The Gift and the Seduction of Seclusion

The other night, I was sitting in the hot tub beneath a full moon. Steam curled up into the October air, and for a few quiet minutes, the world was held at bay. I could feel my heart rate slow. My thoughts began to uncoil. It was just me, the warm water, and the soft light breaking across the darkness.

It felt sacred — that small, secluded world of warmth and quiet. A world where nothing was required of me. No questions to answer. No emails to send. No grief to hold. Just breath, body, and presence.

There’s a holiness in that kind of stillness. A peace that doesn’t demand anything from us. The Psalmist said it this way: “Be still, and know that I am God.” Ruth Haley Barton reminds us that the Hebrew phrase translated “Be still” literally means “Let go of your grip.” She writes, “There is a kind of knowing that comes in silence and not in words — but first we must be still.” Or to say it another way, first we must let go of our grip.

That’s the gift of seclusion — the way it can loosen our clenched hands and restore a bit of our sanity. The way it reminds us that God’s presence doesn’t always show up in the noise and motion of life, but sometimes in the hush between breaths.

But there’s another side to it too — the seduction of seclusion. I know it well. Maybe you do too? There are seasons when my retreat isn’t so holy; it’s protective. When I withdraw not for rest, but for refuge. When I hide my anxiety, my grief, my uncertainty — convincing myself I’m doing the world a favor by keeping my “mess” tucked out of sight. Seclusion can start as a safe place but turn quickly into a locked room. It can be a womb or a tomb — and sometimes it’s hard to tell which.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer once wrote, “Let him [sic] who cannot be alone beware of community. Let him [sic] who is not in community beware of being alone.” The tension he names is real. We need both solitude and community, silence and speech. One without the other distorts the soul.

The truth is, most of us swing between extremes. We rush into noise when we’re afraid of silence. We hide in silence when we’re afraid of being seen. But both are forms of fear.

Jesus modeled another way. He often withdrew to quiet places to pray — but he also returned. Again and again, he came back to the people, the crowds, the meals, the mess. His solitude prepared him for compassion, not escape.

So maybe the question isn’t whether we should seek seclusion, but whether our seclusion is renewing us or isolating us. Is it creating space for God’s voice, or just muting everyone else’s? Is it a pause before re-entering relationship — or an avoidance of it altogether?

We all need quiet corners, but the point of retreat isn’t to disappear. It’s to return — rested, softened, and ready to love again. 

So go ahead and soak in your small warm world for a while. Breathe. Let go of your grip. Let the stillness hold you. But when the time comes, step back into the larger world — your voice, your presence, your story — and remember: Even your “mess” might be the grace someone else needs to see that they’re not alone.

On the journey with you,
Pr. Melissa

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