like. Truly functional architecture ought however to maximize human happiness. That requires, at least in part, designing places of beauty and tranquility that foster feelings of reverence and appreciation for life and nature. Any future architecture of this kind would have to be non-denominational and secular in nature, in other words in the tone of spiritual naturalism. 

What might secular structures for the edification of the human spirit look like? It’s anybody’s guess, but some landscape artists like James Turrell, I believe, give us a glimpse into the possibilities. One of Turrell’s works, Within without, is located on the grounds of the National Gallery in Canberra, Australia. The building is surrounded by a pond located in the midst of beautiful native gardens full of shrubs like banksia and grevillia and stands of eucalyptus trees. The structure itself consists of a grass-covered, truncated pyramid roughly 15 meters in height, reminiscent of something like Newgrange mound in Ireland. One walks into the structure following a path that spirals into a domed stupa made from stacks of grey basalt. The stupa has an oculus in the roof through which the sky above appears to hang mysteriously like a blue sphere suspended in space. The whole work honors classical notions of beauty with its symmetry and harmony of geometric form, gestures towards the cosmic with its opening to the heavens, and like a Buddhist shrine, complements and draws in beauty from the surrounding natural environment. Although it is officially an object d’art, one commentator has noted how “there are a number of people who come to the work knowingly, perhaps viewing it as a kind of secular temple, a restorative place of contemplation” (Denham).

Silence then is one essential factor in sacred spaces that also balance visual and somatic elements to induce a sense of inner calm or ‘stillness’. How all these elements are arranged and sit within their natural environments is vital. The Shinto and Buddhist temples of Japan show how all these elements can be put together in ways that are exceedingly beautiful. One day I hope to see secular structures that are as equally inspiring, that draw on the ancients’ deep understanding and appreciation of beauty (as manifested in all manner of religious architecture from the Blue Mosque of Isfahan to the Parthenon in Athens) so that us moderns may also enjoy spaces that, as de Botton says, ‘educate and rebalance our souls’.

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References:

de Botton, Alain. Religion for Atheists, Penguin Books, 2012.
Denham, B. “James Turrell’s Within without: A User’s Guide”, Sydney Review of Books, https://sydneyreviewofbooks.com/essays/james-turrells-within-without-a-users-guide