Having lost my original blog post just as it was near completion--suffice it to say I am not pleased with Blogger's saving mechanism--instead of attempting to recreate it I am going to write something completely different.
I have now been in the monastic rhythm for a month (!) and though I am certainly not a full-fledged monk--I think of myself as a 'half-brother'--I have come to a fuller appreciation of what the religious life entails. More than anything it comes down to devotion.
This could be put in any variety of ways--dedication, focus, discipline, patience--but devotion seems the most appropriate; what is a monastic calling but devoting oneself to God? I have been privileged to witness the celebration a monk taking his first vows and I was struck by the service's similarities to a wedding; what was being affirmed that day was in essence a wedding, the recognition of a life-long commitment to God.
Yet to assume that simply because they are monks, because they have taken these vows and committed themselves to a life in Christ that they do not struggle with doubt nor face any of the same challenges of a more everyday believer is niave. Whatever wisdom, whatever faith, whatever strength these men possess are not the result of putting on the habit, nor were they the impetus for entering the order in the first place; everything a monk has is the result of what we all know to be necessary for any successful endeavor--hard work. Certainly grace exists and God appears in flashes but in the end monks are no different from you or I, they are just a little more devoted.
These are not insights that I have picked up in any specific conversations with the brothers--though I imagine they would generally agree--but simply extrapolations from my own personal experiences thus far. The brothers here observe five daily offices and though I can only fit three of those in my schedule I am amazed at what a regimented prayer schedule does to a person. I find myself thinking on God more frequently, saying small prayers throughout the day, feeling more thankful for whatever little blessings appear, and generally less frantic where my obligations and commitments are concerned. When I first began to pray consistently with the Book of Common Prayer almost two years ago I noticed that whatever benefits I gained from the habit were more generally felt in its absence than in its presence; I noticed something was missing when I didn't make time for God. That is certainly the case in my time thus far--when the brother's take their Sabbath on Mondays I feel what I am missing quite acutely--but what is more encouraging is the strength I feel myself drawing from the offices and the ways in which it has opened me up to further prayer.
The biggest struggle is what it does not do. Despite all my greatest wishes I am still a fallible human with a mind that flits from thought to thought with all the congruity of a sun-dazed fruit fly: I zone out during the readings; I lose track of my place in the psalms; I follow absurd trains of thought until I am startled back into the present by the sheer insanity of whatever place my mind had come to rest. Of course, I try to be present. I try to devote myself entirely to the centuries old prayer tradition I am immersed in but inevitably I am distracted by the world.
But that, as I see it, is the point. The point of prayer or meditation or group worship or music or any of the myriad ways people seek (and find) God. We are all struggling against ourselves to be with the divine and all those diverse forms of worship are nothing but the foundation upon which God can build. We set the stage and hope that something appears. More often than not we are met with silence--or at least nothing as resounding as we might like--but we return day after day because the practice of seeking is worth it in itself. God is found in the looking.
This could be put in any variety of ways--dedication, focus, discipline, patience--but devotion seems the most appropriate; what is a monastic calling but devoting oneself to God? I have been privileged to witness the celebration a monk taking his first vows and I was struck by the service's similarities to a wedding; what was being affirmed that day was in essence a wedding, the recognition of a life-long commitment to God.
Yet to assume that simply because they are monks, because they have taken these vows and committed themselves to a life in Christ that they do not struggle with doubt nor face any of the same challenges of a more everyday believer is niave. Whatever wisdom, whatever faith, whatever strength these men possess are not the result of putting on the habit, nor were they the impetus for entering the order in the first place; everything a monk has is the result of what we all know to be necessary for any successful endeavor--hard work. Certainly grace exists and God appears in flashes but in the end monks are no different from you or I, they are just a little more devoted.
These are not insights that I have picked up in any specific conversations with the brothers--though I imagine they would generally agree--but simply extrapolations from my own personal experiences thus far. The brothers here observe five daily offices and though I can only fit three of those in my schedule I am amazed at what a regimented prayer schedule does to a person. I find myself thinking on God more frequently, saying small prayers throughout the day, feeling more thankful for whatever little blessings appear, and generally less frantic where my obligations and commitments are concerned. When I first began to pray consistently with the Book of Common Prayer almost two years ago I noticed that whatever benefits I gained from the habit were more generally felt in its absence than in its presence; I noticed something was missing when I didn't make time for God. That is certainly the case in my time thus far--when the brother's take their Sabbath on Mondays I feel what I am missing quite acutely--but what is more encouraging is the strength I feel myself drawing from the offices and the ways in which it has opened me up to further prayer.
The biggest struggle is what it does not do. Despite all my greatest wishes I am still a fallible human with a mind that flits from thought to thought with all the congruity of a sun-dazed fruit fly: I zone out during the readings; I lose track of my place in the psalms; I follow absurd trains of thought until I am startled back into the present by the sheer insanity of whatever place my mind had come to rest. Of course, I try to be present. I try to devote myself entirely to the centuries old prayer tradition I am immersed in but inevitably I am distracted by the world.
But that, as I see it, is the point. The point of prayer or meditation or group worship or music or any of the myriad ways people seek (and find) God. We are all struggling against ourselves to be with the divine and all those diverse forms of worship are nothing but the foundation upon which God can build. We set the stage and hope that something appears. More often than not we are met with silence--or at least nothing as resounding as we might like--but we return day after day because the practice of seeking is worth it in itself. God is found in the looking.
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