a surrender - 15

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter three)

 

into the wilderness

At first, I didn’t tell anyone what I had in mind. I just told them that I was going on a long hike, for a month or so, on the Appalachian Trail. It sounded reasonable. A good way to clear my head after leaving the seminary, and lots of time to think about what to do next. But in the back of my mind there was an idea stirring, a tiny thought, that maybe after my long hike I could just keep going.

The Appalachian Trail runs for more than two thousand miles along the ridge of the Appalachian Mountains. I wasn’t planning to hike that far, though. I had found a monastery near the trail, about a six week walk from the southern end. When I got there I could take a retreat for a week or so. By then I might know what to do next. The trail mostly keeps to the wooded wilderness of the mountains, though it crosses roads occasionally, and there are large, three-sided shelters every fifteen miles or so. There are springs along the way to get water, though the water has to be purified to be safe to drink. The trail is clearly marked. And there are maps and guide books that provide all the necessary information for hikers, including the locations of towns not far from the trail, where food and supplies can be purchased. So I bought a map and guidebook, to go with my small tent and sleeping bag, large backpack and good hiking boots. I was well prepared.

That is, my pack was prepared; it took my body a while to get there. I enjoyed the quiet hours of walking in the woods. But my pack was too heavy and there was a lot of climbing and my knees grew sore. It was carrying the pack down the long switchbacks that was hardest on the knees. People walking long distance on the trail often went by nicknames, trail names. I chose “Monk’s Knees” because my knees felt like I had spent too many hours kneeling in prayer. Even though I wasn’t hiking during the busiest time of the year, I met people on the trail every day, and often walked for a few days with one or two of them before we lost each other. The shelters were usually crowded at night, so I avoided them. They often had mice in them as well. I slept in my little tent. For simplicity, I had planned to eat only cold food. But I was surprised how much cooler it was at the higher elevation. So, after several days struggling to get moving in the chilly mornings, I bought a tiny cooking apparatus that could boil one cup of water with a fuel cube. After that I had hot cocoa each morning at breakfast, or oatmeal, and sometimes soup for lunch. And eventually, the hours of walking didn’t wear me out as much. I felt my body growing stronger.

Continued...

a surrender - 14

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter two, "the power of the people and the power of God")

All of these seemed to me good reasons for Jesus to avoid this kind of power. He seemed to be focused on clearly speaking the truth, not worrying about pleasing his supporters. And he wasn’t trying to get their money. So Jesus didn’t have wealth or political power, he didn’t have “the power of the people.” But he seemed to have power. He spoke with great wisdom and was known as an amazing healer, he had a powerful effect on people who met him, and religious and government leaders were afraid of him. It was becoming clear to me, though, that Jesus’ power was different. It didn’t seem to come from people. It came from God. His power didn’t require compromising the truth, it couldn’t be used for evil, and it was a power that didn’t corrupt. Or end.

I didn’t know if it was possible, but if I could be supported by this power, the power of God, rather than the power of a big organization, that’s what I wanted. But how would I find out? It probably wouldn’t be by becoming “part of something bigger than myself,” if the “something” was an organization built by people. That shift in my thinking probably contributed to the increasing disagreements and tensions that arose for me in the seminary. In the end, the choice was made for me. When my membership review came up, after two years in the seminary, I was told that it had been a close vote, but it had been decided that I would not be continuing my training with the Dominicans. I just “wasn’t fitting in.”

Then, in the days that followed, I recalled something. When I was first visiting the Dominicans, during one of the gatherings, someone had read the story of Jesus walking on the water. In that story, Peter, a follower of Jesus, asks if he can walk on the water too. Jesus tells him to come. So Peter steps out of the boat and begins to walk to Jesus. But then he sees the wind and the waves. Perhaps it hits him then, as he gets farther from the boat, that what he is trying to do is impossible. He starts to sink, and cries out. Then Jesus reaches out his hand and lifts Peter up. And he says to him, “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?”

I remembered thinking at the time that there might be something important for me in that story. Crossing a lake in a boat is the normal way it’s done. The security of the boat is like the security of our organizations, that have been well-built and relied on by many people before us. But then Jesus appears. Walking on the water. At the time I thought, yes, that’s what I want. I want to walk on the water too.

I was too scared, though. So I got in the boat.

Now I found myself pushed out of the boat. And Jesus was still there. I still wanted to start walking like he did. I just didn’t know if it was possible.

Continued...

a surrender - 13

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter two, "the power of the people and the power of God")

Studying in seminary and on my own, I became more and more convinced that Jesus avoided using “the power of the people.” Though he gained a popular following, large crowds gathering to listen to him, he did not try to lead a popular uprising against the oppressive religious and governmental structures of his time. Once, when a crowd seemed like it was going to try to make him king, Jesus left quickly. He did not try to raise a lot of money, and he charged nothing for his teaching and healing. He also refused to let his followers fight for him. All of this left Jesus poor and vulnerable, without economic or political or military power. Intentionally so, it seemed. He taught his followers to do the same. So I couldn’t help but wonder why Jesus would intentionally avoid the kind of power that it seems everyone else is always trying to get?

As I thought more about it, I became more aware of several weaknesses of “the power of the people.” In order to get many people to work together, there always seems to be a lot of bartering and deals and arguing among people, who have different ideas about how the power and money of the group should be used. I saw this most clearly among politicians, but also in other groups. Sometimes it led to helpful compromises, but it often seemed to lead to the goals and ideals of the group being compromised, confused, or abandoned. And the need for lots of money makes this even more challenging. Because, in addition to appeasing the members of the group, many financial donors also have to be appeased. People who lead big organizations, such as politicians and CEOs, have to be very careful about what they say, in order to avoid upsetting too many of their supporters. “The power of the people” comes from the support of the people. So leaders have to say what will please the people, if they want to keep their power. And what if the people are deceived? Then leaders with bad intentions can gain control over the organization. “The power of the people” can be used for evil as well as good. I began to wonder: Does this power even push people towards evil? I had often heard the well-known saying, “Power corrupts.” And there seemed to be plenty of examples of this in history and in the news. The more power people wielded, the more they seemed tempted to think that they were above other people, and even that they were above the law. Then there is the final weakness of this kind of power, the one revealed in the decay and eventual collapse of every organized group. “The power of the people” doesn’t seem to last. Throughout history, every nation, every corporation, every organization eventually weakened and fell apart, and all of their power disappeared.

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a surrender - 12

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter two, "the power of the people and the power of God")

The large size of their organization felt intimidating, but I think a part of me felt that I needed it. Maybe as a kind of shelter from the demands of society. Like the walls around the monasteries. The large organization could provide security and ensure basic needs would be met, like health care. And it would provide a network of safe places where I would be welcomed and could perhaps teach. It seemed practical. A way of living more like Jesus that could possibly work in the modern world.

I think there’s something very comforting in being part of a large organization of people. It provides a sense of security. Maybe it’s instinctual, a deeply held feeling that we are safer when we’re part of a herd or clan. Very often this is true. We have also learned that people can accomplish great things when they work together, especially when lots and lots of people work together. This is seen in factories and offices, on construction sites and battlefields. It’s the basis for the power of governments and corporations. And it’s also the basis for the power of unions and organizations that protest against governments and corporations. “The power of the people” is the power of many people working together towards a common goal. That’s another comforting thing that an organization provides: a common goal, a common purpose. I remember a conversation with a young man in the Dominicans. He told me it felt good to him “to be part of something greater than myself.” An organization of people can offer that feeling, when everyone in the group believes that their purpose is a good one, and they are able to accomplish so much more working together than any of them could working alone. And it seems this feeling grows stronger as the group becomes larger. When many, many people all agree, their belief seems more convincing, more true. If so many people are all convinced, it seems more likely that they are right. Maybe this too is an instinctual response. Becoming “part of something” can even offer us a new identity. I can identify myself as a citizen or an employee, a team member or a fan, and be proud of being a part of an organization that I admire, “something greater than myself.” That group identity can also help guide our individual choices and actions. Organizations offer us all these things, so it’s not surprising that we encounter them everywhere, all the time, on all levels of society. Belief in “the power of the people” is strong all around us.

Perhaps that was part of the reason I joined the Dominicans. I also admired their ideals, and I liked how they are more democratic than many other similar religious communities. As it turned out, I didn’t last long with them, only a few years. But I did learn a lot.

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a surrender - 11

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter two)

 

the power of the people

and the power of God

 

My problem now was that I didn’t know what to do with my freedom. I moved to a larger city, where there were more people and more opportunities. Maybe an idea would come to me there. But months passed and I still couldn’t envision a practical way to live like I hoped to live, except in a sheltered religious community. So I looked around and found a religious community nearby, called the Dominicans.

The Dominicans began in the Middle Ages, and were similar to the Franciscans. They were not monks, they were not cloistered in monasteries, but they did share many of the beliefs and practices of the monastic tradition. They formed their communities at a time when many of the monasteries were powerful and wealthy, and out of touch with the common people. So the Dominicans, like the Franciscans, traveled among the people, teaching and serving in various ways. They were also strict about living a life of poverty. They asked for donations, but would not gather more than they needed for the current day. I liked that. In many ways, they seemed to me to live like Jesus lived with his followers.

The Dominican Order, however, grew and spread quickly, and soon they were no longer just poor servants of the people. They gained property and established a number of respected schools. And within forty years, their influence and power had grown so much that some of them served as judges during the terrible Spanish Inquisition. They certainly weren’t like that now, I knew. But the wealth and size of the organization still made me uneasy. Maybe though, I thought, if I joined them, I could be allowed to live like the early Dominicans did: poor, living on donations, walking from town to town to teach and help people. Like Jesus and his followers. The Dominicans didn’t usually live like that now, but it was part of their history and ideals, so I thought it might still be a possibility for me in their community.

Continued...

 

a surrender - 10

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter one, "surrender")

For the next several weeks I stayed on the base and answered a phone in an office and waited for my trial. Soon I learned, however, that the Navy lawyers wanted to avoid a trial. Perhaps this was partly because I was an officer, and they wanted to avoid the negative publicity of an officer being court-martialed. I don’t know for sure. But the commanding officer of my ship insisted on a court-martial. So the lawyers began the trial process, and I had to go to a hearing and watch as the executive officer pointed at me and testified that I had refused his order. After that, the court-martial was handed over to the lawyers and my commanding officer wasn’t involved anymore. And I was offered a way out. If I would waive my right to a trial and accept an “other-than-honorable” discharge, then all the charges against me would be dropped. I was stunned. I certainly didn’t think I deserved an honorable discharge. And I didn’t plan to apply for any benefits from the military in the future, since I didn’t deserve those either. So an other-than-honorable discharge seemed right. And I would not have to spend years in a military prison.

Suddenly the ship had fallen away behind me and I was floating on air.

I was free.

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a surrender - 9

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter one, "surrender") 

I waited one more month to make sure that I understood. I went to Ireland, walked a hundred miles to visit another monastery, and prayed until I felt ready to go home.

When my flight home landed and I presented my passport, the customs agent entered my information, then paused, staring at her computer with a look of concern on her face. For a terrible moment I was sure she was going to call security and have me arrested. I wouldn’t be able to see my parents or turn myself in voluntarily. Then she looked up, smiled, and waved me through.

I watched my mother cry when she opened the door and embraced me. The next day my parents went with me to church and heard the preacher read the story of the prodigal son.

Then I rode twenty hours to the naval base, staring out the window of the bus, reminding myself what I was doing. I was not going back to beg for mercy. I was not trying to recover my old life. That was gone. I was going back to accept punishment. I didn’t think I was wrong to try to follow the way of Jesus, but I was wrong to run away, trying to escape the consequences of my choice. So I was going back to surrender. But not to military justice. I was surrendering myself as I had in that monastery garden. I repeated a prayer I had learned during a monastery visit in England, by Charles de Foucauld:

Father,
I abandon myself
into your hands;
do with me what you will.
Whatever you may do,
I thank you—
I am ready for all, I accept all.
Let only your will
be done in me
and in all your creatures.
I wish no more than this,
O Lord.
Into your hands
I commend my spirit.

I offer it to you
with all the love of my heart.
For I love you Lord,
and so need to give myself—

To surrender myself
into your hands
without reserve,
and with
boundless confidence
for you are my father.

I was in the brig for only two days. The prison uniform turned out to be the standard military uniform, and I was told that I could either put it on or the guards would force it on me. When I had refused to wear the uniform, it wasn’t a protest against the military. It had mostly been because pretending to be an officer seemed false, and I didn’t want people to have to salute and honor me when they knew I didn’t deserve it. Now, off the ship, the situation seemed to be different. Besides some lawyers, no one here knew what I had done. So I agreed to wear the uniform, and when I did, they let me out of the brig. 

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a surrender - 8

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter one, "surrender")

A month later I was outside an old, stone monastery, sitting in a beautiful garden, waiting for the monks’ answer. I imagined that they were worriedly deliberating about me, but the decision probably wasn't a hard one to make. I had asked to join them. An AWOL foreigner who showed up two weeks ago. Did I really expect them to consider this seriously? It was a foolish dream: To flee the merciless world and disappear among the monks, behind monastery walls, where everything was different, where they would understand me. It was foolish because of course everything is not different behind those walls. In his confusion the monk I had asked said the first thing he thought of: “We use the national health care system, and you’re not a British citizen.” But it was also foolish because I should have known I couldn’t flee. I couldn’t disappear.

I walked along the garden path, past the stone cross, high on the rocky hill, and slowly lowered myself onto a mossy rock. To await the answer I already knew. Here was where my foolish dream ended. Here I was finally waking up. I pressed my eyes shut tight.

Then it was all dark and I was alone. Far from everyone who loved me and everyone I had called a friend, far from the land of my home, where I was now considered a criminal. I saw my life broken in ugly pieces. All the opportunities and benefits I had been given I had ruined; all that I had gathered and valued I had thrown away. It felt like I was falling, falling into the dark. I cried out. 

It was then that I felt the movement again. Again in the deep dark. But this time it was all around me. I was in that terrifying place and the movement was close on every side. The darkness itself seemed alive.

But, just as before, there was no fear. I now knew this thing would consume me, was already consuming me, and I was in awe of it. I lifted up the pieces of my broken life. “Here,” I moaned, “take it, it’s ruined.” I felt the awakened something move again, with such raw power that the garden seemed to lift from the earth. It felt like God.

And then I knew what I had to do.

I would go to prison. I had no doubt that when I returned I would be arrested and jailed, perhaps for several years. But now I had felt something greater than the thing I feared. I could go back, even to prison. And when I realized that, it was clear that the right thing was to return and turn myself in. I should go back and accept the consequences for my choice. I talked with several of the monks before I left the monastery, and they nodded approvingly, but I could tell they didn’t understand. That didn’t matter. I was the one going to prison.

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a surrender - 7

(Continuing "a surrender," chapter one, "surrender") 

It started smoothly enough. I asked for leave from the ship and spent two weeks visiting friends and reconnecting with my parents. This wasn’t meant to be a time for saying goodbye because I didn’t want them to know anything about my plans. Once I was gone, I would send them a letter to explain what I was doing, and why, without telling them where I was. So we just enjoyed our days together.

But that made it even harder for me to deceive them. At the end of my leave, they thought I was going back to the ship, but I was planning to leave the country, unable to contact them for a long time, possibly years. When I arrived at the airport and parked the car, I stopped, torn. I couldn’t go on. But I couldn’t bring myself to go back to the Navy either. I paced back and forth beside the car, feverishly trying to decide.

I don’t know if I did decide, actually. Neither way felt truly right to me. And this choice could cost me everything. It felt something like an act of despair when I finally grabbed my luggage and rushed into the airport.

The first few days in England, I was so nervous I could hardly eat. I paid for train tickets with cash and moved several times to cover my tracks. Eventually I decided to spend a few weeks hiking in England and Scotland, visiting historical monastery sites, until I felt calm enough to try to join a monastery. The initial gut-wrenching fear slowly eased into the thrill of a new adventure, but dread was always lurking. What would happen when I stopped running?

That was when I first felt it. Deep inside, down in a dark part of myself where I never looked, it felt like some unknown thing was moving. Like the stirring of a hibernating animal, something extremely large. I couldn't see anything clearly, but it felt real enough to inspire awe at the power of the thing. It was enough to frighten me, yet the deep sensation was not fear. I remember thinking: Not yet. But it was coming. 

Continued...