Cloister of the Heart

The other day I had a wonderful chat with a friend of mine who is a Lay Cistercian and who regularly makes retreats at the monastery where I work. As Lay Cistercians, we have a unique perspective on monastic spirituality and what it can mean for those of us who are not, and not called to be, monks. Lay Cistercians, incidentally, are like Benedictine Oblates, Secular Franciscans, or Third Order Carmelites: people who are not called to the consecrated religious life, but who are nonetheless drawn to it. As its name implies, Lay Cistercians are laypeople, most of us married with ordinary jobs and lives “in the world,” who nevertheless find that the culture and spirituality of monasticism has a real and significant role to play in our ongoing formation as Christians. We are not “monk wanna-bes” so much as we function as a kind of ambassador or translator, who interfaces with both the monastic community and the world at large, drinking deeply from the monastic well as a way to nourish the good life we have been called to live, outside the monastic cloister.

So Lay Cistercians, as much as we are able, try to integrate various elements of the monastic way of life into our own Christian journey. Practices such as lectio divina or the recitation of at least part of the Liturgy of the Hours anchor our daily spirituality. But perhaps even more important than the things we try to do are the charisms by which we hope the Holy Spirit will shape us into who we are. The Cistercian charisms include such qualities as the love of silence, solitude, stability and simplicity; living and praying in a contemplative manner; joyfully embracing the challenges of humility, obedience (to Christ), and continual repentance; and embracing the Holy Rule of St. Benedict as a guide for living — adapted, of course, for life outside the monastery; but part of the genius of the Rule is its very adaptability.

Of course, Cistercian spirituality and charisms are valuable only insofar as they are Christian values. Nevertheless, part of what makes the Cistercian way so beautiful is its emphasis on quiet, on simplicity, on rootedness and community: all qualities that are consistent with the Gospel, but deliciously subversive of the values that form our society’s mainstream. And this is where life as a Lay Cistercian sometimes gets tricky.

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Concerning Rest, Rest-less-ness and Formation

Here are the final questions from my friend’s questionnaire, on issues related to Sabbath, rest, restlessness (or, “rest-less-ness”), and formation. Although she is writing specifically about how these issues impact those in Christian ministry, I believe the issues raised are germane to us all. If you want to see my responses to the first two sets of questions, look here and here.

Questions concerning Formation

  1. What do you hear, when Jesus says: “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28-30)?
    The irony, of course, is that when I resist Jesus’ yoke (which, incidentally, is etymologically related to yoga, i.e. spiritual practice), I find it anything but easy and light! I think the key words here are “learn from me,” “meek,” and “humble of heart.” This is related to metanoia, usually translated as conversion but perhaps better understood as “after-mind.” I’m reminded of the book by Shunryu Suzuki called Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. Perhaps the yoga of Christ is all about “Christian mind, beginner’s mind” — so, what would this look like? Paul says of the faithful “we have the mind of Christ” (I Corinthians 2:16), and I think he means this “after-mind” which is beyond all discursive thought, all oppositional and dualistic thinking: a rest that is found beyond the inner storms of ordinary human consciousness. But there is a paradox here, for Christ calls us to “become like children,” and I think this is where the “beginner’s mind” kicks in. The restful place beyond oppositional consciousness is, paradoxically, very much like the meek and humble, willing-to-learn place that children naturally inhabit. I think we need to be careful not to conflate the mind of a child with the mind of Christ: ironically, we need both, but it seems that the doorway to the after-mind is the beginner’s mind. I know I’m getting really cerebral, here — to bring it back down to earth, perhaps when we just interrupt ourselves and let ourselves be like little children again, we find the “burdens” of being in relationship with Christ to truly be easy (it’s harder to frown than to smile) and, simultaneously, we prepare ourselves for that “higher” rest which can only be given to us, freely even though it costs everything.
  2. What are we to learn from Jesus in order to rest?
    I think I’ve already answered this question. Become like little children. Love God. Love your neighbors. Don’t be afraid of a good party. Have fun. The rest is just details.
  3. There is a growing awareness of burnout among ministers of the church, which seems to contradict Jesus’ affirmation about the easiness of his yoke and the lightness of his burden. What do you think about this seeming contradiction?
    Although I’m not a minister in any ordained or official sense, I am a church employee, and I can see (perhaps more clearly than most) that the church is just as trapped by all of our cultural idols as anywhere else. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to honestly and vulnerably preach Christ’s subversive message in a religious culture that remains as bound to results and performance as any other aspect of society. The cognitive dissonance of preaching a message that directly subverts the institutional work you are doing must be incredible. How many churches, with their beautiful buildings, precious metal communion vessels, stained glass windows, and custom-made organs, are ready to sell it all and give to the poor? How many churches are ready to let go of pledge drives and membership records and just focus on setting the prisoners free? When I write this, I do not mean to judge anyone, for my house and car and computers and flat- screen TV and books and guitars make me just as much a prisoner of my wealth as any other churchman, clergy or no. But at least I can take some small refuge in being a layperson. For the ordained, “professional” minister of Christ, the contradiction must be crushing. In fact, without a sustained contemplative practice that would enable a minister to embrace non-dual and non-oppositional consciousness, I don’t think such a “ministry” (read: career) can be sustainable. And, alas, the church over the last 500 years has done a pretty poor job at teaching contemplative consciousness. So, no wonder there’s so much burnout.
  4. How have people who can rest in God been formed in your tradition? (Please identify your tradition). What is Holy Leisure? Why is it important?
    I’m not sure I have an answer to the question. I was raised Lutheran, then became an Episcopalian, and then (after a sojourn in the Neopagan community) entered the Catholic Church. Each of these Christian families is sacramental and liturgical in character, and each has at least some form of consecrated religious life. I think consecrated life is so essential, and that ideally there is a symbiotic relationship between monks and the laity. The monastic life is an invitation for all of us to be just a bit more childlike, a bit more subversive, a bit more lavish and prodigal in our love.
    What is holy leisure? Is there a difference between sacred leisure and profane leisure? I’m not sure that profane leisure really exists. So holy leisure is true leisure. It’s important because it creates the opening, the space, the “wound” (related to wonder) in which we become vulnerable to the transforming power of Christ in our lives — without us doing anything to achieve it or bring it about.
Well, I told my friend I would keep my answers short, but obviously I didn’t do that. :-)

Concerning Human Rest-Less-Ness

Here are my replies to my friend’s questionnaire: the second part, which deals with the topic of Human “Rest-less-ness.”

  1. What robs you of peace? What gets in the way of your resting? What makes you feel restless? What is it that we “lack” when we are “rest-less”?
    My own compulsions, probably more than anything else. My tendency to compulsive behavior not only keeps me busy (often with tasks that do not in themselves truly nurture my soul), but also introduces a sense of anxiety: if I don’t do this, and do this now, somehow things are not okay. So what do I lack: faith, trust, humility (for example, I am compulsive about my marketing my work, and much of that compulsion stems from a sense that I’m not “okay” as a writer if I’m not doing things to promote my work).
  2. Have you ever felt that you really wanted but really could not rest? … That there is something within us that resists or is afraid of resting? What do you think it is?
    Of course I’ve felt that: I’m not a chronic insomniac, but I’ve had bouts of sleeplessness ever since I was a teenager. As for the “something within us,” the glib religious answer is “sin” just as the glib psychological answer is “obsessive/compulsive behavior” — but to try to drill down a bit further, I think for me the rest-less-ness at root is a need to assert control. I think that need is both sinful and obsessive/compulsive — and probably the only antidote is a continual, gradual, process of what the monks call “joyful penance” — continually letting go of the grasping need to control, and doing that letting go as joyfully as possible, even in its imperfection and impermanence.
  3. Do you find keeping Sabbath easy? Or hard? What are the obstacles to your Sabbath observance?  What/who are the helpers?
    I am not very good at keeping the Sabbath, not only because of my compulsions but because of the joy I take in my work. Sin, like any freely chosen dysfunctional behavior, has some sort of payoff, and for me that payoff is, negatively, feeling like I’m in control, but positively, the genuine joy I find in my work. It’s like finding joy in eating lots of sweets and ice cream, I suppose: yummy, but not so good holistically. I still need to work on this. As for what helps: well, the Lay Cistercian way of life is certainly a gentle reminder: when I remember to pay attention to it!  :-)
  4. What do you hear, when the author of Hebrews speaks about rebellion/disobedience of those “to whom God did swear that they should not enter his rest” and summons us to “harden not our hearts” but to “enter God’s Sabbath rest while it is still ‘today’” (Hebrews 3:7-4:13)?
    At first I don’t see these words applying to me, since I don’t ever willfully set out to break Sabbath: it’s more mindlessness and bad habit, in my case. I suppose this sheds light on my perception (or misperception) that “rebellion” or “hardness of heart” must entail some sort of grand, dramatic, gesture. But perhaps the  Hebrews author is chipping away at the fact that we harden our hearts, rebel and disobey in countless small and ordinary ways. Perhaps it’s a slippery slope: swearing to sin comes at the end, not the beginning, of a long process of sloppiness in regard to how we attend to our response to God’s love. A priest and I once were talking about mortal sin, and he used adultery as an example: he pointed out that the decision to deny God happens long before the illicit lovers tumble into bed — it begins with very small, seemingly “harmless” choices: I’ll invite this person over for dinner when both our spouses are out of town, or something like that. And something like that could really be entirely innocent: it’s all about what’s going on deep inside. We’re always called to be vigilant about the sneaky motives that lurk in our hidden places. This is tricky when talking about Sabbath, for sloth is a deadly sin, but so is its shadow, work-aholicism. And even monitoring our own tendency to sin can become a compulsion!
    Back to Hebrews: I think “entering God’s Sabbath rest while it is still today” is the key: Sabbath is always about the present. I don’t think you can plan the Sabbath: back to my idea that the most restful time is unstructured time. Rest is not something we do, it’s something we allow. Like grace, actually.

Concerning Human Rest

Last week I posted a series of questions from a friend of mine who is writing her dissertation on the theology of rest and the role that rest plays in the life of Christian ministers. Now, for my answers to her first set of questions:

  1. What gives you rest? What do you find restful? When we say “beautiful,” we mean “full of beauty;” then, what are we “full of” when we are restful? What does it mean to call something restful?
    For me, rest is all about unstructured time. It’s an opportunity to live in the moment, which can mean just napping all day, or getting a spontaneous notion to go climb Stone Mountain, which of course involves physical exertion. But the key is that my calendar is open, allowing me to follow my heart even if just for a day.
  2. What do you need in order to rest? What do you do — or avoid doing — on your Sabbath day?
    See above. The key for me is having unstructured time, which of course is indicative of how structured my life normally is.
  3. How do you understand the meaning of the ancient monastic phrase, otium negotiotissimum (”always be at rest yet never be idle“)?
    Monastic life is by its very nature highly structured, and this continues, day in day out, seven days a week. I’m clear that I don’t have a call to such a life, even though it does appear attractive to me. I think the phrase otium negotiotissimum, for me, is a call to mindfulness: preventing my daily activity from devolving into freneticism, and likewise preventing my sabbath time from devolving into mindless pleasure-seeking. I don’t always live up to such mindfulness, but it seems to me that when I do, there can be a dimension of contemplative rest even in my work, and a dimension of purpose and integrity even in my Sabbath-time.
  4. What do you hear when Jesus says, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid” (John 14:27)?
    I think “worldly” peace is merely the absence of conflict: it’s a negative peace. Christ’s peace, by contrast, is a postivie peace: not primarily the absence of something, but rather the presence of something: of God’s own Self, of the presence of the profound integral being-in-joy and being-in-delight and being-in-love. This being has nothing to prove and nothing to achieve, so of course it is profound rest. I’m not sure that human beings can fully participate in this being endlessly and still remain human, that seems to be fundamentally contradictory. But we can partially participate in it, and more fully participate from time to time (say, during sabbath or deep meditation). The deeper we go, the more peaceful/restful it gets.
  5. What do you hear when the Hebrews author says that the “Sabbath rest still remains for the people of God” (Hebrews 3:7-4:13)?
    Part of Jesus’ radical revisioning of religion involves dismantling purity codes, and Sabbath observance can function as a purity obligation. Those who break the Sabbath laws are “unclean.” I think the Hebrews author is reminding Christians that, while we are no longer bound by a legalistic/purity-code convention regarding the Sabbath, we are still creatures fashioned in the image and likeness of God, and therefore need Sabbath rest. We just have to take responsibility for it without being legalistic.
  6. How would you connect rest and peace?
    I think my answers already begin to connect those dots. Rest is something we do; peace is something God is. We enter more fully into rest when we open ourselves up to partake in God’s Divine nature — the nature of true peace.

Okay, more to come later!

On Learning a Musical Instrument as a Metaphor for Contemplative Practice

I’m a beginner with the bass guitar. I bought an inexpensive Ibanez bass the January before last and took about four months of lessons, but then stopped as I got more involved in writing my book on Christian mysticism. Now, over a year later, the book is on my editor’s desk and I’ve resumed working with the bass. Thanks to a rather lucrative freelancing job I had earlier this year, I’ve upgraded my gear and am now learning with a Rickenbacker bass (I am not worthy to be playing such a wonderful instrument, but when we say “life’s not fair” sometimes that works to our advantage). I’m going to start back on my lessons, and who knows? Maybe some day I’ll be good enough to at least pluck along with a church praise band. Or not. We’ll see. My commitment to the bass is entirely to have fun.

But of course, learning a musical instrument in midlife is about a lot more than just having fun. I’m facing all the demons of insecurity and low self-esteem that prevented me from picking up the bass (or some other instrument) 30 or 40 years ago. Yes, I can say that my parents never encouraged me to play an instrument and without that kind of external support/discipline, I probably wouldn’t have made it very far; nowadays I can be my own “parent” and pull the self-discipline up from within me. I suppose that’s true (although every professional musician I know had the self-discipline at age 13; in fact, usually they got in trouble with their parents because they were more interested in playing the guitar than in doing homework, but I suppose that’s another story). However we slice it, the bottom line is that I’m doing something now, rather awkwardly, that many other folks pull off successfully before they learn how to drive. I suppose there’s some humility in there.

But there’s also all the “I’m not good enough” stuff. “What’s a guy with gray hair and a less than svelte physique doing trying to learn a rock and roll instrument?” that snarky voice whispers within me. “Isn’t this just some weird midlife phase?” “Sell the bass, act your age, and invest the money. It would be a wiser thing to do.” Every time I try to learn a new riff and I make a loud buzzing noise or a string of flat notes, I have to breathe through the temptation to get angry or feel defeated. “I’m doing this for fun,” I keep reminding myself. “This isn’t about becoming a professional musician, or being cool, or proving anything to anybody. It’s just about having fun.”

And I’m discovering that, for me and my Rickenbacker, “having fun” means taking baby steps. By the end of my fourth month of classes, I was just barely beginning to be able to play eighth notes without totally screwing up. Over a year later, that’s still where I am. Baby steps? Hah! I’m still crawling.

The other night on PBS there was footage from the Crossroads festival a few years back, and Jeff Beck performed with an amazing young Australian bassist named Tal Wilkenfeld. Fran and I both were amazed at her playing chops; I looked her up online and discovered she was born in 1986, meaning she was barely 21 during that performance we saw (indeed, we made the apparently common error of thinking she was Jeff Beck’s daughter). Watching her fingers fly over the fretboard, I felt all my “I’m not worthy stuff” flow up like some sort of psychic acid reflux. But then I remembered that it’s all about fun, and I don’t have to worry about comparing myself to someone less than half my age who had already “made it” in the bass world. After all, I’m not trying to “make it in the bass world.” But, still, the snarky voice mumbles in the background, because part of me is toxically ambitious and feels like anything I do I should be the best at, period — or else I’m just a worthless pile of you-know-what.

Reflecting on these silly but persistent inner dynamics, I had a flash of insight the other morning. Isn’t the practice of contemplation a lot like learning a musical instrument? Perhaps many other people will see this as pretty much a no-brainer, but for me, having never seriously pursued a disciplined study of an instrument before, it came as a revelation.

I can only speak for myself, but I certainly do the same silly things with my meditation practice that I do with my bass playing. I sit to be silent, and I attack myself for how lousy I am at it. I come up with all sorts of excuses to undermine my discipline — and then, my discipline having been undermined, I accuse myself of bad faith. When I play my “eighth notes” of rather short and not-terribly-focused meditation experiences, I judge myself as unworthy because I am not engaged in the kind of consciousness alteration that (I assume) characterizes the practice of a “true” master.

Practice makes perfect. If at first you don’t succeeed, try try again. These may be little maxims that parents use to keep their kids at their daily hour of piano playing, but they also are solid pointers to the reality of contemplative practice. Of course, the kicker here is this: contemplation, like my approach to the bass, is not meant to be anything other than its own reward. Even if we feel like we don’t “succeed” in contemplation, we’ve succeeded anyway. Of course, success is a not-very-useful category by which to describe contemplation, but since we live in a culture that worships the idol of success so pervasively, we (or at least, I) can’t help but see contemplation as something we might or might not succeed at. So what is success in contemplation: feeling God’s presence? Noticing deeper serenity and calmness throughout the day? Making it through 20 minutes of centering prayer without a single distraction? (yeah, like that is going to happen!)… we can evaluate our contemplative practice any way we want, and if we try to evaluate it, chances are we’ll just stack the deck so that it comes up lacking. Sigh. So we try not to judge ourselves — even our judging self — and we try, try again. We take baby steps. We play eighth notes and we try not to wince when the string buzzes. And somewhere in the midst of it all, we have fun.

Middle aged guy meets awesome bass guitar

Forty-something guy meets awesome bass guitar

Christianity, Islam & Buddhism (or, Two Conversations)

I had two conversations yesterday with two different people. While on the surface they seem to be entirely different conversations concerning different matters, on reflection I see that they are two aspects of the same discourse. They both involved the question of how Christianity (and individual Christians) ought to be relating to other religious traditions (and the practitioners of those traditions). Here’s what happened:

First, someone forwarded to my wife an alarmist video about projected changes in religious demographics in Europe and North America over the next fifty years, as the birth rate declines among caucasians, while rising immigration and a vigorous birth rate of immigrants, many of whom are Muslim, means — according to the people who produced the video — that the native Christian population will soon be overwhelmed by a nascent immigrant Muslim population. By interspersing through this video quotations from figures like Muammar al-Gaddafi who is alleged to have said “There are signs that Allah will grant victory to Islam in Europe without swords, without guns, without conquest,” the video’s message is clear: Christians need to start birthing babies — and evangelizing Muslims — or else we all better start learning Arabic.

This video never identifies its producers, but it was uploaded to Youtube by a user named “friendofmuslim” who is identified by the Islam in Europe blog as a “Christian evangelist.” No big surprise there. This blogger goes on to challenge much of the content of the video, and I suppose I could have fun trying to deconstruct the question of just how soon Europe will transition from being a secular/post-Christian continent to becoming a Muslim continent. But it’s all speculation. It could happen in 40 years (as the video predicts), 100 years, or never. But that’s not the point I wish to make.

In the ensuing conversation that my wife and I had after watching the video, I pointed out that demographics are always changing, and the more interesting question, to me, concerns not this kind of power politics where Christians have to contain a non-Christian threat, but rather the larger question of what will happen as Christian and non-Christian cultures continue to interface?

Which leads to the second conversation I had yesterday, with one of the monks in Conyers. He shares my interest in interreligious and interfaith dialogue, and I was telling him about a book I recently purchased: Mind in the Balance: Meditation in Science, Buddhism and Christianity by B. Alan Wallace. I haven’t read any of Wallace’s previous books, but his body of work looks interesting enough: a former Buddhist monk who now heads the Santa Barbara Institute for Consciousness Studies, most of Wallace’s work concerns the interface of Buddhist contemplative practices with the science of human consciousness; and now he’s invited the Christian tradition to join in on the conversation as well.

The monk and I talked about how important we felt the Buddhist-Christian conversation is, particularly to contemplative spirituality. We talked about how many of the most important contemplatives of the past century, including Thomas Merton, Raimon Panikkar, Bede Griffiths, and William Johnston, were (or are) engaged in some form of interfaith work between Christianity and eastern religious practice. Finally, I said, “You know, I think I have more in common with a contemplative Buddhist than with a fundamentalist Christian,” and he agreed.

Here we have the challenge of the postmodern world. Phyllis Tickle says that the key issue facing emergence Christianity is the question of authority. But I think identity is just as critical a concern. Christians who oppose interfaith dialog, or who insist that our only interaction with non-Christians must be to convert them, are precisely those who have a high level of anxiety over what it means to be a Christian: to have a Christian identity. Now, I am all for having a Christian identity, just as I think it is important to have a clear sense of where our authority is situated. But just as all the old paradigms of authority seem to be shifting under our feet, so too I think “Christian identity” is totally up for grabs. If the emergence of a Muslim majority in Europe would mean the death of contemplative Christianity, I would grieve. But if it just means a new chapter in the endless drama of clashing fundamentalisms, I can’t get too worried about it, except to fear the violence that must inevitably accompany such conflict. Meanwhile, the thought of mystical cross-fertilization between contemplative Muslims (such as the Sufis) and contemplative Christians is a question I find fascinating. Perhaps in another few years meditation practitioners like B. Alan Wallace will be inviting the most visionary of Muslim thinkers to join in the conversation that is already occurring between scientists, Buddhists and Christians.

Don’t dismiss me here. We have to get over the media stereotype of Islam as the religion of suicide bombers. Yes, that element exists, just as there are Christians out there who murder abortion providers. Islam has a long history of its own intellectual distinction (remember, it was the Muslims who, like the Irish, kept classical philosophy alive while Europe sank into the dark ages). When we think in terms of Christian-Muslim dialogue, it is vital that we think in terms of creative and fruitful exchange between the greatest minds and most loving practitioners of each faith. It needs to be a conversation between the saints and the mystics and the genuises of both communities. If we allow the tribal-minded masses (of either religion) to shape the conversation, it will devolve from a conversation into a quarrel, from a quarrel to a fight, and from a fight into a war. This is something no one needs.

Fifty years from now, Europe may be demographically Muslim and Africa may be the center of the Christian world. But North America, I suspect, will remain a roiling mass of secularism which plays host to a variety of religious identities, from fundamentalisms of all stripes to truly visionary contemplative explorers of human consciousness. Frankly, it will be among those contemplative explorers, regardless of where they happen to worship, that the most enlightening discourse will occur. If I’m still around (If I’m alive in 2059, I’ll celebrate my 99th birthday), I hope to be part of what promises to be a fascinating conversation (or two).

Cloister Talks

Cloister Talks: Learning from My Friends the Monks
By Jon M. Sweeney
Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2009
Review by Carl McColman

Cloister TalksMonasteries are archetypal. Even for Protestants who live in a religious milieu that does not include monastic communities, monks and nuns (and their communal way of life) symbolize either strong positive or negative concepts: at worst, they represent religious decadence or hypocrisy, no doubt a lingering after-effect of the hostilities of the reformation era or the economic injustices of pre-revolutionary France. But monasticism can also represent the idea of giving oneself totally to God, in a life of fervent devotion that renders even asceticism, self-sacrifice and celibacy as small prices to pay.

As a Protestant youth, my introduction to monasticism came through books: reading the works of monks like Thomas Merton, or of other authors who spoke highly of consecrated religious life, like Evelyn Underhill. Author Jon Sweeney had a similar introduction to the life, when, as a teenager a pastor suggested he read Merton. As an undergraduate, Sweeney made the effort to actually go and visit the monastery where Thomas Merton lived — and thus began a lifelong journey of appreciation for monastic life, anchored in several friendships and spiritual mentoring relationships that he developed with monks, not only at Merton’s Gethsemani Abbey in Kentucky, but also at St. Joseph’s Abbey in Spencer, MA and Holy Spirit Abbey in Conyers, GA (which is the monastery where I work, in the Abbey Store). Writing in his midlife, Cloister Talks represents over twenty years of life and learning as Sweeney evolves from a brash young evangelical unsure of what to make of this ancient lifestyle, to a thoughtful and perceptive 40-something who understands just how precious the wisdom of the cloister is — and what a profound role it has played in his own life and spiritual growth.

This book is a joy to read, because Sweeney is a natural storyteller and keeps his focus on both his own inner development and on the lighthearted, often humorous and even playful dialogue that he shares with a number of monks over the years. The most renowned of his monastic friends is M. Basil Pennington, one of the founders of the centering prayer movement and possibly the most prolific contemporary monastic writer after Merton. But this is far more than a memoir of a friendship with a famous author. Most of the monks who appear in Cloister Talks are just ordinary monastics, and Sweeney even changes their names in an effort to shield their identity (although, to be honest, all the monks from Conyers were easy enough for me to identify!). This is not meant to be so much a book about individual monks as about their collective wisdom, and so really the key figure is the author himself; the book is built around his arc of learning to wrestle with the call to contemplation, the need to unlearn worldly habits of striving and the egoic need to be “original,” and understanding the role of work and play in one’s overall spiritual life. The author asks honest questions of his cloistered friends: Do monks get lonely? What’s so different about being a monk? What do monks think about death? Why is stability (the monastic vow to live at one monastery, rarely leaving the cloister) so important? The answers he gets don’t always satisfy him, and he says so. But more often, the monks give him plenty to ponder as he stumbles along, not only with his own fits and starts as he learns how to pray, but also with the quotidian challenges of raising children, and dealing with an increasingly troubled marriage. Sweeney’s monastic friends never fix his problems, but provide him space to look at the dynamics of his life in a new way.

At one point he grouses about how frustrating it is that the monks who offer him spiritual guidance don’t offer any kind of spiritual method or program and don’t even make any promises. “‘We can show you how to be quiet, how to listen, but only God can show you the other stuff,’ Father Ambrose told me long ago. ‘What stuff?’ ‘You.’”

So many books on monastic spirituality offer a wealth of information, unpacking the storied history of monasticism, or the profound wisdom of true masters like Merton or his predecessors like Bernard of Clairvaux or Aelred of Rievaulx. But while such books can be dazzling in the insight they offer, they also often as not can be dull or difficult to read. By contrast, Cloister Talks is delightful, down-to-earth, warm, and geared toward the reader who may have no real knowledge of consecrated religious life. As such, it is a treasure.

Patience

I am not a particularly patient person. My house is full of books that I may never get around to reading, but I keep buying new ones, because I’m just a wee bit compulsive about having new books and also because I’m not patient enough to let a book stay at the bookstore (or at Amazon.com) until I need it. Meditation is also a daily struggle with my own impatience at the intransigence of my monkey mind. Wait for a slow unfolding of my deep relaxed self? Well, that would be okay, except for the waiting bit.

Pretty much every time I go to confession I have to share with my priest, yet again, how I fail to observe the speed limit. My contrition is real, if imperfect: I’m sorry for speeding more because I know of the risks involved than because I don’t really want to speed. The speeding is a sympton-sin, symptomatic of how deeply I remain in a hurry, all the time.

So now that the first draft of my book is done, and I have a bit of a break before my editor gets back to me with recommended changes and alterations, I have a bit of time on my hand. And so every night I’m trying to spend a half hour or more with a guitar and a bass that I bought over the past year, while I was too busy writing to bother learning a new musical instrument. And so now I have two musical instruments to learn! I’m 48 years old, and have never seriously studied a musical instrument before (not counting hand drums, and I don’t think they should count).

There was a segment on NPR a while back about adults learning to play a musical instrument. It exploded a lot of the  old myths (“If you don’t start while you’re a child, don’t bother”), but one of the persons interviewed did make a point of saying that adult learners must be very patient, for it will take them longer to master new skills than it does young people, who are learning the instrument even as their brain synapses are still settling in. For us grown-up types, learning a musical instrument is an exercise in patience. For this patience, we are rewarded with tiny baby steps of musical accomplishment.

Needless to say, my desire to make music competes with the roar of my impatience; that part of me that feels like if something isn’t an immediate slam-dunk, it’s not worth my time or effort.  The electric guitar and bass might not seem to be particularly “contemplative” instruments. But the way in which they force me to work on being more patient — maybe better said, to allow myself to be more patient — has a direct corollary in my meditation practice. The more I learn to accept my imperfection — and my infinitesimally slow progress — with the guitar and the bass, the more these same skills can shed light on both the promise and the challenge of my spiritual practice.

At my age, I suppose learning to sit in a silent mind might take just as much long-term patience as does learning how to play a musical instrument for the first time.

Somehow, this is a comforting thought.

Rest, Restlessness, Rest-less-ness (part 3)

If you haven’t already done so, please read Monday’s post: Rest, Restlessness, Rest-less-ness (part 1), which was followed by part 2 yesterday. Tonight I’m posting the third and final part of my friend’s questionnaire, this segment dealing with the topic of formation, and how this applies to the concepts of rest and restlessness (or, rest-less-ness). Please, if you feel so inclined, post your thoughts, comments, or answers to these questions here.

Questions concerning Formation

  1. What do you hear, when Jesus says: Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light (Matthew 11:28-30)?
  2. What are we to learn from Jesus in order to rest?
  3. There is a growing awareness of burnout among ministers of the church, which seems to contradict Jesus’ affirmation about the easiness of his yoke and the lightness of his burden. What do you think about this seeming contradiction?
  4. How have people who can rest in God been formed in your tradition? (Please identify your tradition). What is Holy Leisure? Why is it important?

Words that Spoke to Your Heart

Please share passages from the Christian tradition which have spoken to your heart during your journey of “entering into God’s Sabbath Rest.” I do not intend to create an anthology of Christian writing on rest (not in this dissertation, at least! :-) ), but I would like to receive and ponder the “words of Peace” which you have come to cherish. When possible, please provide the name of the author and/or the name of the book.

Stay tuned… I’ll be posting my own answers to some or maybe even all of these questions over the next few days. But in the meantime, if you have any thoughts on one or some or all of these questions, please don’t be shy.

Rest, Restlessness, Rest-less-ness (part 2)

If you haven’t already done so, please read yesterday’s post: Rest, Restlessness, Rest-less-ness (part 1).

Tonight I’m posting the second part of my friend’s questionnaire, this segment dealing with the topic of Human “Rest-less-ness.” Please, if you feel so inclined, post your thoughts, comments, or answers to these questions here.

Questions concerning Human Rest-less-ness

  1. What robs you of peace? What gets in the way of your resting? What makes you feel restless? What is it that we “lack” when we are “rest-less”?
  2. Have you ever felt that you really wanted but really could not rest? … That there is something within us that resists or is afraid of resting? What do you think it is?
  3. Do you find keeping Sabbath easy? Or hard? What are the obstacles to your Sabbath observance?  What/who are the helpers?
  4. What do you hear, when the author of Hebrews speaks about rebellion/disobedience of those to whom God did swear that they should not enter his rest, and summons us to harden not our hearts but to enter God’s Sabbath rest while it is still ‘today’ (Hebrews 3:7-4:13)?

Thank you. The third and final part of this questionnaire will be posted tomorrow.

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