I had forgotten how much I enjoy the taste of ranch dressing on romaine lettuce. Turns out, I still revile tuna noodle casserole and have yet to fathom how Jello constitutes dessert, despite additional canned fruit and Cool Whip garnish. But you don’t come to a monastery for the food. You come to be still, to be quiet, to listen to the voice inside that’s long been drowned out by a busyness of your own making.
I arrived at the Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemani on Friday around 5:30PM. The drive from Cincinnati was longer than I remembered. I was physically and emotionally tired but spiritually awake, excited to embark on this weekend-long silent retreat. But that enthusiasm quickly turned to concrete in my gut the closer I moved towards the monastery—a nervousness and anxiety I didn’t expect. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. This was new territory after all—I’d never been on a silent retreat and I’d certainly never lived amongst monks. I had booked my spot nearly four months prior thinking it would be a helpful step in a yearlong process of discerning my next career move. But at that point, sitting in the safety of a small Ford Focus in an expansive parking lot, I wasn’t quite sure why I was there. For months, I’d been exhausting myself thinking about “what’s next?” processing over and over with anyone kind enough to listen. I was so tired of thinking about it that I’d attempted to pawn the weekend reservation off on my husband. “You’re dreaming about big things too,” I had noted earlier that week while the two of us unloaded the dishwasher. “You should go.” He saw through my so called generosity. “Just go,” he said.
So there I was, worn out and wondering why on earth I had come to a Trappist monastery in rural Kentucky. It’s worth noting here a few things about the Trappists. This religious order of monks and nuns in the Roman Catholic Church believes in the power of contemplative prayer and pursues it wholeheartedly by following the centuries’ old Rule of St. Benedict. The Trappists center their days on a balance of prayer, reading, and work, and in their practices of silence, simplicity, and separation from dominant culture, live in continuous surrender to God. This “letting go” is believed to lead to profound transformation awakened by the love and encounter of Jesus. Trappist monks pray seven times a day, every day, and have been keeping the same prayer schedule for centuries. One of the more well known Trappists of our time is Thomas Merton, a revered religious icon who entered the monastic community at the Abbey of Gethsemani in 1941, living there for nearly 27 years before his tragic death in 1968. Merton has written numerous books on a vast range of topics, from the contemplative life to race relations and economic justice. It’s amazing to me that one of the most prolific Christian teachers/poets/artists of our day, who could have lived anywhere in the world, spent a substantial part of his life at a monastery just down the road from the city I call home. And, with just a few simple clicks around monks.org, anyone is welcome to join these holy grounds as an overnight guest—for no cost.
So once again, there I was. I parked my car, walked up to the visitor center door and pulled. Locked. “Oh,” I thought. Up until that very moment it hadn’t even occurred to me to double-check my booking, confirm check-in times, or even call to ensure my reservation was still on file. I just figured I’d show up and all would be well. A woman in a bright pink shirt sensed my confusion as she walked by. Her sneakers smacking the asphalt was the only sound in the air beyond birdsong. She simply smiled and pointed towards an adjacent building that was the retreat house. This was the first taste of what would soon become new music to my ears—communication without words, voice not from lips. With that more hopeful assurance I sauntered over to a large brick building carrying nothing more than a small duffel of clean clothes and a backpack of books. A round woman with a thick Kentucky drawl was just getting up from her reception post when I entered. “Dang it,” she squawked, “that happens every time.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” fearing I’d done something wrong. “It’s no bother,” she replied, “I just always get my timing wrong when it comes to peeing.” Not exactly the welcome I’d expected on such sacred grounds! I couldn’t help but giggle. The woman asked my name, checked her papers, and gave me a room key. “You’re in 307. Elevator isawn’ the right.” “That’s it,” I thought. “No orientation, no map, no instructions about when/when not to talk to the monks?” That was it. All I could manage by way of a question was, “Is that the dining room?” gesturing with a forward head nod. “Yep, supper isat’ 6 sharp.” And with that, off she went to relieve her bladder and off I went to find the stairs to the third floor, my home away from home for the next 48 hours.
With little time to settle, my first adventure was figuring out the dining situation. A small typewritten card on the desk in my room reminded me that I was embarking on a silent retreat and thus the dining room would be one of the many places on monastery grounds where silence should be respected. Now, I’ve already mentioned that spending a weekend in silence was a new experience, so it goes without saying that dining in a room full of strangers, where the only sound is that of forks and knives clacking against melamine dishware while Beethoven’s 5th plays softly in the background, was also a foreign circumstance. But I must say, I found it to be quite enjoyable. I was instantly thrust into another reality, a place to discover that the absence of some things—conversation with others, choice over the food put on my plate, control of how to spend the precious hours—makes space for beautiful new things: a moment to notice the gentle internal voice, gratitude for the hands that prepared the meal, the chime of church bells marking the transition from one liturgical hour to the next. Love, gratitude, beauty. Is that what forms in us when we step into quiet? When we remove ourselves from the endless pinging of our modern reality? In that moment I remembered why I had come to this place, trusting I was exactly where I needed to be.
After supper, retreatants were invited to join one of the monks for an opening retreat talk—a space to set the tone for the weekend and learn something about silence and contemplation. I joined fellow retreatants in a small, dark conference room where we sat in stillness. With a boisterous greeting and a flip of the lights, Fr. Carlos, a proud Nicaraguan priest who’d been living at the monastery for more than 30 years, joined us. Fr. Carlos is a large man with a thick accent and a childlike personality. He delivered a 30-minute talk that felt more like a homily than a lecture, (I felt myself wanting to shout amen more than once!), reminding us with gentle words that we are disciples of Christ. Christians. Beloved. Then, his voice rose and what he said next landed on my heart with momentous impact:
“Christians! We have forgotten WHAT IT MEANS to be disciples of Jesus. We don’t KNOW HOW to bask in the love of Jesus! We don’t KNOW HOW to lean our whole bodies onto Jesus! And we certainly don’t know how to let OTHERS lean their whole bodies onto us. Christians! We have forgotten that we are called, and we have forgotten that we are loved, and because of that we’ve become a band of hopeless followers plagued with depression, anxiety, fear and all other hosts of social ills. Christians, WAKE UP! We only have faith in our heads and faith is not solely about reason. We have forgotten what it means to be disciples.”
It took everything in me not to slow clap and shout, “Drop the mic Father!” Instead, I sat speechless, my silence now not a response to the rules of the Abbey but provoked by an electric feeling that began in my heart and permeated throughout my entire body. Fr. Carlos’ words pierced something in my core. I knew it was going to be an interesting weekend.
The next morning, I gave myself permission to sleep in, something I rarely do but often need. The sunlight radiating through my blinds forced me to withdraw the covers around 8AM. I’d had a solid 12 hours of sleep and felt like a human again. I missed breakfast but found coffee and plopped myself right outside in a patio garden where I relished in the birdsong and the already warming summer breeze. Nearby, a playful chipmunk seemed to be practicing the 100-yard dash. Something from Fr. Carlos’ words the night prior began pulling at me. He had painted an image of John, one of Jesus’ disciples, quite literally leaning on Jesus while the group of men shared a meal. The point of this story was to suggest the radical intimacy these men experienced with Jesus—a far cry from the intimacy we often experience with God (and with each other) today. I found myself wondering what that kind of communion with Jesus could possibly even look like for us in 2019. Sure, the disciples were actually WITH Jesus, walking, eating, talking, and being together, but we can’t do that. I felt prompted to turn to the Gospel of John, wondering if the answers to my question could be found throughout this written account of Jesus’ ministry—real stories, of real humans, in real bodies, engaging with a very real Jesus. So I started to read. Within the first few lines I felt captivated in a way I’d never felt captivated before reading scripture. I was drawn deep into the scenes, feeling the frustration of John the Baptist as he tries to provide “reasonable” testimony to the Pharisees, sensing the confusion of the Samaritan woman as Jesus proclaims to be the Son of God. Like a good novel, with escalating character development and evolving plots, I couldn’t put this book down—for the first time…ever. In that moment, I had every bit of awareness (or fear?) that I was embodying a total cliche. “Megan goes off to a monastery and becomes a real bible thumper,” I thought to myself. I had brought a backpack full of books to bask in during this time of solitude, and with all the great non-fiction, memoir, and poetry in that backpack, if it were entirely up to me, the bible surely would not have been my first choice. But something pulled me in and I was absolutely awestruck. I sat for nearly three hours, reading and writing, reading and thinking, reading some more. I consumed the words slowly, letting them do their work on my heart. I soon found myself experiencing the character of Jesus in a new way, perhaps for the very first time loving him in a place not my head. My whole heart longed to know this Jesus.
The church bells rang. I shuffled into the chapel at 12:15PM, followed by supper back in the dining hall at 12:30PM. After silent meal number two, I walked the grounds and thought more about my morning reading. Two big things began to emerge. First, in John 1 we’re reminded that “to all who believed and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God. That’s worth saying again: all who believe are given the RIGHT to become children of God. Jesus reminds us countless times throughout scripture that we must become like children to inherit the Kingdom, but something in this verse struck me anew. When we have the right to something, it’s more than a nice offering or a generous gift. A right is something to be claimed, something to prioritize, something to hold in great reverence. What does it mean to claim our right as God’s children? What does it look like to embody the title that allows us to be limited human beings who can depend on a loving father to carry the weight of the day (and the world) for us? I was intrigued. The second thing that was bubbling inside me had something to do with the cost of being a disciple. In John, I began to see the real emotional, physical, and spiritual costs bore by those who proclaimed Jesus as King. In my sketchbook I listed all the ways I imagined following Jesus might cost me. I quickly closed my sketchbook. I didn’t like the list.
Later that night after supper, Fr. Carlos delivered part two of what I had now deemed his “convictions conference.” In the pauses, I heard the Lord say, “count the costs,” and “you cannot be my disciple without giving up everything you own.” I was familiar with these words—had heard many sermons preached about them. But now, they pierced me. Not in a way that was painful but in a way that brought tears to the corner of my eyes. I began leaking in the front row as Fr. Carlos calmly folded his notes. I knew the tears weren’t sad tears, but rather cleansing tears, like something in me was being made new.
“I assure you the time is coming when the dead will hear my voice…and those who listen will live.” (John 5:25)
“My message is not my own,” Jesus said. “It comes from God who sent me.” (John 7:16)
The voice I heard was clear as day, the message obvious. He was becoming greater and greater in me (and I in Him) and I needed to become less and less. And to become less, “to forget myself on purpose,” as Merton has famously written, costs something. I laid awake, the clock nearing midnight and looked again upon my list of what following Jesus might cost me. Something in me knew I was willing to risk: rejection; being perceived as unpopular, naive, ignorant; being stretched to give my time, resources, and self beyond what I perceive possible; hoping when the world says, “why bother;” resting when the world says, “work harder;” losing friends; disappointing parents; and any professional status I like to think I earned, for the sake of the Kingdom. All at once my six-month discernment process around next steps in my career became less important and my call as a follower of Jesus became decidedly clear. I didn’t finish the book of John that night, but I knew this Jesus was shaping something new in my heart.
On Sunday morning at 3:10AM I awoke to attend vigils. The monks sang and I prayed. At 10:20AM I attended terce, followed by mass and the Eucharist. From the floor of the main sanctuary, sitting adjacent to the monks, my heart widened in gladness and I was overwhelmed with thankfulness—a gratitude for this holy ground, this timeless liturgy, these faithful followers, and a God who never stops calling us by name. The Gospel reading was a passage from Luke 9 where we see a resolute Jesus determined to journey to Jerusalem knowing the time has come for the final death. As He’s walking along, we see three separate people approach Jesus, each wishing to follow Him, and in three distinct ways Jesus reminds them the cost. Jesus says, “Foxes have dens to live in, and birds have nests, but the son of man has no place even to lay his head.” (9:58) “Let the spiritually dead bury their own dead! Your duty is to go and preach about the Kingdom of God.” (9:60) “Anyone who puts a hand on the plow and then looks back is not fit for the Kingdom of God.” (9:62) Was I like the first person, eager to follow Jesus but not willing to do so if following meant leaving my comfort, my home, my routine life? Was I like the second person, more concerned about satisfying my worldly relationships than my relationship with God? Was I like the third person, almost committed but still holding back? I sorta felt like all three. I prayed and heard God say, “to find your life you must lose it.” Tears welled in the corner of my eyes again. I knew I was going to say yes to this way and at the same time a real wave of fear washed over me. The time for Eucharist came, an invitation to take in the body and blood of Jesus as a reminder that his spirit is within us, connecting us to a powerful and loving father who doesn’t let us go. One by one we placed the wafer on our tongues and sipped the sour wine. The fear in me released and a new lightness filled the void—I was reminded that we don’t have to set out on the journey alone.
I joined the monks one final time at 5:30PM for vespers. Back up on the balcony I positioned myself in the front row, only to hear the sound of small, high-pitched whispers entering the sanctuary behind me. I turned to see a young couple with four, small, blond-headed children entering the pews—the first “real” children I’d seen all weekend. As the hymns raised to the pillars, the children made their way to the front row nearing the balcony glass, their father watching with a careful eye. The little girl spoke. Her father shushed her with a gentle whisper, “Time to be quiet.” One little boy laid down in the pew, worn from the day’s sun. The father let him rest. The other two boys inched their way closer to the glass. The father gently pulled them back to a safer place. I couldn’t help but smile. On the surface these four small children and their father seemed a stark contrast to the monks singing psalms of praise to their father below. But something in me knew different. I caught the eye of one monk as he gazed up to the balcony, presumably noticing the small people stirring about. Perhaps he too recognized something familiar. Kindred souls.