that still small voice
I spent the last week of July taking an incredible course at St. Stephen’s to become a catechist—a trained educator in the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd program that we offer on Sunday mornings for children from age 3 to grade 3.
Anna Hurdle, our gifted instructor, would share a piece of wisdom in the guise of information (for example, “as catechists, we don’t speak and move at the same time”), pause a moment for us to reflect on the statement, and then ask a question, like, “Why do you think that is?”
Someone would raise a hand and say, “Because your movement makes it harder for a child to listen.” This would be followed by another pause, usually a rather long one. Anna’s body language would remain neutral, her face—as always—resting in a peaceful half-smile, her eyes alert and curious.
At first, many of us found her non-reactive responses confusing, or even upsetting. More than once, a student immediately filled the silence by repeating him or herself, assuming that Anna had not heard the answer over the air conditioning. It was strange, disconcerting. What kind of teacher is this who doesn’t make it obvious whether or not she likes your answer?!
Wittingly or not, most of us—as parents, as teachers, as friends—make it very obvious when we like what we’re hearing (*head nod* “totally!”) and just as obvious when we don’t (*jaw clenching slightly*). Because most of us prefer the *head nod* “totally!” response, much of our education (in school and out of it) consists of learning how to get the responses that make us feel good and safe and affirmed.
Sometimes this means giving the answer we know the teacher wants to hear. Sometimes this means avoiding entirely the topic whose mere mention will upset mom or dad. And sometimes all this feedback makes it hard to even know what we ourselves think or feel or believe. We become externally calibrated. It can be impossible to hear our own hearts—that place where the “still small voice” of God is speaking.
The work of the catechist is listening with children for that voice. In order to do this well, we must not presume to fill God’s silence with our words. We must take care that we are not training children to seek and desire our approval instead of God’s.
I spoke recently with a college student who is very happily transferred after spending a year at his parents’ college—not the one they attended, but the one they hoped he’d attend. Of course, they never told their son that he should attend School X, not with words, but he knew their opinion well. How much we say without speaking!
Our children need catechists in their lives—people who have learned to quiet their own voices and opinions in the sacred service of helping children to hear their own, and ultimately, God’s. Sometimes, as parents, we are too close to listen in this way. We care too much. And we get scared too much.
But perhaps we can learn to be a catechist for another child. This is the wisdom and beauty of the Church. I encourage you to visit and volunteer in the atria (Catechesis of the Good Shepherd classrooms) often this fall, and—if you are able—join me for a week of training next summer: August 7-11, 2017. It will be life-changing for you, and God only knows who else.