On the Endurance of the Heart
Dear friends, welcomed guests, and all who join us through the quiet pathways of our online presence, peace to you in Christ.
Today the Lord presents His disciples with a sobering vision: the things they admire — strong walls, splendid structures, the visible achievements of human hands — will not endure. The stones they found impressive would one day crumble. The certainties that seemed so solid would pass. And in that moment of unsettling truth, Christ redirects their gaze from structures to the soul, from visible stability to inner fidelity.
It is a message that resonates deeply within monastic life, and perhaps even more within the heart of anyone who seeks silence in a noisy world. For silence itself is a school where we learn which foundations truly hold.
At Our Lady of Silence, we see this every day. Visitors often marvel at the peaceful cloisters, the disciplined rhythm of prayer, the quiet beauty of the church. These are precious gifts, but they are not the essence of stability. They are signs pointing toward a deeper reality: Christ asks us not to cling to what impresses the eye, but to what strengthens the heart.
The Lord speaks of storms — not only those of nature and history, but those that visit every soul who tries to walk with God. He warns of confusion, of voices that promise clarity but deliver only fear, of conflicts that divide families, communities, and even one’s own inner world. Yet He does not offer escape. He offers endurance.
What a different kind of hope He teaches. Not the hope of avoidance, but the hope born from steadfastness. Not the hope of easy days, but the hope that grows when the roots of the heart are sunk deep into God.
Here in the Abbey, silence trains us in this endurance. Silence is not an escape from chaos; rather, it is the place where we discover the One who remains firm when everything else cracks and shifts. In silence, the illusions fall away. We see our fears, our attachments, our longing for control. And slowly, gently, Christ invites us to trust Him more than these things.
He tells His friends that difficulties will arise, sometimes even from those closest to them. But the extraordinary promise He adds is this: not one hair of your head is forgotten by God. In other words, endurance is not something we achieve alone. It is not a test of strength, but a relationship — staying with Christ as He stays with us.
For those who visit the monastery, perhaps for an hour or a weekend retreat, we say: do not be discouraged by the unrest that surfaces when you enter silence. That unrest is simply the sound of stones shifting — the Lord gently rearranging the architecture of your heart to rest on firmer ground. The falling of what is unstable is not a threat but a gift.
And for those who follow us online, joining from homes, workplaces, hospitals, and cities: the invitation is the same. Christ does not ask you to build a fortress around yourself. He asks you to let Him become your stability. The world is loud, unpredictable, fast-moving. But the slow fidelity of the Gospel is stronger than all of that.
In these final weeks of the liturgical year, the Church invites us to look honestly at endings — the ending of structures, the ending of illusions, the ending of false securities. Yet in doing so, she also prepares us for beginnings: for Advent, for the quiet birth of hope, for the God who comes to dwell not in temples made of stone, but in the hearts of those who endure in love.
So let us walk with confidence. Let the stones fall if they must. Let the old foundations crack. For Christ is our firm ground, our sure guide, and the One whose love sustains every moment of endurance. In Him, nothing is lost. In Him, everything is held.
May His peace — the peace that silence prepares — rest upon you today and always.