Sunday, February 12, 2017

The Abbey Of Gethsemani

Last weekend, Bert and I visited the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky. Being the introverted worrier I am, I had the long weekend all planned out in my head and thought I knew exactly what we were getting ourselves into.

Of course - of course - I was completely and totally wrong.

As I packed the day before we left, I told myself to not expect to have a divine revelation or great religious and other worldly experience, to just let what happens happen.

But I was hoping for a divine revelation or great religious and other worldly experience. I even thought maybe I deserved one.

We were at the Abbey for about three hours before I realized this was the worst way to start a weekend intentionally looking for God.

Sadly, I didn't come to the revelation that I shouldn't expect a revelation on my own. I was told, gently but enthusiastically, by a monk named Carlos. He stood in front of a room of fifteen or so of us and kindly told us how not to retreat.

By the time the weekend was over, I was so grateful for Carlos, because through his words, I was able to have what my soul really needed - a sweet time just resting in God's presence and learning more about the side of Him that's my friend.

I read back over my journal notes from that weekend tonight. It took awhile because if you put a writing introvert in an Abbey of silence for three days, she'll practically fill an entire notebook of thoughts and prayers.

If any of the 3 people who read my blog are even a little bit intrigued by the idea of going away for a few days and resting in God's presence in a state of silence, let me know and I will pack your bags for you and push you out the door towards the Abbey.

If you need another reason to go to the Abbey, I give you exhibit A:



When you get to the Abbey after you run out the door because that view, one of the first things you'll do is meet Carlos. After I met him, I was so entranced and inspired by him I couldn't help but take pen to paper and write out my encounter with this wonderful monk:

"The first thing you notice about him - besides the robes or the almost hidden crocks under them - are the laugher lines around his eyes.

You can see them clear as day, extending from the frame of his glasses nearly to his ears.

The second thing you notice about him is his thick Filipino accent. Sometimes his words get lost into his throat, but even if you only catch 75% of his words, you'll feel content.

Even, dare I say it, blessed.

His words and his laughter lines alike are rich in both wisdom and simplicity.

Wisdom because he knows when to laugh and the best times to tell a joke, like the one he ended his talk with the second night I was lucky enough to hear him.

Simplicity because he tells you things that everyone in the room knows somewhere in the back of their mind, but the thing needed to be said aloud to bring it roaring up to the front of their mind to take deep root and live.

He's not afraid to tell you what you shouldn't do, and this is honestly what makes him lovable. Being told that how you are approaching something in your mind is wrong is a tricky thing to do well, but with his almost teddy bear personality, Carlos is the best person for the job.

After gathering introverted courage and walking up to thank him for speaking, we were rewarded with well-wishes and advice on our upcoming marriage, a moment that will not easily be forgotten.

You know somewhere in your mind that monks are just like the rest of us, with real life heartache and trauma and beautiful victories, but it took Carlos for this to hit home.

Thank God and peace be with dear Carlos, the friendliness monk to ever monk."


                                                         *                 *                  *

Another thing I learned while at the Abbey is that I am not Catholic.

I had never been to Mass before this trip, and after attending my first Mass, I again picked up pen and paper and got out all my thoughts about Mass:

"When the first long moment of silence happened, I thought perhaps one of the monks had forgotten it was their turn to read.

When the second and third and fourth moment of silence happened, I comprehended that the monks are not afraid of the silence as I am.

This is what I took most from the service. I am afraid of silence and the monks, who live in holy silence, are not.

I think I would have felt just as lost and out of the place if I had had a booklet of songs and responses during the service. Perhaps the only difference would have been my anciness for the service to end knowing how many pages were left.

I arrived early for the service, about fifteen minutes before Terce was to begin. I wanted to give my mind time to slow down, to rest in the preparation, to inhale the calm of the chapel.

Really to prepare me for the beauty I anticipated I would experience.

I suppose there were moments when I saw glimpses of beauty, where I almost felt God.

Mostly what I experienced was a divine revelation that I am not, nor will I ever be, drawn to become a Catholic.

It is possible, likely even, that if I had grown up Catholic, or even attended a Mass before 27, that I would feel differently, that I could find the glory with ease.

I'm being unfair. I can see how one could sense the Spirit of God in Mass, or be brought to tear by the liturgy, or moved to a deeper faith by way of the holy rituals.

I can see how one could.

I just can't.

Maybe it's because before my adulthood relationship with Christ, I first really fell in love with Jesus a few rows back from the pulpit in an open-minded Baptist German church. I wanted to be baptized after a somewhat fire-and-brimstone type sermon by a visiting pastor at this same church. And I first discovered that closing your eyes and raising your hands can be a very appropriate response to a singer belting out worship music backed up by an electric guitar and drums at a winter retreat with my young group here.

So maybe I just learned to find God in a different way than those celebrating Mass.

I don't go to a Baptist church anymore. I also don't raise my hands in worship much either.

These days when I really feel the power of God in a place, my reaction is to remove my shoes ("Moses, take off your sandals, for the place you are standing is holy ground"), sit down, and begin furiously writing down prayers of adoration or cries of woes or general thankfulness to God for His Presence.

I'm not sure what branch of Christianity that makes me. But I don't mind not knowing so much."




These are just a few of my experiences with God from this weekend. But after you go to the Abbey (because seriously, these views), I can't wait to swap stories with you.

No comments:

Post a Comment