Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
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Late
in the summer of 2021, as I was preparing to leave Pittsburgh to enter the
Order of the Holy Cross, an unexpected series of events began to happen. Seemingly
at every turn during those final weeks in the Steel City, I was confronted with
reminders of experiences I’d had during the six-year stint I was wrapping up
there – not only reminders of actual events and interactions that had taken
place, but also of feelings, emotions, and even ideas I’d had there.
Now, what was especially interesting about this little walk down (or, ‘dahn’, as they say in Pittsburgh) Memory Lane, was that most of the memories were drawn from the hundreds of actual walks I’d taken through the surrounding neighborhoods during those years. There was, for example, the time I’d been strolling along Liberty Avenue in Bloomfield and, for some reason, happened to glance up into a brightly lit window of a big new apartment building. It was evening and, through this particular window, I could see maybe five or six young professional types, holding wine glasses and laughing. They were engrossed in their own merry little world, the kind that probably involved group artisanal cider tastings and weeknight visits to the rock-climbing gym. Meanwhile, I was standing out on the street, caught up in my own little world, one in which I could only wonder at what it would feel like even to know four other people to invite over for drinks and dinner.
I was projecting, of course. I didn’t actually know anything about the people in the window, and I had no idea what their lives were like. Maybe they couldn’t stand the taste of cider. Maybe some of them couldn’t stand each other. It’s possible they preferred jogging along the Allegheny River trails or down in Panther Hollow over working out in a gym. I wasn’t resentful or jealous of them. I was just aware of how seemingly different our lives were. But something in that scene stirred up a complicated concoction of emotions, regrets, doubts, and weird memories deep within me. I didn’t understand why, and I didn’t take the time right then and there to try to figure it out. I just turned and kept walking toward the old, beige brick building where my quiet, sensibly priced apartment sat waiting for me.
This experience, along with so many like it during that ‘winding-down’ time, gradually made me aware of something: Now in my early 40s, I hadn’t achieved most of the culturally prescribed standards of materialism and success – an overpriced residence at a trendy address; dental veneers; a partner and kids of my own who were perfectly quaffed and Instagram-ready at all times – and I was never going to. The reason? Despite how much I knew I was supposed to want all those things, I simply didn’t want them. And, apparently I never really had, or, at least, I hadn’t wanted them badly enough. I lacked sufficient ambition for them.
“Good,” I thought to myself while reflecting on these memories later. “Choosing not to pour my energy into getting things I don’t want is a sign of moral strength. Stoicism, even. I’m glad I was content not to be like those people in the window.” If this sounds like sour grapes, I assure you it’s actually much worse. It’s competition by comparison. In my head, I was competing with people who had never wronged me in any way just to assuage doubts I had about my own life choices. In this limited mindset, shaped by the world’s ‘wisdom’ rather than God’s, either they or I could be right, but we couldn’t all be.
Eventually I would come to understand that my judgmental attitude in this and other situations flows from the insecurities and hurts that reside in the shadowy corners of my ego’s cellar. The real damage isn’t so much that I had compared myself to others, but that I had assigned worth to them as human beings based solely on how their external circumstances – either real or perceived through clouded lenses – stacked up against mine. This is a long way from practicing the virtues of humbleness, service, and welcome we hear about in today’s readings.
In the Letter of James, we’re encouraged to live fully out of our authenticity, performing good works with “gentleness born of wisdom.” The worldly values of ambition and competitiveness, the writer of James warns us, will only ever serve us “disorder and wickedness.” I’m sure we can all think of times when we’ve recognized this tendency, along with its effects, in ourselves and others.
Living in a way that is “first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits, without a trace of partiality or hypocrisy” may seem like a mighty tall order, but the author of James offers us an important insight that can help. Indeed, it’s absolutely critical: We must first get to know ourselves, and know ourselves well. “Those conflicts and disputes among you,” James asks, “where do they come from? Do they not come from your cravings that are at war within you?” Yes, James, they do.
They are the things that stir within us when we’re peering through apartment windows, observing the lives of others. And even though we can usually ‘walk them off’ pretty easily in the moment, they don’t leave; they only sink back beneath the surface again. If we want to keep them from returning, or at least stop them from driving our life choices, we have to identify them, name them, and address them. This is not easy work, but it is necessary if we want to live the kinds of lives of service and peacemaking described in James, or to use our gifts in being a generous and uplifting presence to others like the Wisdom Wife in our reading from Proverbs.
But here’s the thing. There’s more to all this than simply wanting to be nice people who go around doing nice things (and maybe being noticed for them, just a tiny bit). Our motive, first and foremost, must be a genuine desire to share in the Love that is born of God. Otherwise, we’re still being driven by ambition to compete against others to see who’s the best at being nice. Jesus recognizes this in his own disciples in our reading from Mark this morning, so none of us should think we’re immune from falling into this trap ourselves.
As they walk along the road to Capernaum, Jesus is aware they are competing with one another for status, even though he’s just finished teaching them about the need for total self-emptying, even if it ends up getting you killed. Like most of us when we know we’re resisting grace, they feel a sense of shame. They have nothing to say for themselves when Jesus asks what they were arguing about. It must be frustrating for him, but he bears their stubbornness with patience because he understands human nature from his own, personal experience. Plus, this is exactly why he’s with them, to show them how to love, no matter what it takes. So, he sits down, calls them to himself, and helps them understand that they must focus on being welcoming to each other – as welcoming as one would be to a child, in fact.
But why welcoming? Consider for a moment what happens when we commit ourselves to making someone feel truly welcome. We want them to be at ease, to feel accepted, safe, and cared-for. So, at least in that moment, we place them ahead of us. We’re not thinking about ourselves, we’re wholly concerned with their needs. And this, in turn, leads to gratitude on the other person’s part, creating a channel for love to flow between us. To put it simply, we can’t compete when we’re creating welcome, because (whether we’re consciously aware of it or not) it’s the presence of God within of us recognizing the exact same presence of God present within the other. We don’t even want to compete. We simply love.
As has been the case for so many people over the past one-hundred twenty-two years, it was a desire for this welcoming love that brought me to the monastery. Indeed, this fundamental need for belonging, free from having to compete to be valued, has drawn untold millions to religious communities for thousands of years. The founder of Western Christian monasticism and author of our own Rule of Life, Saint Benedict of Nursia, makes it clear that “All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ.” He continues, saying, “Once a guest has been announced, the superior and the [monks or nuns] are to meet [them] with all the courtesy of love.” (RB 53).
Beyond this, we as monastics are called to model the radical Way of Love and welcome that Jesus extended to all who desired and needed it, not only in welcoming guests, but in the very living of our lives together, in community, day in and day out, for the rest of our lives. Again, Saint Benedict tells us, “This, then, is the good zeal which monks [and nuns] must foster with fervent love: They should each try to be the first to show respect to the other, supporting with the greatest patience one another’s weaknesses of body or behavior … Let them prefer nothing whatever to Christ, and may he bring us all together to everlasting life” (RB 72).
The ability to live out this vision of radical hospitality, acceptance, and valuing of human dignity is available to everyone. Monks and nuns may have a particular responsibility to model it, but literally anyone can – and, I dare say, should – do it. We can all welcome others as we would welcome Jesus in the person of a small child (or of a coworker, spouse, bus driver, homeless person, cashier, barista, addict, you name it), and in doing so help to reverse the human value systems around us that are built on competition and comparison. After all, it is the love of the same God which dwells within each and every person.
May
peace and all that is good be with us, and all whom we love, today and always.
Amen.
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