They make me fidgety, make me feel like I should do something.

Like many Americans, I am almost constantly surrounded by the chattering and blaring of the radio and the constant yammering of television. An endless moving backdrop, the noise and motion are hardly worth noticing but their absence immediately disrupts the flow.

I like quiet but only in short bursts. Anything longer sends me into a fit of activity -- running, hiking, cleaning the house, something.

There's something comforting about all the noise and motion. It gives me a sense of my own importance, makes it easy to tune out what I don’t want to hear or think about. It keeps me from seeing myself as I truly am. I don't have time to reflect. And those moments when God's voice does somehow penetrate the blur can be quickly and easily brushed aside.

The blurred living keeps me more comfortable, safely from the knowledge of who I really am. It gives God fewer opportunities to show me the darkest and neediest parts of my life and the darkest and neediest part of other people's lives.

Of course, that sort of false comfort comes at a price. It gives God fewer opportunities to show me his love, his mercy, his sufficiency. It holds back my spiritual development.

Sure, I give God short opportunities to speak to me -- a few minutes here, a few minutes there. He'd better talk fast though. I'm on a schedule here. As a testament to his grace, He does indeed speak to me when I give Him only a few moments or even no dedicated time at all. Yet, I fear I'm like a bride too busy fixing her hair and her make-up to hear the urgent loving messages of her groom.

Seeing this in my own life has led me to believe that our culture of noise and motion is among the biggest barriers to faith. I used to shake my head wondering how it is that masses of people can live with inconsistent believe systems (that there is a God, for example, but no need to determine who He is or whether his existence ought to alter their lives). But it seems to me now that the perpetual cacophony makes it entirely possible to spend decades of life with only rare and fleeting moments of reflection on deep and meaningful matters.

The solution is not an easy one. I'll be the first one to admit I do a miserable job of carving out times of true solitude, true silence. What little time I do set aside is often short and interrupted by a torrent of other thoughts and priorities.

The only remedy I've been able to concoct is to make the time, to treat it as a spiritual discipline. I must purposely set aside quiet hours to commune with God. Maybe it's early in the morning or late at night or a weekend away, but I must be intentional. I know myself well enough to be sure that I will not sit in God's presence without planning ahead.

While I know that church retreats have a myriad of purposes, I suspect that its attendees might sometimes be better served if we allotted time for silence, where everyone is encouraged to find a quiet corner to be alone with God, quiet and still. I know we expect volleyball and swimming and two sessions daily of teaching at these retreats, and don't get me wrong: they all have their place. But maybe there should also be a two- or three-hour period when everyone is asked not to speak to one another in favor of time and quiet before God.

Maybe then, we'd somehow learn to stop being so fidgety when the noise and motion subside. We'd learn to be still in the presence of our Maker.

Michelle Rushlo has a day job as reporter for a high-tech news website in the Bay Area but prefers less nerdy pursuits like running and making lopsided pottery.