It’s the only thing I’d change about this monastic experience: 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, one sport coat, 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: no, 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 one 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. The contrast between my needs in the real world and in here may be the start of my spiritual growth. When I left for this trip my wife warned me I was bringing too much. Maybe I should listen.

Oh, and one more thing I’d change: electrical outlets. I’ve got recharging cords for my IPad, cell phone, digital camera and laptop and there is one outlet in my “cell,” as they call it. Half of that outlet is dedicated to the one lamp in my cell with a 25 watt bulb. So, that’s another thing: a couple of lamps with three-way bulbs might be nice for God’s sake. And just a comment on heating systems: what’s with a 6’ x 9’ cell with a radiator that produces enough heat for the Vatican? In an 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, I open the window before bed so I won’t roast like the turkey in “A Christmas Story,” only to discover that the Monastery gremlins turn off the radiators after 10:00 PM – 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 listen.  

Of course I never expected a private bath while on silent retreat at a Jesuit monastery and I’m not surprised I have to walk down the hall to the community bathroom, albeit a little like camp, which brings a whole other set of frightening memories. But this setup does raise questions about community values regarding privacy and hospitality. Once in this public bathroom I find that at least the space 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 that these were apparently chosen by the cleaning lady. The miniature pink and yellow flowers with the doily-like trim is something out of a Philadelphia 5 & 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 might be helpful. To suggest that there is no link between celibacy and erratic sexual behavior would just be funny if it weren’t so tragic. I can think of no benefit of celibacy for any human being. I’ve heard the arguments that it allows for focus, dedication and sacrifice in the best sense. I don’t think so. If anyone thinks not getting laid EVER creates focus on anything BUT getting laid they’re out of their minds! Celibacy was gradually implemented in the Roman Church starting in the early 4th century and didn’t actually become widespread until the Middle Ages. It was introduced to honor a tradition of celibacy among holy men going back well before the time of Jesus, to create an image of “priest” in the image of Jesus who was purported to be celibate (I doubt it) and to create a land grab so that heirs of priests could no longer inherit land - instead moving ownership of all property to the church. The good news might be this: celibacy is not very widespread within the Roman Church today and frankly probably never was. Consider this. The Abbot of this Monastery where I am spending my ten day silent retreat also serves as my Spiritual Director for the retreat. I meet with him every morning for 45 minutes and then go off to 23 hours of silence. When I confess to him that I had just been forced to resign as Rector of a parish in part because of my efforts to educate the parish on human sexuality, the Abbot laughs. I am not amused by his reaction. He apologizes and then explains. He offers that in his 45 years of ordained ministry he has been the senior clerical officer in three monasteries. “In this current facility,” he explains, “we have 439 priests in residence occupying two dormitories. One of those facilities houses roughly 300 men - none of whom are celibate. They are out gay men - out to each other at least. The other dormitory houses the remaining 140 men who are trying to honor their vows of celibacy. In none of the communities I have served were the percentages any different. In my estimation, roughly 70% of the ordained men in the Roman Church are gay and actively engaged in sexual relations. And think about it. If you were a gay man with intellectual gifts and spiritual curiosities - where else could you be fed, educated, nourished and loved in a safe environment in the United States as effectively as in a community of like-minded men in the Church? We have been and remain a magnet for gay men. However our numbers are shrinking for many reasons not least of which is that it is less and less risky for a gay man to be out in our culture today. So the Church is no longer one of the only places to seek safety and support. Sadly however, given the secretive environment we have built around the subject of sex, we have unwittingly also created a safe place for pedophiles. And we - the Church - have been utterly negligent in dealing with that disorder.”  

So with all that, you would think that the church might – just might – want to re-think their mandate of celibacy for clergy, if the church really does care about justice, mercy, ethics, and morality. 

Back to the bathroom. Once past the flowered shower curtain one steps into one of the few private spaces in this institution. The occupant is greeted by rubber mats draped over the shower stall and a sign that is taped near a soap dispenser that reads exactly as follows:

Body Spa 

Hair & Body Shampoo

Apply the shampoo to a wet washcloth 

or directly onto the palm of your hand.

Gently wash and notice the rich creamy lather that is produced. 

Rinse thoroughly.

I promise you this is what it says – word for word, because I walked back down the hall and into the shower room with my notebook to get it right. Yes the other guy in the room gave me a funny look when he saw me transcribing it. Now if those instructions don’t sound like a roadmap for, as Dr. Ruth puts it, ‘pleasuring oneself,’ I don’t know what else they could be, especially since trying this magic potion on my own body and after soaking, rubbing, and damned near emptying the quart-sized container of Body Spa, I got one bubble. One. 

And this silence.. it’s 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! These people just look sad for Christ’s sake. They won’t even make eye contact. I am 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 to try 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 three folding chairs, a kneeler and a heavy oak railing. The prayer balcony is 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’s 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 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, surely ending in death. In this blissful state of God’s company, I begin my meditation. I’m supposed to read the passage from Luke that suggests 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 IPad only for light 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 bastard now! Oh, my meditation. Where was I? Yes, Luke 11:1-13. Lets’ see – if I tilt the IPad this way I can just make out the words in my Bible – I think. 

“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 peek…” No. “to pray.”

Oh God this lighting is awful – and 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 really don’t need the light for those words. I’ve read them a thousand times. They do carry meaning for me and so I turn off my IPad, 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 and as I do an image comes to mind out of nowhere. As clearly as any mental picture I have ever received. It’s Little Richard giving 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.

I don’t think I’m trying hard enough. Set all the support gear down and just kneel. Just kneel in silence. With eyes closed for a while. I do. My mind is racing. Determined to be still for another ten minutes, I stop, focus on my breathing and in a few short minutes a stillness begins to take hold. With a step towards serenity, 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 probably 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 – over the altar - at eye level with me - near the ceiling – the only lighted feature in the chapel. Jesus’ 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 Jesus' garments and leaders of the synagogue leaving the scene with fear in their eyes. (Anti-Semitism remains alive in the church.) 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 narrow and tight oval about the same size as the cross itself. 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 maybe returning has squiggly lines in dark brown tile around the entire orifice that look exactly like … pubic hair. Maybe they are supposed to be rays of divine power or something but I’m looking at a near perfect vagina – a nice hairy one at that – that is either giving birth to the crucified Christ or calling him home. It is startling. It is so distinct, it must be intentional – but I have never seen an icon of a vagina, let alone paired with the crucifixion. I can’t take my eyes off it. I am Mesmerized. I am in a state of spiritual awe, struck silent. “Be still and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)

I decide to ask my spiritual director the history of this icon the next day. 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 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 know the breadth and reach of this sacred art. 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.” “Oh well. I’m glad it spoke to you.” “Ah yes. That it did, Father. That it did.”