Closets, Monasteries, and Genitalia
The
only thing I’d change about this monastic experience is the closet space. I
just don’t know how to fit one coat, six pair of shoes, five sweaters, eleven
sport shirts, six pair of slacks, a sportcoat, four belts, nine pair of
underwear, seven pair of socks, a jewelry box, two pair of glasses, and two
empty suitcases into an armoire from the turn of the century – the previous
one. It’s a nice armoire – oak I’d
say - with one hinge missing – squeaky doors – very authentic, but with a
hanging bar that comes straight at you, four shallow shelves, and a nail on the
inside of the door. It just doesn’t provide enough space for “retreat
essentials.” I don’t know why I’ve packed so much. I’m only here for ten days
and it is a monastery. Perhaps the contrast between my perceived needs in the
real world and in this monastery may be the start of my spiritual growth.
Oh, and one more thing I’d change: electrical outlets. I’ve got recharging cords for my Palm Pilot, cell phone, digital camera, and laptop, and there is one outlet in my “cell,” as they call it, and half of it is powering up my lamp with all of its 25 watts. So that’s another thing I guess I’d change: a lamp or two with bulbs that might be … maybe like 60 watts?
And just a comment on heating systems: I realize I may be hypersensitive on this subject given my recent experiences at an historic church in Virginia whose failed heating and air conditioning system was among the issues that led to my departure as the Rector of that community – BUT – what’s with a 6’ x 9’ cell with a radiator that produces enough heat to warm the Vatican? In my effort to control the heat by using the little metal handle as instructed in the room’s orientation pamphlet, I’ve lost all traces of fingerprints from both index fingers and thumbs. Then trying to compensate for way too much heat, I open the window before bed so I won’t roast like the turkey in “A Christmas Story,” only to discover that the dormitory’s heating system is programmed to shut off after 10:00PM – completely off. I wake up with no feeling in my feet and nipples like the mannequins at Fredericks of Hollywood. My colleague priests warned me this kind of retreat isn’t for me. Maybe I should have listened.
Now I never expected a private bath while on silent retreat at a Jesuit monastery, and so walking down the hall to the community bathroom, albeit a little like camp (which brings a whole other set of frightening memories), is not a surprise, although it does raise questions about community values regarding privacy and hospitality. Once in this public space, I must admit the bathroom is clean – old fixtures – but clean. Now, I know guys aren’t supposed to notice things like shower curtains, but I can’t help but notice these that were apparently chosen by the cleaning lady. The miniature pink and yellow flowers with the doily-like trim, is something out of a Philadelphia five & dime from 1956. A little updated touch might be nice: something masculine since only men live here, or perhaps something a little light-hearted that might reflect the time-honored mores of monastic life: perhaps a clear plastic shower curtain with cartoon images of Reverend Lovejoy having his way with Homer Simpson. A little honesty couldn’t hurt. To suggest that there is no link between celibacy and erratic behavior emerging from a culture of sexual repression would just be funny, if it weren’t so tragic. Now there may be benefits of a celibate life for some, in terms of focus, dedication, and even sacrifice in the best sense – but when weighed against the facts that few are called to celibacy and fewer are chosen to honor that demanding life; and the magnet that a house of horny men must be to homosexually oriented males; and the centuries of molestation among clerics themselves, let alone the thousands upon thousands of examples of child molestation - you would think that the church might – just might – want to re-think the mandate of celibacy for clergy! I mean if the church really does care about justice, mercy, ethics, and morality – wouldn’t this be a good place to start?
Back to the bathroom. Once past the flowered shower curtain I step into one of the few private spaces in the institution. I am greeted by rubber mats draped over the shower stall and a sign that is taped near a soap dispenser. It reads exactly as follows:
Body
Spa
Hair
& Body Shampoo
Gently wash and notice the rich creamy
lather that is produced. Rinse thoroughly.
Instead of a sign giving instructions on how to whack off, which I suspect is one of the subjects requiring the least amount of tutelage, the institution ought to have signs giving instructions for basic bathroom etiquette. I mean is it really necessary to blow your nose in the shower – or grunt while you’re taking a crap as if you’ve just dead-lifted 600lbs? And how about flushing the toilet while you’re waiting for that final turd to pass? It might help to lighten the dark cloud ascending from your stall! It is not the cloud of mystery. Believe me. Your shit DOES stink.
And this silence is making me nuts! I understand the wisdom of listening for God’s voice – for insight that might be available given the distraction of all the normal “noise” in our lives, but you know a simple, “Good morning,” from your fellow retreatants wouldn’t kill anyone. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Everyone just looks sad for Christ’s sake. They won’t even make eye contact. I’m enjoying engaging everyone with a big bold and extra loud “Good evening,” or “Great London Broil, huh?,” as we chew and chew and chew and chew this stuff that they claim was once part of a cow. God knows what part! Another Divine Mystery, I suppose. And speaking of Divine Mysteries, my spiritual director has suggested taking time to contemplate several of these speculative assertions that some clever 4th century group of guys came up with trying to explain stuff we probably shouldn’t bother trying to explain. So attempting – once again – this quaint idea of obedience to my spiritual superior, I sit in the softly lit chapel of this Jesuit Monastery and attempt to contemplate some of God’s mysterious revelations.
I choose a spot that’s been commended in one of the many handouts provided at registration. The space is described as “the prayer balcony.” It’s accessed through a door off the third floor hallway and is as the name suggests, a small balcony with a few folding chairs, a kneeler, and a heavy oak railing positioned at the rear end of the chapel very near the ceiling of this three story worship space, about 30 feet above the nave floor. My first occasion to venture onto this prayer perch is my 2nd evening here. It is pitch dark. A lamp in the hallway is all the light I’ll get with its raging 15-watt bulb. Once I feel my way onto this four-foot wide ledge – I’m relieved to see that they’ve left on a few lights over the altar that illumine a mosaic depicting the crucifixion. I muster the courage to kneel. I say courage because I have a terrible fear of heights and all that separates me from certain death is the heavy oak railing and the 2nd level balcony a mere 20 feet below – although it’s only a little deeper than my balcony and it occurs to me that I would probably just bounce from it onto the floor below on the way down.
In this blissful state of God’s company, I begin my meditation. I’m supposed to read the passage from Luke which suggests that if we knock the door will be opened, ask and we shall receive, etc. I’d like to oblige but there’s not enough light to read the Bible that I’m carrying and so I open my Palm Pilot for a little extra light only to discover that there’s a partially played game of Monopoly that appears. Completely distracted by the fact that I now have an opportunity to outsmart the machine and get B&O Railroad and St. James Place in one cleverly designed trade – by simply offering Water Works and Baltic Place to the computerized player who always falls for this tactic, I can’t resist and do the trade. Bingo! I now have all 4 railroads and the orange monopoly. I’ll get the bastards now!
Oh, my meditation. Where was I? Yes, Luke 11:1-13. Lets’ see – if I tilt the Palm this way I can just make out the words – sort of….
“He was peeing in a certain place.” No that can’t be right. Oh, “He was praying in a certain place, and after he had finished, one of his decisions said to him.” No. “… disciples said to him, ‘Load teach us…” No, “’Lord teach us to pee…” No. “to pray.”
Oh God this lighting is awful – and oh shit, the computer player just got Boardwalk. All right. Ignore the game and read on. I struggle on to the part I know so well – that passage that can also be found in Matthew’s gospel that says, “Ask and it will be given you; search and you will find; knock and the door will be opened for you.” I don’t need the light for those words. I’ve read them a thousand times. They docarry meaning for me and so I turn off my Palm Pilot, close my bible and say the words that have nourished me many times before. As I complete the sentence in silent reflection, “knock and the door will be opened,” I recall the gentle guidance of my spiritual director who suggested that asking for God’s Grace always yields a Divine response – in God’s time – in God’s way – but a response nonetheless. I repeat the last phrase as a centering prayer, “knock and the door will be opened, knock and the door will be opened, knock and the door will be opened…” and as I do an image comes to mind out of nowhere. As clear as any mental picture I have ever “received” is one of Little Richard giving me a knowing smile and then shrieking,
I hear you knockin’ but you
can’t come in;
I hear you knockin’ but you
can’t come in;
I hear you knockin’ but you
can’t come in;
Come back tomorrow night and try me again.
Maybe I’m not trying hard enough. I put my notes away. I stash my Palm Pilot. I set down my Bible (with the size 9 font) and just kneel. I kneel in silence. My eyes are closed. My mind is racing. I begin to let go. I begin to relax “in the comfort of God’s Spirit.” I begin to experience the stillness for which I have ached these past several months of challenge. Minutes pass. I don’t know how many. I am unaware of me in the normal sense and instead in that place of connectedness where self and ‘the other” are in momentary harmony. In this state that is far less familiar to me than it should be for this priest, I take a moment to feel that gratitude that we should all know – throughout our lives. Momentary serenity. Sacred stillness. The awesome silence – filled with the possibilities of life.
I open my eyes only to realize that I’m rocking gently back and forth with a precarious lean towards the edge of the balcony. Even though the railing would hold me, I’m sufficiently startled that I need to sit back in my folding chair – a safe 14 inches from the railing. As I do my eyes are drawn to the mosaic of the crucifixion – at eye level with me near the ceiling – the only lighted feature in the chapel. It is a stunning work of art. Surprising in its details – details that escaped my attention until this sacred moment.
Christ’s eyes are closed. He is dead. The two thieves are on either side. One is slumped down, quite dead. The other, although dead, seems to be more secure on his cross – somewhat taller, if you will, and has a golden halo. He must be the one who asked Jesus to remember him when he came into his kingdom. There’s a woman with no halo holding her face in her hands, obviously distraught at her loss. Mary is present (with halo) and she has two companions with her both with halos, presumably John and perhaps Martha. There are Roman soldiers dividing up Christ’s garments and leaders of the synagogue leaving the scene with fear in their eyes. (Anti-Semitism remains one of Christianity’s anchors.)
And then there’s the figure of Jesus. Great abs! I’m sorry but this figure could do a Bowflex commercial – well, if he weren’t dead. But the really striking feature to this mosaic is the background. Behind the crucified Jesus is black tile shaped like a huge oval just large enough to hold the cross inside it. The black center of this oval is outlined in a row of red tiles and this whole orifice-like backdrop from which it seems the cross is emerging (or returning) has squiggly lines in dark brown tile that look exactly like pubic hair. Maybe they are supposed to be rays of divine power or something but they look like a pretty near perfect vagina – a nice hairy one at that – that is either giving birth to the crucified Christ or calling him home. It is simply startling. It is so distinct, it must be intentional – but I have never seen an icon of female genitalia – not in a church anyway, let alone paired with the crucifixion of Jesus. I can’t take my eyes off it. There’s something true about it all… I just can’t figure out what, exactly. But the fact that it’s unintentional…. or is it?
The next day in my regular meeting with the Abbot of the monastery, who is serving as my Spiritual Director, I decide to ask him about the history of this icon. As he describes it I can hear his affection – his sense of wonder that has been kindled in its presence. As I listen I contrast secretly his experience with mine. I want to share my contemplative journey with him. I want him to know what his chapel art has the power to evoke. I want him to take it all less seriously. I want him to see what I’ve seen. And just before I speak he adds, “And my father donated that mosaic to the monastery in memory of my mother. Why did you ask about it?” “Oh, just curious,” I reply. “It was evocative for me. That’s all,” to which my spiritual superior offers, “It is central to our community life here in the monastery. I’m so glad it spoke to you.“
“Ah yes, that it did, Father. That it did.”