Disclaimers of A Guilty Bystander: Please Start Here

Matthew Kelty was a monk of Gethsemani.  His monstery, tucked in Kentucky knob country, was the house that founded Mepkin.  Before I became a monk, I would often retreat at Gethsemani.  Every night, just after compline, retreatants would file into a “guest chapel” to hear Fr. Matthew’s talks. 

Matthew passed away in 2011, a year before I left Mepkin.  I don’t want to claim to know what his mind would have been, nor do I want to speak for the men of Gethsemani or Mepkin, whom I would have formerly called brothers.  I want to speak for myself.  Here it is: this blog will mix the sacred and the profane in ways found “in the world,” but none too often in the church.  I bring up Matthew because he said something once that provided strong guidance for how this blog does that, and why.

He said it during one of his famous talks.  I was a retreatant then, unaware of the nuances of what he was saying.  They'd hit home only after I took the habit.  He was talking about the Psalms, about a debate that, I’d eventually learn, was very alive in monastic communities.  To paraphrase:

“Sometimes,” he said “people don’t like the cursing psalms.” He was referring to psalms like 58, which ask God, by turns, to break the teeth of the wicked, and to make them like stillborn children who never see the sun.  Matthew continued: “People don’t like these psalms because they think they’re unchristian.  Well, if we do not descend with Christ into our rage, part of us will remain unchristian too.”  

Inside me, those words lodged deep.  Later, when I joined Mepkin, I noticed that the books from which we read the psalms had lines in the leftmost margin.  I learned quickly: the lines denoted bits of “cursing psalms” that the community would skip in its liturgical prayer.  I knew there would be parts of the community’s life I disagreed with, and despite seeing this as a grievous omission, took further steps toward entering.

Brother Lawrence of Gethsemani was in simple vows with me—that is, year long periods of professed obedience, commitment to our respective monasteries, and conversion.  Among other things, that meant we’d meet at yearly gatherings of all the Trappists'  “simply professed” monks and nuns—the long walks we took during these days were not only therapeutic, they were the nearest the monastic life approached to outright fun. Lawrence was an important friend when I initially identified as an addict.  His empathy gave me permission, and made me feel safe.

Junior conferences were a great opportunity to glean wisdom from North America’s other young monastics.  For one thing, they were a buffet of good natured self-deprecation.  I still remember Sister Myra of Dubuque saying “What I love about me is how impressed I am with myself when I finally, and for the first time, see a personal shortcoming that’s been clear to my sisters since I entered.”  The comment made monks guffaw and set nuns to giggling.  The real gold was the solid wisdom about the human condition.  Here I should quote Lawrence again.  He said “Anger can be an important emotion.  It can help to re-establish a limit that’s been lost.”  

Back home at Mepkin, these words became actionable.  I took on every job I was asked.  Eventually I had key roles in the Palliative Care of Seniors, our Hydroponic Microgreen Farm, our Mushroom Farm and the 7 times a day we did Liturgy.  With the regrettable brashness of youth, I was quick to notice that I had much responsibility, but little authority.  I was quick to notice that those who set the agenda for early prayer at Vigils, too often, slept through it.  Also typical of youth, my protestations went unheeded.  Again and again, I tried to channel my anger well.

I must have been on to something though.  By and by, I began to burn out.  In my prayer life, when I’d read about Peter fleeing the crucifixion, deserting the whole enterprise and returning to his boats, I’d be envious.  When I’d read about Christ flipping tables and driving sheep from the temple, I’d empathize.  Peter, in the aftermath of Judas’ betrayal, was praying a cursing psalm as his eyes fell on the line “May his days be few.”  It was most likely his simple willingness to be angry that opened his heart to the next line: “May another take his position.”  I didn’t know this to be true, but in the story, Peter picked Matthias to be Judas’ successor shortly thereafter.  It certainly stood to reason.  If my life was a bible page, though, when I would confess similar negative emotions to my abbot, he made it clear that, if there was space for such emotion in the monastic life, that space was not his office.  His reactions would effectively draw lines to the left of the uncomfortable bits.

When I tell people about the moment I decided to leave the monastery, I tell them, too, that “Fuck it” is the deepest prayer I’ve ever uttered.  That is, in part, because it uncorked the repressed force of 7 emotional years.  It is also because I wanted to create a space for negative feelings whose absence from my community left me emotionally claustrophobic.  There is a Zen saying: “Quit trying.  Quit trying not to try.  Quit quitting.”  Against trying too hard, against my own sluggishness, and against the desire to give up, my first weapon (for better or worse) has been swearing.  

So I swear in this Churchey blog.  The off-color words I use aren’t my most eloquent, by any stretch.  But they’re often the ones that get me off my sad, pasty-white ass the quickest.  So there it is.  If I’ve given offense, I apologize.  If nothing else, those offending impulses are the depths into which I’ve yet to plumb.  If, by saying the words, I can search those depths—and if, by searching, find Christ again, I’ll not, for a moment, regret it.