The pick-up truck was barreling straight towards me, oblivious to the fact that I was prayer-walking, blind to my existence, ignorant of my conversation with God. Glancing at his menacing headlights, I scooted across the road, tucking my tail like one of my Schnauzers when scared, and gasping for breath as I reached the entrance of Gethsemane Abby, I was grateful that I was secure on the other side of the road, a side where I longed for and found, time and time again: calm, peace, tranquility. And once having crossed the road, I realized how easily the world crashes into our spiritual safety zones.
Gethsemane Abby in Gethsemane, Kentucky, has been that for me: a quiet room for my soul to rest and refresh, an area where my cell phone has no service, a spiritual compass redirecting my life, a frequency retuning my spiritual ears to God’s voice, a time zone resetting my spiritual clock to God’s timeless and eternal one. It’s holy ground for me, a place where I remove my shoes, as Moses did before the burning bush, and listen to the still, quiet, but all powerful voice of God.
Having been raised an umpteenth generation Protestant of the Southern Baptist flavor— and a preacher at that, I remember having no clue what to expect on my first visit to Gethsemane. Would I have to wear one of those long robes and don a pair of sandals? Upon the suggestion of one of my colleagues at Campbellsville University, I had scheduled a four day retreat.
That was three years ago. I have learned that these Cistercian monks are very integrated people who simply, quite simply, operate in another realm where life revolves around prayer—seven times a day, beginning at 3:15 a.m. and not concluding until 7:30 p.m. —a slow reading of the Scriptures, called lectio divina, work, and leisure. And I, a man in love with his wife and four children, embraced that monastic vision. It’s affected more than my prayer life, too. St. Benedict encouraged work with hands. So, I took his advice and planted a garden. Thanks to St. Benedict, and the coaching of some good ol’ Southern Baptist farmers, I enjoy vegetables from my own backyard. St. Benedict considered work in God’s presence part of our prayer life, too.
For the last three weeks I had scheduled a long overdue personal day at my spiritual resting place, Gethsemane Abby. And every week that pick-up truck of the world kept careening into my plans, piling first one thing and then another into my life. That’s life, as we know it. It is like that. That’s why it’s essential for us to get to a place where life is not like we know it.
It felt right to get back into the monastic liturgy that day. And having prayed with the monks at 5:45 a.m. and through the day, I walked, and prayed, and prayed and walked, until I found myself on the other side of the road, where the truck had a bead on my soul, jerking me back into a reality I knew too well, that world of a Day-Timer filled with meetings to attend, deadlines to make, bills to pay, people to meet. And so, I ran, finding safety, at least momentarily, across the road, in the arms of God, there at Gethsemane.
Just a few hours later I was in my car, heading home. The radio was already on as I started the engine, tuned to a pre-programmed station, playing the The Black Eyed Peas, “Let’s Get it Started in Here.” Smiling to myself, I turned it off, having the distinct impression that the monks already had it going on.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidwhitlock.org. His website is www.davidwhitlock.org.