Is what you have to say still relevant to me today? You, a monk secluded in the comforts of a monastery during a time of chaos and crumbling empire. As I read your words of centuries past, I am disturbed at the level of intensity by which you encourage me to disregard and retreat from the world around me. Has not Christ called me to engage the world? Had Jesus not incarnated himself amongst us to serve, connect, heal, and empower? Can such things be done within the walls of spiritual retreat?
I have long thought of myself as a person of compassion, a servant seeking to love all in the same spirit of Christ. I imagined myself compassionate, considerate, and humble to the needs of friends, family, and broken.
But in recent days, I have been challenged.
Those closest to me have proposed that my desires to serve all around me are but expressions of codependent brokenness. From my perception, they were good deeds done to express love and joy. To my loved ones, they were acts done to seek the approval of others, to meet the demands of a shamed and insecure soul. I cannot manage to speak what I feel, only what I see desired to be heard. Speaking for my loved ones so that they will continue to love me. Had I made my relationships an idol? Truly I ask, where are my efforts directed? And for what cause are they acted upon?
Suddenly, the ancient monk's words begin to echo in my heart. "Do not open your heart to every person, but discuss your affairs with one who is wise and who fears God... We ought to have charity for all people, but familiarity with all is not expedient," you say in your first book, the eighth chapter. Indeed, I have reached out to more people than I ought. I've extended myself in a web of friendships and relationships I but claim as friendships, even if they are but connected by thin threads of shared memories and ideals.
Why? Why am I so dependent on the company I keep to maintain an image of self as credible, loved, and valuable? Mother must commend me. Brothers must approve of me. Old lovers and childhood friends must always remember me.
"We should enjoy much peace if we did not concern ourselves with what others say and do, for these are no concern of ours. How can a man who meddles in affairs not his own, who seek strange distractions, and who is little or seldom inwardly recollected, live long in peace?" you ask in the 11th chapter of your first book.
I confess, I have meddled, and am often tempted to continue meddling in the relationships of my life as a means of securing an allusive grace. I am seeking the wrong sources. "If we let our progress in religious life depend on the observances of its externals alone, our devotion will quickly come to an end." (Book I, Ch 11) Then let me stop seeking the externals, the praise and grace of my audience of a hundred loved ones. It is not real love without Christ. Let me
Perhaps there is a time for monastic work to be done after all. Especially in this age of modernity that attacks the senses ceaselessly. Is there a quiet space to be found anywhere? Can you not make one for yourself, through the discipline so often spoken of in the text, in the chamber of the heart? Quiet your life and let peace flow in you from a pouring of the Spirit instead of seeking it in the externals of your life. Take time for yourself, and spend it well with the one who has called you
"Beloved."
Christ calls us to love our neighbors as ourselves.
.. . as ourselves.
Do I love myself as Christ loves me?
Or do I refuse it, seeking validation beyond the one who has eternally embraced me already?
Where is the care for my own soul?
"Where are your thoughts when they are not upon yourself? And after attending to various things, what have you gained if you have neglected self? If you wish to have true peace of mind and unity of purpose, you must cast all else aside and keep only yourself before your eyes." (Book II, Ch 5)
After all, Christ has died for me, and redeemed me. I am beloved in His sight. What else do I need?
Indeed, there is a time for retreat and the renewing of self.
Words of saints, centuries old, written in lonely cells of distant monasteries, still speak today.
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