On Retreat

I work for an organization that allows us to take monthly retreat days. These are spaces where we are reminded that we are not in control of our own destiny, where surrender to God and his purposes overcomes our instinctive desires to micromanage ourselves out of equilibrium. It is this type of experience that we need regularly. Rather than counting on some sort of mystical experience or transcendent period of prayer, retreat days are like exercise: they allow us to remain healthy and prevent burnout. Still, within our yearly rhythms we need more than a single day to reflect and unwind. Vacations and holidays enable us to escape the routine of work and the demands of our vocations, but they are distinct from a retreat. That’s why I’ve established a yearly discipline of taking a weeklong retreat in some sort of separated space.

My last extended retreat was during a period of deep discernment where I was questioning my future in campus ministry. I was bringing many questions into that time, and the chaos of my work demands meant that I could not focus on what God was saying in the deeper spaces of my heart. I came away from that experience refreshed and convinced that such times of intentional getting-away are necessary for my spiritual health and the overall maintenance of my internal compass. I'm in a different place now, tested by time spent in the many ups and downs of ministry, yet committed to a community of people seeking the Kingdom of God in a very specific context. I have been going straight since June, attention demanded by a summer urban project, the startup of a new ministry, a new school year, and a few conferences. In short, it was time for a retreat.

This year I chose a place recommended by some of my colleagues, a Benedictine monastery nestled in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains out in the Mojave Desert. I appreciate monastic spirituality for its unique focus on prayer, community, but most of all, honoring the basic rhythm of the day. Here's what that looked like.

We arose early in the day, before the break of dawn, to pray the morning office of Vigils. I awoke to the sound of my phone's alarm, gently wresting me from a night in my small "cell" in the retreat house backed up against a ridge clad with sagebrush, desert shrubs, and Joshua trees. I filed into the chapel along with members of the monastic community and sat in silence for a few moments. Then, the cantor, or leader, began gently chanting the morning prayer's antiphon to start the liturgy. We read from scripture, the lives of the saints, and important figures in the Western Church. After another psalm and a chanted version of 'Our Father', we went out in silence. The monks went back to their enclosure to practice lectio divina, an ancient form of meditating on scripture. I fell promptly back asleep. Another hour passed before we prayed the traditional morning prayer, Lauds, where a few more pilgrims joined us for prayer. This time I didn't have to set an alarm; a monk rang a bell to awaken the community. Afterwards we ate breakfast in silence, a generous helping of oatmeal and fruit filling my bowl. After a morning spent reading and wandering the grounds of the abbey, the bells again called us, this time for Mass at noon. People from the surrounding towns joined us in the chapel as the priests and brothers formed a procession for the conventual celebration. We heard from scripture, sang hymns, and partook of the Eucharist. That afternoon, I met with one of the monks, who called himself Father Francis. He was a jovial, energetic man in his sixties, a shock of white hair atop a frame that was certainly well tended. He listened intently as I shared some of my ministry experiences and we connected over the need to care for a growing community of people young and old. The real reason that I wanted to meet with him was to receive the Sacrament of Reconciliation (that's confession, to you unfamiliar with Catholic practice), but I was equally blessed by a rich conversation from someone committed to the religious life. After awhile the bells called us back to the chapel for Vespers, the evening prayer, and then we ate dinner while one of the brothers read from a book. The final prayer of the night, Compline, ushered in the Great Silence, where the chants faded to the stillness of the night and the only sounds were made by nature itself. I was able to experience this rhythm for three days before returning home.

When I see a brother or sister in religious garb, it reminds me of the fading virtues of commitment and the extraordinary witness it presents. I read an interesting article looking into the lives of two communities of nuns in Texas, one cloistered and one doing work in the broader world. The Benedictines represent the third such community I've come into contact with. The other communities each live out their callings with specific reverence to the unique gifts that God has provided for them. The Jesuits provided spiritual direction for me early on in my journey as a Catholic, where the discipline of mental formation and reflection became engrained in my spirituality. I was impressed by their value for discernment, and the wisdom imparted from their founder, St. Ignatius Loyola, who combined a relentless activism with a contemplative spirituality deeply rooted in prayer. I still use a few Jesuit websites like this one and this one to help with my daily spiritual disciplines. The second community was one of Holy Cross brothers, an Anglican order rooted in the Camaldolese tradition, a subset of the Benedictines with their roots in medieval Italy. The third were the Benedictines of St. Andrew's in the Mojave that I just visited. 

I remember telling a friend at church that I was taking a retreat in a monastery. She looked at me and said quite seriously, "I can see you as a monk." Perhaps she sees something that I don't, but I'll take that as a compliment. It speaks of a discipline and commitment to prayer that seems extreme by today's standards. My visit to the monks in the desert helped me understand the gifts of their tradition: hospitality, community, study, and of course, prayer. All of these are values that I hope to bring to my own work with students, no matter how long I am called to work with them. So even if I don't take formal vows and prostrate myself before the altar, I can make interior vows to affirm my commitment to a God who loves me and desires to work through me. These periods of retreat allow me to return to the still, small voice that ushers me deeper into love, quite different than the noise of the normal work week that can get overwhelming.

No, I didn't hear a voice from the heavens calling me to some other great thing. I didn't have a crisis of faith where I questioned my work or whether God was looking out for me. I simply was able to unplug, get away from my stack of emails, phone calls, texts, and social media. I was able to read, pray in community and alone, take naps, and explore the desert. I met other pilgrims hoping to retreat, too. One was a jewelry store manager from Las Vegas. Another was a struggling actor from Hollywood. We were all there for the same reasons: a little silence, rest, and a chance to find some peace. I was not disappointed.