Listening to Suffering

In the liturgical calendar, Christmas is followed immediately by the Feast of St. Stephen, whose martyrdom is recorded in Acts 6 and 7. In the midst of celebration, we are reminded that suffering is interwoven in the tapestry of our faith.

In the Christian West, we have all but lost the sacrament of suffering. To even suggest that suffering may have benefit is to invite scorn in most quarters. While it can be a laudable service, the alleviation of suffering is a tyrannical and merciless master.

The advance of euthanasia in the West is an stark example of this. In our efforts to minimize suffering, we instead seek — and increasingly impose — death. As we increasingly commodify our very bodies, there is increasing pressure and apologetic for aggressive organ harvesting in order to supply the demand of those awaiting donation.

All of this seeks to avoid the sacrament of suffering. Pain is unpleasant, but it often clarifies our vision and prunes our priorities. Intense pain makes it difficult to focus on much else, but lower-intensity chronic pain is wearying. In this weariness, the unrelenting constancy of chronic pain, we learn what it means to lay our burdens on our Lord. Pain prompts us to prayer — not invariably, but if we are already formed in the faith it ought to.

We can ignore even pleasure. But pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.

C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

Increasingly, we silence that megaphone by treating all pain as the enemy and warring against it with the tenacity that should be leveled against sin.

I still remember, in the aftermath and recovery from a ruptured appendix, lying in a surgeon’s office to have my wound repacked and reattached to a wound vac. I carried the portable vacuum pump with me for weeks to aid in pulling the hole in my side back together for proper healing and drainage. Having the adhesive dressing ripped from my skin and the foam packing similarly removed from my side twice every week was a spike in the low-grade pain of healing.

As I lay on the exam table, staring at the ceiling in the earth-toned room, I closed my eyes and prayed, “Jesus, don’t let this pain be wasted.” Though I didn’t know it at the time, it may have been one of the most profound prayers I have ever uttered. A decade later, I still reflect on those two months of my life. That experience — from the sickness to the pain of the rupture through the surgery and the long recovery — is a defining moment in my life.

Throughout most of the history of the church, suffering has been viewed as a means of sanctification. It is the uncontrolled version of asceticism — voluntary denial in order to increase attention to God. Suffering finds us; we do not have to seek it. It may be a headache or the discomfort of a long car or plane ride. Occasionally it is more intense, and eventually, it marks the way to death.

We are right to be cautious about intentionally seeking pain, but we should also be cautious in always viewing pain as an enemy. It can be God’s means of speaking to us.

Only

All love, all devotion, all commitments whatsoever involve asceticism. Whenever we embrace one thing, we cannot help but not embrace a multitude of others. Self-denial is the hallmark of commitment. Whether one is committed to learning to play the piano, running a 5K, or marriage, self-denial will be involved.

Self-denial has been touted as an abominable heresy by our modern culture (mostly by those who incite us to be consumers.) “To scandalize anyone today, it suffices to suggest to him that he renounce something.”¹ But we all seem to innately desire to show our allegiance to one by denying another.

It is the nature of love to bind itself, and the institution of marriage merely paid the average man the compliment of taking him at his word. Modern sages offer to the lover, with an ill-favoured grin, the largest liberties and the fullest irresponsibility; but they do not respect him as the old Church respected him; they do not write his oath upon the heavens, as the record of his highest moment. They give him every liberty except the liberty to sell his liberty, which is the only one that he wants.

G.K. Chesterton, “A Defence of Rash Vows” from The Defendant

While me may all agree that marriage is an exclusive relationship, and therefore has an ascetical demand to “forsake all others,” we seem to have more trouble with the First Commandment: “You shall have no other gods before me.” God commands exclusive rights to our affections and attentions, yet many seem to balk at any sort of spiritual discipline as some attempt at “works righteousness.” Why would I consider skipping a meal or television show to spend time with God? Am I trying to “buy” God’s favor?

Yet if I tell someone that instead of watching television, my wife and I take a walk together every night and talk, I can often see a hint of envy — after the initial shocked look wears off — especially if I am speaking to a female. I know of no greater way to communicate love than to set aside everything else for the beloved. Whether it is turning off the cell phone and giving total attention to someone I am counseling, or taking my wife on a short getaway, it says, “You are my priority and there is nothing more important than you right now.”

God certainly deserves such affection from us. The difference is that we do not often get tangible feedback from our Lord. I receive no hug or kiss if I take an afternoon to read and pray, but that does not mean it goes unnoticed.

Giving such devotion to God also shapes us. It affirms within us that we love God and desire to serve and please him. It is a discipline for us to grow in our affection and obedience. It is a way for us to bind ourselves to God.

Let not steadfast love and faithfulness forsake you;
bind them around your neck;
write them on the tablet of your heart.

Proverbs 3:3 (ESV)

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¹Dávila, Nicolás Gómez Escolios a un Texto Implícito: Selección, p. 392

Subversive

I may have genuinely scared someone. It came up in conversation the other day that I do not have a television and the look of shock on his face could not have been more if I told him I was a cannibal. It’s not something I broadcast much, but neither is it something I hide.

It started years ago, in varying degrees, and has been consistent for at least the last 12 years or so. Our early motivation was time. Television took away time that we could spend on other things, like playing with or reading to our kids. Watching television took away our kids’ time to do other things as well.

With distance comes perspective. Over the years, we realized that with no longer watching television, we were no longer being programed by it. Our ideas and attitudes were no longer being shaped by those who wished to exploit us for their own financial (and ideological) gain.

This same impulse now leads us to question our online world. We have reduced our social media consumption and we don’t use television alternatives such as Hulu or Netflix. The internet is better, and worse, than television. The wisdom of the ages and unfiltered depravity are both but a few keystrokes away.

I could not have put the words to it all those years ago, but it is a monastic impulse. A desire to restrict input in order to focus more on God. We only have so much time and attention to give. Just like the livestock of a farmer, our time is a limited commodity, and as the Scriptures teach us, the best of our flocks and fields should be dedicated to the Lord.

Those who look at monasticism as an escape from reality understand neither reality or monasticism. Those who pursue it as a retreat from the world are soon disappointed. Having to deal with the reality of your own sin without distractions is not for those seeking an easier experience.

I learned this lesson involuntarily the summer between high school and college. I had sin to deal with and decisions to make and I was working in a factory. Much of the time there was the din of the top-40 radio station to keep me from my thoughts, but often enough I was running one particular machine that was noisy enough to drown it out. It was boring to operate. Stack the pieces and wait while the machine welded them together.

Working on that machine was my first experience of sustained self-reflection. Alone and surrounded by the white noise of the machine, I had nothing but my thoughts. It was not easy. I had made many poor choices in high school and I knew the extent of my sin. My life was on the brink of significant change, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to take the leap.

In retrospect, it was a healing time for me. Not as much as it could have been if I had had some guidance on prayer for such times, but in his grace, God used it. By the end of the summer, I was ready for a new start. I had taken the time to consider where I had been and what I had done.

Such reflection does not occur in front of a screen. Even the pages of a book can be a hinderance. There is nothing magical about the printed page; there is as much garbage available there as on television. The one advantage of paper is that if your mind wanders off, the page waits and doesn’t try to pull you back in. There is no flicker, flash, and noise.

To live this way—switched off—in our culture is subversive. It goes against the prevailing modes of existence and challenges the assumptions of the mass. Seeking to follow God has always cut across the grain of society and power. May we embrace the call to be set apart.

You shall have no other gods before me.

Exodus 20:3 (ESV)

Knowing

How do you get to know someone? You spend time with them, you watch them, but more significantly, you interact with them. You talk to them, listen to them. You observe their reactions and actions to you and to the world around them.

How do you get to know about someone? You spend time reading about them. You watch them, read things they have written, examine things they have made. You might be able to observe how they interact with others.

What’s the difference? Relationship. To know someone, they must also know you. We can know about people who do not know us, but we cannot know someone who cannot know us. It does not have to be a peer relationship, but it seems there must be interaction in order to really know someone.

I know a fair amount about C.S. Lewis. I’ve been to the Eagle and Child, I know he preferred dip pens over fountain pens and abhorred typewriters, and I’ve read many of his books and books about him. But I don’t know him. In some manner, I don’t have the same knowledge as those who really knew him. I may know some things about him that his students never knew, but all of my knowledge is second hand.

Perhaps that is the key distinction. Knowing someone is primary source knowledge. Our perception isn’t mediated by a third party. Everything I have learned about Lewis has passed through another person, be it an editor, publisher, or writer. I lack any direct access.

With that in mind, let us consider whether we know or know about God. Do we have any direct interaction or does all of our knowledge come through someone else? Consider the Desert Fathers. Anthony and his spiritual descendants went into the desert to seek God. They did not chose the desert because there was a great library, church, or monastery there. Some of these things developed as by-products to their seeking, but they were not there to begin with. Many of the desert fathers seem to have had little access to the Scriptures. So how did they come to such knowledge of God?

Contrast them with others who have sought to know about God and had the assistance of scholars and priests, libraries and churches, and yet seem to have little, if any, relationship with God. What is the difference? There are certainly various motivations at work and trying to paint these two groups with broad brush strokes will miss that, but perhaps there are a few things I can offer as possibilities worth pondering.

The primary difference seems to be motivation. What is it we are seeking? Do we want to know God (and be known by him—if my definition above is correct, this is crucial) or do we want to know about God? If I am willing to know God, I am willing to take risks for the relationship. Studying about something is seldom risky. If I seek to know God, what if he makes demands of me? We see this happen when we read some of the “call stories” of the Desert Fathers (and other saints). They heard or read the Word, often just a small piece of it, and were moved to be obedient to it, often at significant personal cost.

If I seek to know about God, my motivation may be to have information to use for my own benefit. This is certainly a temptation for professional clergy. We need to have something to give to our benefactors if we wish to continue our employment. We are engaged in an exchange of information. Perhaps we should instead be engaged in an exchange of introductions?

To twist Thoreau’s famous introduction to Walden, maybe we need more mission statements for churches along these lines:

I went to church because I wished to meet God, to front only the essential facts of his life, and see if I could not learn what he had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not known him, or been known by him. I did not wish to know what was not him, he is so dear. I wanted to live deep and to throw myself at the mercy of God, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not him, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive distraction into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest level, so that I could focus on God, and seek his face, and gaze upon him as the angels do. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about him, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to live lives of liberty and the pursuit of their own happiness.

Tools for the Journey: Satisfaction

I am continuing to address the question, now with various means for personal devotion. You may find a list of all posts in this series here

Do not give your heart to that which does not satisfy your heart.

Abba Poemen¹

At first glance, this could be from any “positive quote” trinket or plaque, but to read it as such is to misunderstand the context and meaning behind it. The Desert Fathers were not into self-actualization in the sense embraced by Abraham Maslov or Joel Olsteen. They went into the desert to seek after God. They knew, and came to understand more deeply through their experiences, that the only thing that brings true and lasting satisfaction to our hearts is to “be holy as I am holy.”²

Everyone seeks to satisfy the desires of their heart. It is not a problem of not seeking after our desires, but of having desires that end up being less than satisfactory.

Indeed, if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by an offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.

C.S. Lewis³

We look to that which seems attainable, to that which is visible before us, in trying to satisfy our desires. But that is not the way of the saints, who “endured as seeing him who is invisible.”⁴ This does not come naturally, but requires growth and maturity in the faith. Part of this maturity comes by following the ascetic path laid down both in Scripture and in the early church. We have a difficult time conceiving that it is God who alone satisfies the desires of our hearts until we set aside everything else except seeking after him.

Too often the austere life of the Desert Fathers and other monastics is misinterpreted as a means of trying to impress God or somehow earn his favor. God is not impressed with our fasting; he is impressed with our undivided attention and affection. This is not without parallel in our human experience. When we choose to show respect and honor to another, we set aside everything else and give them our undivided attention. This focused attention is the point, not what was set aside. It doesn’t matter if I put down Calvin and Hobbes or The City of God in order to listen to my wife or children. What matters is the giving of myself completely in those moments as an expression of love.

So it is with God. Fasting, solitude, poverty, and all the rest are only a means to an end. They are only useful as they allow us to set aside food, company, wealth, and whatever else consumes our time and attention. The goal, the desired end state, is total focus upon God. That is the desire of our heart, for that is what it was created for. The more we are able to achieve and maintain such a focus, the more truly and deeply satisfied we will be.

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¹ Ward, Benedicta. The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: the Alphabetical Collection. Trappist, KY: Cistercian Publications, 1975. p. 178
² 1 Peter 1:16, Leviticus 19:2
³ from “The Weight of Glory”
⁴ Hebrews 11:27

Off the Grid and Anthony the Great

Living “off the grid” seems to be a growing movement and somewhat ironically, there are several websites dedicated to it. The degrees of isolation vary greatly, from completely self-sustaining to seeking after a simpler lifestyle, but the idea holds some attraction, whether it is turning our backs on the mess that is our modern society or merely a Thoreau-inspired desire to live deliberately.

As I read about the Desert Fathers and the early monastics, I wonder if there are any parallels with our current desire to retreat into the wilderness. When the first Desert Fathers wandered into the deserts of Egypt and Israel, the Roman Empire was still ruling most of the known world. Anthony the Great—the first Desert Father and the father of monasticism—and others were not fleeing barbarian invasions from the north. In fact, Anthony was contemporary with Constantine.

Yet few would argue that Rome at that time was a city shining on a hill in terms of virtue. The empire had been ruled by a series of totalitarian caesars for a few hundred years and Rome’s decadence was well-known and largely unopposed by most of society. We are not given clear evidence, though, that Anthony and the others were fleeing from a particular societal issue. Instead, they sought to flee from mankind in general. They wanted to minimize distraction and focus their energy on seeking God. They sought purity of heart through isolation, repentance, and asceticism.

The off-the-grid movement seems to seek its own purity through isolation and forms of asceticism as well. Many in this movement do not profess religious motivations, but hold up some sort of ideal they are seeking to be faithful to—family, health, economics, conspiracy, or any number of things.

One common thread between the two phenomena seems to be rejection of the prevailing prescribed path. These are all individuals who sought to strike out on their own in order to follow their vision. If a few others want to come along, so be it. The off-the-grid movement is a rejection of the idea that one has to be connected with all the latest technology and conveniences and with the costs associated with them. For the Desert Fathers, it was a rejection of everything unnecessary. These are similar, but there are differences; the core motivation being the most obvious.

Nobody would want Anthony the Great or most off-gridders as “neighbors” (excuse the incongruity). By society’s standards, they are weird, probably subversive, and possibly dangerous. They strike out on their own to find a new way of doing life, largely free of the considerations and prescriptions of mainstream society. The fact that anyone can do that is subversive and even threatening to some.

That both the Desert Fathers and the new off-gridders attract interest from so many others seems to indicate that they hit a nerve. This is something that interests more  and more. People want to see how it is possible and what the results are. Some want to see it to convince themselves they can’t do it, others to consider if they can.

If we are going to need modern hermits to preserve western civilization through a second dark age, then they need more books in their homes; they need community; and above all, they need religion. I don’t know where this is headed, but it is interesting to contemplate from the suburbs.

My Answer

Yesterday, I drew a line in the sand and it would not be right of me to leave it at that. Since I am a priest, by my own admission, I ought to be able to answer the question. Therefore, I’m going to spend the next several posts attempting to do just that.

In my scenario yesterday, we imagined someone walking up to me after service (or even coming to see me midweek) and saying, “All right, I really do want to be like Christ. You have convinced me that it is only as I walk with him and become really like him that I can know the fullness of life for which I was created. Now tell me precisely how to go about it.”

To really do that, it’s going to take some exploration of where the person is right now and where they have come from. To provide good direction, it is imperative to understand what kind of person we are dealing with, so my initial answer would be to set up a time to meet to talk with this person and explore these questions. Since I can’t do that with our hypothetical person, let’s look at some things I am likely to say based on most parishioners I know.

Spiritual growth is not just a list of things to do; neither is it just a list of things to stop doing. For the vast majority of people, it is both. I think most people expect to be told to do something to grow spiritually, so let’s start by focusing on things to stop doing for a moment. There are two kinds of things we must cease.

First, we must stop obvious, persistent, sinful behaviors. We cannot clutch our pet sins and expect to follow Christ. Most people do things they know they should not; I rarely meet people who are not educated beyond their obedience.

Second—the much more controversial piece of this and where I am about to lose a whole bunch of you—we must make room in our lives for following Christ. This means setting aside not just sin, but most things that do not directly help us in this endeavor.

What exactly do I have in mind?

Throw away your television (or equivalent) and all of your video games.

I can hear the gasps of horror, but the time you’re spending is ridiculous. There is really no other way to put it. None of it, not one single minute, challenges you to better follow Jesus. Let me explain.

In high school, for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to take sociology during summer school. I have not regretted that decision because Mr. Camponoli taught me two things that have stuck with me (which is saying something, since I can’t even remember the names of most of my high school teachers now.) He taught me that television exists for the sole purpose of making money. Networks make money by selling advertising and to sell advertising, they need you to watch their programs, which have constantly, slowly, become more and more sensational and less and less “moral.” Mr. Camponoli also taught me that advertisers and networks long ago figured out that if a program makes you discontent or fearful and they couple it with advertising that promises to cure your discontent if you only buy something, the advertisers sell more. TV is one giant marketing tool.

Cynical? Jaded? Unrealistic? Then why are companies lining up to drop $5,000,000 for a 30-second commercial during the Super Bowl? That doesn’t even account for the production cost of the ad. They aren’t doing it because it’s fun, but because they expect a return on investment. You are being conditioned to be a consumer.

Oh, yes, I also mentioned video games. According to a Nielsen report, the average American aged 13-up spends over 6 hours a week on video games and 64% of Americans play games on some device. Based on personal observation, I think both of these figures are low, though I could be wrong. Either way, this is another 6 hours per week doing nothing to motivate Christ-likeness and in many cases, it is instead conditioning you to kill, cheat, and steal.

I do not think dropping these two activities from your life will be easy since they are engineered to be addictive—if you don’t watch and play, the companies can’t sell ads or games. So why do I start with such a tough task? Why not just encourage you to pray a little more? Because the question was not about how to feel a little more spiritual, but how to really seek after Jesus. In some ways, this is the modern equivalent of Mark 10:17-22. I know many will turn away in sorrow because they are very into “their shows” and “their games.”

I would start with a tough task because I am not interested in giving direction to someone who has no interest in following it. If you don’t want to know the answer, don’t ask the question. How can I be sure this is good advice? You won’t find a TV in my house; I’m not asking you to go anywhere I have not gone myself.

If you’re an average American and you’ve just purged television and video games from your life, you have just received back 30 hours or more each week. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about some things to put into that time.

Needless

Becoming disentangled from the world is an ongoing struggle. We don’t appreciate how tightly the world has its tendrils around us until we start cutting them away. You’re looking at one of them, for me—the Lamy Safari fountain pen. It has award-winning design and rave reviews, consistently acclaimed as one of the best fountain pens under twenty dollars. I don’t have one.

I have a Pilot Metropolitan, which is also a great pen. I have no dissatisfaction with it. It was also under twenty dollars and it writes great. I wish I could blog with it but, alas, neither of these two pens count words. Because I have one fountain pen already, I cannot justify buying the other. After all, to paraphrase Jesus, “No man can write with two pens. Either he will use the one and ignore the other, or he will use the other and the ink will dry up inside the one.”

This has become an issue of spiritual significance for me. Not that fountain pens are a spiritual thing for me, though I do like writing with mine, a lot. No, it is an issue of curbing greed, of honestly evaluating purchases, though it would probably seem crazy to most people. “It’s only twenty bucks. If you want one, just buy it.” But, so far, I have resisted in spite of them being readily available in Germany. I can think of 4 stores where I could make the purchase within 10 minutes of my house. (Good stationery is something I will miss about Germany.)

Oddly enough, I have bought two of them as gifts for others. Jesus did say, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Neither of the recipients owned fountain pens, as far as I know. Now they do.

It’s truly startling how strongly we have been steeped in consumerism. I found myself earlier this week in a local store looking at travel mugs. Here again, I already have one. I have owned it for 13 years. The paint was so worn that a few years ago I took sandpaper to it so it just has a brushed metal finish now, plus a few dents and scratches. It was a gift from some friends and has been with me on three different continents. It still works—it doesn’t leak and it keeps my coffee warm—so after a few minutes in the travel cup aisle, I moved on, empty-handed.

I like to think this is progress and I suppose it is, though it seems like I ought to not even think about buying anything until I need it. I try to be fairly simple and not need too much, though I am far from a minimalist. I have a garage filled with tools and I have more clothes than I need, but I’m learning to resist the greed-monster that is fueled by commercial media. At least I recognize the horrid thing when I see it creeping up on me.

Disentangled

The Apostle John teaches us much about not being “of the world” in his Gospel and Epistles.

Do not love the world or the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world—the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and pride of life—is not from the Father but is from the world.

1 John 2:15-16 (ESV)

Pretty clear and stark words; we either love God or we love the world. To the proportion we love one, we exclude the other. This becomes obvious as he delineates what the world contains: the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and pride of life. Serving our flesh and our eyes easily leads to adultery, gluttony, and sloth. The pride of life fuels greed, wrath, envy, and pride. All seven deadly sins are encouraged by the world.

Thomas Merton echoes this sentiment.

You will never find interior solitude unless you make some conscious effort to deliver yourself from the desires and cares and the attachments of an existence in time and in the world.

Do everything you can to avoid the noise and business of men. Keep as far away as you can from the places where they gather to cheat and insult one another, to exploit one another, to laugh at one another, or to mock one another with their false gestures of friendship. Be glad if you can keep beyond the reach of their radios. Do not bother with their unearthly songs. Do not read their advertisements.

New Seeds of Contemplation

To sever ourselves from the drone of the world is to allow the Spirit to cleanse us, but it takes time to detox from the greed and fear that are mercilessly thrust on us in unending torrents. We don’t realize the degree to which we are immersed in them until, after a time apart, we come in contact with them again. We have been TV-free in our house for over a decade, so to be subjected to CNN (or Fox) in a clinic waiting room now is to be reminded of this greed and fear.

Once we start to disentangle from the world, we become more aware of other bits that are trying to entrap and snare us. As we become more in tune to the Spirit, we become more sensitive to the lies of the world. The Spirit helps us see them for what they are.

Perhaps the most startling passage by John in terms of the world is found in Jesus’ final prayer before his betrayal.

I am praying for them. I am not praying for the world but for those whom you have given me, for they are yours. All mine are yours, and yours are mine, and I am glorified in them. And I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, keep them in your name, which you have given me, that they may be one, even as we are one. While I was with them, I kept them in your name, which you have given me. I have guarded them, and not one of them has been lost except the son of destruction, that the Scripture might be fulfilled. But now I am coming to you, and these things I speak in the world, that they may have my joy fulfilled in themselves. I have given them your word, and the world has hated them because they are not of the world, just as I am not of the world. I do not ask that you take them out of the world, but that you keep them from the evil one. They are not of the world, just as I am not of the world.

John 17:9-16 (ESV, emphasis added)

Jesus is not praying for the world, at least not at this point. Why would we ever want to place ourselves in a position to be outside of his prayer? May we bear the scorn of the world because we reject its lies, for if they reject us for the truth, they are treating us as they did Jesus. May we seek Jesus with such earnestness that we become not of this world, joining in this aspect of Christ-likeness.

Staying Put

Some monks take a vow of stability—to stay put—along with vows of chastity and poverty. From that standpoint, not moving must be a sort of privation, the curbing of an appetite. It would free up time spent planning, packing, unpacking, and arranging and it would challenge the desire for wanderlust and novelty. It would even change the dynamics of contentment.

Monastic vows vary between different orders, but many include stability and poverty. The binding of these two is an interesting combination, because they seem somewhat at odds. Someone who is “on the move” tends to have a limited amount of stuff. By contrast, someone who never moves can accumulate goods.

A monk must battle against a quest for novelty by staying in one place. He must also battle against the accumulation of material goods. He is in the unusual position of being able to maintain a storehouse and yet is charged with keeping it empty.

Perhaps that is the wisdom of the vows—to have space to be filled and to leave it open for God to fill, not with material things but with spiritual. To be free from distraction. To be intentionally blank. To be free from the burden of movement and the burden of ownership.

“By making a vow of stability the monk renounces the vain hope of wandering off to find a ‘perfect monastery.’ This implies a deep act of faith: the recognition that it does not much matter where we are or whom we live with, provided we can devote ourselves to prayer, enjoy a certain amount of silence, poverty, and solitude, work with our hands, read and study the things of God, and above all love one another as Christ has loved us.”

Thomas Merton+, The Sign of Jonas, p. 10

Stability is the opposite of flitting, and growth comes through stability. Oak trees are bigger than tumbleweeds. Physical stability is not possible for all of us, but spiritual stability is. Think about what it means to be a Christian. It means to worship the same God all of our lives. It means to turn to the Bible as his written revelation. A Christian is someone who spends the rest of his life reading the same book over and over and over again.

Novelty is not virtue, especially in matters of religion. We are the clay, God is the potter. The clay has to stay in the mold until it hardens. God’s command to the Israelites to keep the Sabbath, to sit still and trust God for a day, is a command against flitting. It is a counter to novelty.

The Daily Offices of the church—Morning and Evening Prayer—have very little variety within them. The Bible Lessons change and the Collect of the Day changes, but not much else. For someone new to them, they start with novelty, but over time, the novelty erodes. We are left with a stable method of daily approaching God, daily confessing our sins, daily offering our petitions and thanksgivings. In this we can practice stability, even if we are on the move physically.