Why is Star Trek Easier to Imagine than the Ascension? (Reprise)

[[ Hi Sister Laurel, in your post on the Ascension you said that it was difficult for us to believe that Jesus was raised bodily into "heaven". You suggested it might be easier to imagine the Star Trek story as true instead. I wondered why you said that. Thank you.]]

I appreciate your question. Thanks. We humans tend to draw distinct lines between the spiritual and the material and often we rule out any idea that has the two interpenetrating the other or being related in paradoxical ways. We simplify things in other ways as well. For instance, do you remember when the Soviet Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin first orbited earth and made a pronouncement that he had now been to space, had looked and looked for God and did not find him? The notion that God's relation to the cosmos was other than as a visible (and material) being among other material beings present in "the heavens" was completely beyond this man's ideology or imagination. The idea of God as Being itself, being (not A being) that grounded and was the source of all existence while transcending it all was simply too big an idea for this Cosmonaut. Imagine what he would have done with the notion that everything that once existed, now exists, or is on its way to existing, does or will do so within the very life of God! (Gagarin is now said never to have affirmed this; instead, Soviet authorities did and used his flight to do so.)

Another example might be better. When I was young (grade school), I went to a Christian Scientist Church and Sunday School. There, every Sunday we recited what was called, "The Scientific Statement of Being". It was a bit of neo-Platonic "dogma" written by Mary Baker Eddy. It was the heart of the faith: [[There is no life, truth, intelligence, nor substance in matter. All is infinite Mind and its infinite manifestation, for God is All-in-All. Spirit is immortal truth; matter is mortal error. Spirit is the real and eternal; matter the unreal and temporal. Spirit is God, and man is his image and likeness. Therefore, man is not material; he is spiritual.]] By the time I was seven or eight I was questioning what it meant to say matter is unreal (or, more often, how could I be asked to deny the truth of matter's reality). Imagine what it was like to fall off your bike and tell yourself the blood and pain was "unreal" --- only Spirit is real. 

Donna Korba, IHM

The answers never satisfied, but I think you get the point. The human mind has always had difficulty not drawing a distinction between the material and the Spiritual, even to asserting the two things are antithetical --- even to the extent of denying either matter or spirit actually exists at all.  (Christian Science said matter was unreal, not just in the Platonic sense of being less real than the ideal, but in the sense of asserting that materiality is a delusion; on the other hand, contemporary science often says anything except matter is unreal.) An incarnate God, or a God who would make room within his very life for embodied existence like ours (in whatever form that embodiment occurs) would be anathema and literally inconceivable to either of these! So yes, we often suspend disbelief in reading science fiction or fantasy literature in order to enter deeply into the story. But what is also true is that we need to learn to suspend disbelief in intelligent ways in order to appreciate the Mystery of God and the cosmos; we need to do this in order to enter deeply into this great theodrama. Star Trek's stories may seem easier to believe than stories of the Ascension because the Mystery we call God is greater than anything we can create or even imagine ourselves.

One last point. Early on in my studies of theology (probably during my BA work), my major professor answered the question, "What do I do if I cannot believe in God?" His answer was, "I would encourage you to act as though it (God's existence) is true and see what happens." My own objection at the time was that that would be encouraging people to engage in pretense, not real faith, and John Dwyer responded further, " Perhaps it seems like that superficially, but what would really be happening is that one would be opening oneself [or remaining open] to allow those things that God alone can do." Another way of saying this is to affirm, one would thus be refusing to close oneself to the Holy Spirit. Once one allowed or embraced this openness, one would then compare the differences in one's life before such an openness and afterward. I didn't find John Dwyer's initial answer much more convincing than I found the Christian Science answer re: matter's unreality when I was 8 or 9 yo, but I also mistakenly thought my faith was relatively strong and sufficient. 

I now know that learning to trust (and to be open to Mystery) in the way John described is both more difficult and more intelligent than any cynical skepticism scientific materialism offers us today. And one grows in faith (thanks be to God)! I have experienced things in my life which God alone could do, and I recognize the wisdom (and the humility!!) of John Dwyer's advice to students believing they were atheists or that faith was naive, namely, that they suspend their disbelief, open themselves to new ways of seeing, and see what happens. Of course, this specific form of suspension of disbelief would result in a vocation to commitment to a world itself called to be something ever greater than even the limitations of science can imagine. What is often difficult for us is understanding that this specific suspension of disbelief is more profoundly wise than science itself can know, or our often-earth-bound imaginations can create.

 Authentic faith (which, again, is not the same as naive credulity) is something different, and in some ways, both more challenging and compelling than the more superficial suspension of disbelief we adopt when we read science fiction or fantasy literature. The essential difference, I think, is that the first type of suspension of disbelief is a form of chosen naivete adopted temporarily for the sake of recreation and enjoyment; it allows us a vacation from reality, while exercising imagination in the service of creativity. This certainly enlivens us. The second type of suspension of disbelief, that of faith, while also exercising imagination in the same service, requires more than our imagination. It is neither naive nor credulous and requires the whole of ourselves in a more direct commitment to enlivening others; as a result, faith opens us to a more intense and extensive commitment to reality itself and is simply more difficult.

Seeking God and Learning to See with New Eyes

[[Hi Sister Laurel, it wasn't until I read your comment on Benedictines entering a community "to seek God" that I realized I had always thought of God as missing somehow, or maybe just remote -- maybe too far away to really be concerned with me. I didn't think of him as absent exactly, but so much of prayer seemed to be calling on God to come and act, so that there was a sense that God was absent and had to be coaxed to come near and do what I prayed for. If God wasn't remote like that then why hadn't he already done whatever we prayed we needed?!  

It was frustrating, and I think that sometimes I failed to pray at all or even to believe in God's caring for me or those I love, because I had learned to pray as though God was distant. It is really different to think of God as right there, dwelling with and in us. But what do I do with the idea of asking God to take care of this or that situation, or to rescue me from whatever I need rescuing from? Does that also have to change? As I thought about everything you wrote, what most hit me was the way the idea of "seeking God" had changed and changes everything else. It is almost like the childhood game, "hide and seek," except that I began to see that God does not hide himself. We just need to find him.]]

Many thanks for your comments and sharing. I love your image of the childhood game; I think it works particularly well for us human beings who would like to believe sometimes that we can hide from God. Let me suggest a different and similar game that works especially well in helping us understand the idea of seeking God in the ways I spoke of in my last post, namely, "find the hidden objects". I am sure you know the game. A room or other setting is filled with all kinds of ordinary and extraordinary stuff, and one has to find the objects being named. They are present in plain sight, but they are also often difficult to spot. We have to learn to see them, learn to stop looking past them, for instance, and recognize them when they show up in the unexpected place,  as an unusual variation, or in a surprising orientation. I think seeking God is a lot like that game. Remember that the Gospels call us to see with new eyes. When our eyes are opened in the ways that occur when we are loved and love as God creates us to be and do, we can begin to see as the Gospels affirm is necessary and appropriate to human beings truly made in the image of God.

At the same time, seeing in this way takes practice, and often the hard work of learning to be attentive to the signs of truth, beauty, goodness, integrity, potential, holiness, and so forth, even or especially in the most ordinary aspects of reality. We learn to let go of and heal older ways of seeing (for instance, ways that are unduly biased, rigid in our expectations, lacking in generosity, or ways that are judgmental and otherwise lacking in love and humanness). We do the same with ourselves as we meet ourselves again and again in our confrontations with others, in prayer, in lectio and the inner work and conversations associated with spiritual direction, etc. The reading of Scripture as we pay attention to the ways Jesus sees and treats others can help us learn to be attentive in the ways we need to be, and these examples encourage us to see others and the whole of God's creation differently than our contemporary consumerist and deeply transactional world often encourages us to do.

You ask specifically about what you should do with a notion of God rescuing us from particular situations, because you have a sense that that, too, has to change. I agree that it does, but some of what you already do will remain the same. The fundamental thing to change is your sense that God is remote from you or may not even care about you. In part, this will mean embracing a God who protects your freedom and God's own, even while He offers to be your God and to embrace you as God's very own.** I can assure you (yes, this is my experience as well as that of Saint Augustine and many many others!) that God is closer to you than you are to yourself, and also that God delights in you, loves you with an everlasting love, wants the very best for you (better than you can ever imagine for yourself), and accompanies you wherever life's journeys take you. As Romans 8 reminds us, nothing whatsoever can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. 

So, by all means, pour out your heart to him; pour it all out to God, no matter how joyous or despairing, how apparently faithful or lacking in trust it is. Be open to becoming aware of God's presence and the fact that you are ultimately not alone in this or in anything at all! Ultimately, the darkness cannot win out; the oppressive silence that seems to mark absurdity and emptiness will become the backdrop for everything that sings God's praises, while tears of pain and the anguish of hopelessness will be transfigured into tears of joy and the consoling solidity of meaningfulness and hope. It is God's presence that changes everything.  If you can be assured of God's presence and practice attentiveness, not living in an idealistic or unrealistic way, but in light of what we are promised because of the fact and truth of Jesus' Resurrection, Ascension, and sending of the Spirit as well, and if you can begin to find God both in the world around you, and in yourself, you will gain greater and greater ability to see clearly with the new (and very generous) eyes God gives and the Gospels call for from us. 

By the way, when I have played the "Find the hidden objects" game, I find that I get really tired and, after a time of intense focus, am unable to see what is right in front of my eyes. I would encourage you to be patient with yourself in this journey of learning to seek God, rest as necessary, take breaks, and turn your mind and heart to something else for a while (recreation is a critical spiritual practice), and then come back to it all again when you are fresh. Just remember to remind yourself that God is there with you in your recreation as well! Welcome him and let him be Emmanuel in this, too! God has waited an eternity for this opportunity to celebrate life with you!! Glorify him! Practice allowing it!!

** Please see other articles here on the nature of authentic human freedom. The Christian sense of this reality is countercultural and thus vastly different from common notions of freedom. 

The Two Main Pathways to Seeking God

[[Hi Sister Laurel,  if one cannot make the journey into existential solitude hermits are committed to making, does this mean they cannot seek God? This sounds elitist to me. I am not able to live as a hermit or to make the kind of inner journey you do. I have other responsibilities, including a full-time job and a family to raise.]]

Important questions. Thanks for these! While recently I have written mainly about this journey into the depths of existential solitude, I have not meant to exclude the other ways we are called to seek God. Whether we are Benedictines or others who make this the focus of our lives or not, we are each called to seek God. It seems to me that there are two main (and interrelated) pathways to doing this. The first is to seek God outside of ourselves; the second is to seek God within ourselves. I think all of us are called to undertake both of these ways of seeking God, though not in the same way monastics or eremites might do this. This is not a problem since every human journey towards fullness of meaningful life is also a life in search of God.

The first way or route to seeking God, it seems to me, is about being open and attentive to the world around us. We seek God in the ordinary events, places, activities, and people of our lives. We may also, therefore, seek God under other rubrics or names: truth, beauty, integrity, order, spontaneity, life, love, faithfulness, courage, and so many others. This extraordinary or "sacred ordinariness" is something I have written about many times here, and it is something my friend, Rachel Denton, Er Dio, wrote about when she said, [[The heartbeat of my hermitage is its sacred ordinariness. It is an experience, in silence and solitude, of total immersion in the humdrum of daily life. A hermit is one who has, perhaps, become so overwhelmed by the immensity of the privilege of sharing Jesus’ humanity that she chooses to spend her whole life contemplating the mystery and manifestation of that gift in the most simple and ordinary form of living. A hermit lives out the mystery of the Incarnation in her own body, her own blood. A hermit says, “Christ, from the beginning of time, and in the fullness of time, chose being Jesus, being human, as the best way of expressing the love of the Trinity.]] Waiting in the Tabernacle of the Hermitage 

I think Sister Rachel Denton, Er Dio, expresses a mature, exemplary, and accessible approach to this first dimension of the eremitic journey. It is a dimension that every person, and certainly every Christian, should recognize as central to the human task of "seeking God" and the Divine task God sets us of becoming more fully and authentically human. In this way, Rachel's life is an exemplar of what each and all of our lives can and should reflect.

The second route or dimension of the search for God is the inner one, the path of existential solitude (for only we can make this journey into the depths of our own being, though again, we tend not to be able to do this alone). At the same time, I want to reiterate that even hermits, who undertake this journey in a more focused and exclusive way, do not do this by themselves. They have a spiritual director, a delegate or superior, and sometimes other hermits to assist them in assuring they do not lose their way or stray from their ordained path to fullness of life. At the same time, neither do hermits undertake this journey only for themselves. We do it because God, through the ministry of the Church, calls us to do it, yes, and we do it for the sake of the Church's proclamation of the Gospel and the salvation of the whole of God's creation.  I want to repeat what I wrote recently because it affirms the universality of this need to engage with and explore existential solitude.

Redwoods Abbey Altar during Tenebrae

[[. . .for some, the hunger for fullness of being and meaning, the yearning to be whole or holy and to allow God to be Emmanuel as fully and exhaustively as he wills, both for one's own sake and for the sake of others, will demand a different kind of commitment, a deeper and more exhaustive engagement with and in existential solitude. Some of these persons are called to be hermits.  Consecrated eremitical life is an ecclesial vocation undertaken for the sake of God's call to fullness of life. [The call to an engagement with existential solitude] belongs to each of us and to the Church itself. The hermit embraces the call and journey she does to witness to the God who is the ground and source of abundant life, meaningful life, eternal life, LIFE in relationship!! She explores the depths of herself and discovers that God is truly present, reaching out with love and mercy at every moment and mood of her journey -- even in the shadow of death and despair or near-despair. ]]

Every person is called to seek God and their truest self in existential solitude. Some become aware of this call during periods of illness or bereavement. Some will do so when they are thrown back on their own resources in some other way and experience their own weakness and incompleteness. Others will come to a moment of conversion occasioned by some special experience of transcendence and the Transcendent and begin to seek God and their own truest self in a more explicit way. (This could be an experience in Church, a visit to someplace stunningly beautiful, an experience of accomplishment or self-discovery that surprises and puts one in touch with themselves in a new way, etc. The possibilities are almost infinite.) Each of these persons and the events that mediated this need and desire to engage with and explore their own inner solitude, can look to the hermit (and often to other religious and monastics) and be reassured that their journey is not an empty one, no matter how difficult the circumstances that lead them here or how dark and treacherous the inner depths they will traverse. This is part of the "for others" character of the eremitic life. 

If we really understand this (and if those seeking to be hermits today truly understand it), I think it will make clear the eremitical journey is not an elitist one, but one made on behalf of others so they may have faith and hope rooted in the fact that, whether we discover God in the sacred ordinariness of our everyday lives, or in the challenging depths of even sin and death, the One Jesus called Abba comes to us in the unexpected and even the unacceptable place.

On the Presence of Loneliness in the Eremitical Vocation

[[Dear Sister, when you were a new hermit for the Diocese of Oakland, there was an interview with a spokesperson for the Diocese, a priest, and he said something about you being joyful or happy all the time. He asked, "Can you imagine spending all of your time with the Lord and not being happy?"  or something like that. Do you remember that? Did you know him? I'm asking because from what you've written recently about existential solitude and loneliness, and everything, I am wondering what you thought about that comment of his!]] 

LOL!! What a great question!!! Thanks for asking! No, I did not know him, had never spoken to him, and I believe that the journalist who also interviewed me must've commented to him on my being a happy person or some other comment like that. That's the only thing I can think of that might have prompted such a response, given we had never met. At the time, I remember thinking, "Yes, I am really happy, and yet, here's another hermit stereotype that must be countered." It's not the first time I have heard something like that either. Early on after perpetual profession and consecration, I went on retreat at Bishop's Ranch, the Episcopal retreat center in Northern California's wine country. During one of the presentations in preparation for a desert day everyone was going to observe during that week, the priest speaking to everyone decided to encourage us retreatants not to worry about being lonely during a full day of solitude. He explained about hermits and how they were never lonely because they always had God with them. I was more than a little irritated by his comments and (though I should have remained silent) said so to Sister Donald as we left the chapel and started back toward our rooms.

Some have a sense that being lonely is unhealthy or even somehow pathological,* and that when one is living in eremitical solitude, God's presence prevents one from feeling lonely, for example. But sometimes loneliness is the face love (and the fact that we are made for love) wears in eremitical (or existential) solitude. Sometimes loneliness is the feeling most associated with our hunger for God and for wholeness and holiness, while that hunger is a sign of our knowledge of these realities as well as of our lacking them in some sense. Years ago, I began to distinguish between the loneliness I associated with wanting to share with others and a kind of "malignant loneliness" that is darker and (perhaps) deeper as well. In my mind, this latter form of loneliness was unhealthy and a symptom of an unhealthy existential condition, while "ordinary" loneliness was not. I was still struggling with the sense others had given me that hermits should never be lonely because they dwell with God. It took some time to shake that false generalization off completely.

Sr M Beverly Greger, Marymount Hermitage, Idaho

For most hermits, time in physical solitude is wonderful and something we love. We have the time for prayer and lectio, for writing or whatever ministry we might also take on, as well as for recreation and inner work. The existential solitude we live is also something we generally experience as positive, even joyful, and something that draws us in. When Cornelius Wencel speaks about that, he describes it in terms of two freedoms meeting each other.  It is what we human beings are made for, and most of the time it is experienced as consoling, creative, and a source of deep peace, abundant life, and gladness. What I have written about recently is merely one dimension of that same journey into existential solitude, but it is still an undeniable part of that journey.  In other words, loneliness, too, is part of the eremitical journey and wears different faces depending on the reasons for its existence. In a life of continuing communion and even union with God, this is still, or perhaps especially, the case. It is not necessarily a signal that anything is wrong. Instead, it reminds us that we are each social, communal, relational, or "dialogical" realities, made for love, as is our vocation. (It is striking to me that the Camaldolese Benedictines write about their lives and vocations as "the privilege of love." Eremitical Solitude itself is a communal reality, something we only experience within and in light of our truly belonging to and living our lives for God, the ecclesial community, and the wider world. 

While we are made for love and, as is true of every human being, are each relational to our core, we hermits forego many of the relationships and activities that are literally fulfilling for most people; we do this because God calls us to underscore the fact that every person is made for life with and in God. This is the source of the affirmation, "God alone is enough for us," not because we do not need other people, but because only God truly completes any person as a human being. This side of death, our sense of that "made-for-ness", our hunger for it, and the One who is its ground and source, can certainly be associated with feelings of loneliness, even to the point of great anguish. What hermits reject are the almost infinite ways human beings find to distract themselves from such loneliness. In fact, as I have been writing recently, we commit to journeying ever deeper into our existential solitude for the sake of seeking God, and an affirmation of the truth that God both is and most desires and wills to be Emmanuel (God with us).

* Some forms of loneliness are indeed unhealthy, and chronic loneliness, especially when it is rooted in childhood loss or trauma and associated attachment difficulties, is linked to serious health problems in later life. These include all manner of common ailments, including chronic pain, depression, anxiety disorders, and many others. I am not speaking of this kind of loneliness as intrinsic to eremitical life, although for some, it can certainly color, complicate, and perhaps also motivate a focused and deep journey into existential solitude.

Why is the Journey of and into Existential Solitude Sometimes Frightening?

[[Dear Sister, your [response to the questions on Jesus' abandonment by God] was dense but wonderful. I really had not thought of things in this light at all, and I am still chewing on it. Thanks for that. I wondered if you could say more about this part of my original question: [[Hi Sister, is the inner journey you speak about under the name "existential solitude" frightening? Maybe that's a weird question, but you have said that everyone hesitates to undertake this journey even though it is necessary in order to be truly human. Why is this form of solitude so scary, or why do people want to avoid it? ]] I like being by myself and don't find solitude scary, so I wondered why existential solitude is so frightening to people. I got a sense that your own journey and Merton's were dark and terrifying at times, but why is that? Thanks for letting me ask again!]]

No problem with asking your questions again. I really appreciate it. When I start writing a reply, it's not the same as writing an academic article, for instance. I typically follow my thoughts until I have developed an answer to at least some part of the question, and that means I don't always get to all parts of it; usually, that leaves some important bits out of the picture. Sorry for that!! I am grateful you returned to keep me honest! So why is the journey I have spoken of frightening? Why do people avoid it? I will also add the question about why I undertook it and, in fact, committed my life to it in a search for God and to allowing him to be the One He willed to be for me and our world. After all, given the seriousness and danger of the journey, there must have been some even stronger reasons to undertake it.

All human beings grow up recording everything that happens to them.  We "remember" things because of our brain's capacity to store these in long-term storage to be accessed as needed, but we also remember things in our bodies and nervous systems more generally. Even when our memories are not conscious, they are stored somewhere within us and can influence who we are, how we behave, how we respond or react to current events, etc. Beneath all of this is our deepest self, the self God calls us to be in, through, and sometimes despite all the rest of it. Beneath all of this is also God, who dwells in our depths and summons us to life, to the decisions we will make in affirming life, to our vocation, etc. 

Unfortunately, some of these stored memories are associated with a personal woundedness that can block our access to God and our truest self. They can lead us to build up defenses to the pain associated with these memories, and prevent the kind of openness needed for union with God and our deepest self. At the same time, these defenses can prevent us from functioning at our fullest capacity in the present. Perhaps trusting others is difficult for us, or we are plagued by a tendency to withdraw. Perhaps we develop a bad self-image, an overweening self-critical voice, some degree of perfectionism, and so forth. Sometimes they will cause disproportionate recurrent reactions --- reactions that are either completely inappropriate or that are too little or too much to be a response to the present situation alone, because they are linked to what I describe as pools of suffering or woundedness carried deep within us. (Think of someone who "goes off" on folks at the smallest provocation, or someone who refuses to go out of their house for fear of everything, and think of all the variations and degrees of these things you have met in your own life.) We all have these "pools" of pain, just as we all have sclerosed or "scarred" and hardened patches within our own hearts.

In learning to listen to God who is deep within, and to realize the potential of our truest, deepest selves, the inner journey we are asked to take will mean "remembering" (and often reliving in some way!), and expressing the memories our body and mind have stored within us. Depending on one's life experience, such a journey will mean encountering darknesses (our own and others') and suffering we may only partly remember consciously. Similarly, it will mean dealing with and working through the deeper injuries we might never have suspected having sustained. The image I have used to describe this is one of a peach that is bumped on its way to or from the store. Imagine that this bump leaves a slight mark on the surface of the peach. If you were to peel the skin off at that place, you might be surprised to discover a larger area of injury, and if you slice off a layer of peach at that point, you may find an even larger area of woundedness. Were you to continue slicing off layers of the fruit, what you could find is a much deeper and more extensive area of bruising or woundedness than the surface disfigurement gave any real hint of. Our own woundedness can be like that, and the journey to the depths of ourselves will only gradually and surprisingly uncover this. 

The process of facing ourselves and our own history (because even without difficult memories, we each have a shadow side) can thus be painful and frightening. Merton's description here is a good one that his personal history and vocation made possible and necessary. You can imagine what it might be for someone with a different history than Merton's, a history of varying grief and trauma, for instance. But this process is also the way to healing because it means gradually reclaiming our whole selves, healing what can be healed, and accepting the limitations that cannot be changed, even as we also embrace with a new energy the potentialities that have lain undeveloped and waiting within us. (These are as much a source of our hunger for fullness of life as our woundedness is.) It requires working with someone who can support, encourage, and guide one with real understanding and expertise. It requires an experience of such a person's love (agape) and consistency, as they accompany and truly listen to us. And of course, it requires faith and some degree of hope on both persons' parts, because God is summoning one to undertake this journey and the healing it leads to; here it is especially true that what only one can do, one cannot do alone.

Not everyone can, or will, undertake such a journey, especially in the focused, committed way a monk or hermit is called to do. Most people will undertake the journey of existential solitude only to the degree required to function well in everyday life. After all, it takes time and real energy to undertake such a healing journey, so not everyone is free or able physically or psychologically to do this. Sometimes, though, even physical solitude is something folks will embrace only occasionally for retreat, or when life circumstances like illness or bereavement require it. Most people surround themselves with people, activities, noise, and distractions of all kinds to prevent themselves from facing themselves and what is buried deep (or sometimes not so deeply) within. 

But for some, the hunger for fullness of being and meaning, the yearning to be whole or holy and to allow God to be Emmanuel as fully and exhaustively as he wills, both for one's own sake and for the sake of others, will demand a different kind of commitment, a deeper and more exhaustive engagement with and in existential solitude. Some of these persons are called to be hermits.  Consecrated eremitical life is an ecclesial vocation undertaken for the sake of God's call to fullness of life. That call belongs to each of us and to the Church itself. The hermit embraces the call and journey she does to witness to the God who is the ground and source of abundant life, meaningful life, eternal life, LIFE in relationship!! She explores the depths of herself and discovers that God is truly present, reaching out with love and mercy at every moment and mood of her journey -- even in the shadow of death and despair or near-despair. This is the fundamental way the hermit comes to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ for the sake of God, God's Church, and God's entire creation.

As always, I hope this is helpful, and if it is unclear or raises more questions, feel free to get back to me! I am serious about that. When you do, it is helpful to me and likely to others reading here as well!

Followup Comments on Respect for Oneself, Others, and our use of the Internet

[[ Hi Sister O'Neal, what you wrote about the internet and privacy applies to more than hermits. I have wondered about the effect of the internet on everyone's sense of privacy and the way that diminishes our ability to respect ourselves and others. You said something like this in writing about hermits. It's almost as though people don't have a sense of their value anymore. What you wrote about your own "inner journey" recently interested me a lot because you were talking about something very intimate and personal, but you didn't let it all hang out there either. You had a clear reason for saying what you did, and I thought you did it for the sake of your vocation. I also thought that was risky and it made me ask if you were doing the opposite of what you had said you or any hermit should, but in the end, I thought you pulled it off.]]

Hi there, yourself! Thanks for your comments. Yes, I agree with you 100% regarding the internet and privacy issues. Thank you also for commenting on what I call a paradox, namely the need to write about certain deeply personal dimensions of my life while being appropriately discreet and so, without "letting it all hang out there" as you put it! I have done that because I think the inner journey I wrote about is the very heart of the eremitic vocation, and because I think it is only in making that clear that we can finally begin to lay to rest some of the stereotypes associated with the idea of hermits. It also provides a central core of content for those trying to discern and live this vocation or, perhaps, to discern another's eremitic vocation. This would apply to diocesan personnel and other c 603 hermits who might be assisting a diocesan team in accompanying or mentoring candidates or discerning this kind of vocation.

Once the emphasis is put on this kind of journey, many things fall into place in considering a call to this vocation. These include, but are not limited to, distinguishing between anonymity and hiddenness or privacy and hiddenness,  recognizing that physical solitude is not the measure of eremitical life while existential solitude is, recognizing the distinction between praying for others (important) and the deeper journey of prayer a hermit is called to make. (As I have written before, I dislike the appellation "prayer warrior", not because I don't think intercessory prayer is important (it is), or because hermits are not called to do battle with the demonic (they are), but because the term is bellicose and puts the accent on individual things the hermit does rather than on the unifying, meaning-imbuing journey the hermit is called to make.)

As I have said many times, that journey is a profoundly human and humanizing one undertaken not only for the sake of the hermit's own wholeness or sanctity, but for God's sake and the sake of the Church as Christ's own Church. (God wills to be Emmanuel, God with us, and we are committed to God's accomplishment of that will.) This journey is not only a universal one (i.e., every person is called to undertake it in some way appropriate to their state of life), but it is the highest act of charity we can offer God, because it is about providing (under the impulse of the Holy Spirit) the opportunity for God to truly be the God he willls to be for, with, and in us and God's Church. It is also an act of charity for ourselves since this is a profoundly humanizing process and commitment.

When you spoke about the effect of the internet and its potential to diminish our ability to respect ourselves and others I was aware of thinking that the internet tends not only to diminish our ability to respect social boundaries, but as part of this, it also fails to recognize the sacred and inviolable character of the human person. The Christian Scriptures remind us not to cast pearls before swine lest they be trampled underfoot. It seems to me that some of what I have seen on the internet is precisely about doing something very similar. While I don't believe persons are "swine", I do believe that if we put the genuinely holy out there as though it is just another bit of data about ourselves and our world, we invite people to become as swine and trample those sacred pearls underfoot as they root around searching for something more immediately appealing or "tasty". Acting in this way fails to recognize that these realities are deserving of protection and a sort of personal "tabernacling" --- if you can see what I mean. (In Judaism and in the Catholic Church, we reserve the holiest instances of God coming to us in a tabernacle. )

For Catholics, this idea of tabernacling refers primarily to God tabernacling with us and, in a related way, to the reservation of the Eucharist in an appropriate "tabernacle". However, the Church also reminds us that we are each tabernacles of the Holy Spirit, the sacred "places" where God himself abides inviolably. The way we treat our most precious journey with God should reflect the same kind of care we take with the Eucharist. We offer it freely to anyone in need of and truly desiring its nourishment, and at the same time, we take care that it is not profaned. We handle it with real care or devotion, signal in different ways that it is holy, and reverence it appropriately. This protects not only the Eucharist itself, but the person who might be ignorant of its true nature and thus, whether inadvertently or not, profane it and themselves at the same time. Similarly, the very intimate personal inner journey we each make with God as we seek wholeness, healing, and Divine "verification" or "verifying" (i.e., being made true in our "dialogue" with the love and mercy of God) is a sacred journey made by sacred and potentially holy persons; it should be treated that way. Otherwise, everyone involved, even if they are only casual observers, can be demeaned and profaned in the process.

One of the strongest points of division in today's world is between those who fail to regard the dignity of every person versus those who regard some people as having dignity and others, tragically, as less than human. The requirement that we treat each and every person with the same inherent dignity has already been mentioned several times by our new Pope Leo XIV, just as it was a serious refrain in the writings and homilies of Francis, Leo's predecessor. When we fail to truly respect ourselves (and that means failing to see ourselves as and acting as sacred, as imago dei), so too will we fail to respect and denigrate others who are equally sacred and imago dei. The converse is also the case: when we fail to truly regard others as sacred (as imago dei), we will fail to appropriately regard ourselves as sacred (as imago dei). 

This means maintaining boundaries and taking care with what we put up on the internet. In your experience of the internet and in mine as well, we recognize the fascinating quality of some videos, podcasts, or writing, and we are apt to recognize that as we allow ourselves to be captured by these, we have become less than our truest or best selves. When I wrote earlier, I mentioned becoming voyeurs in such a process, despite never having intended this. Those of us who write or put up videos on the internet, especially while representing ourselves (or our Church) as hermits, must observe appropriate boundaries especially assiduously. Doing so means "tabernacling" the inviolable core of ourselves, and opening the doors to that tabernacle reverently and with real care and discretion, not in an elitist way (everyone, not just a limited few, should be able to benefit from our sharing), but in a way which ennobles those privileged to engage with us in this way. 

On the Question of Despair as Mortal Sin: Looking Again at Dimensions of my Journey into Existential Solitude

[[Sister Laurel, in your recent post, you seemed to be saying that God would be present even if one reached a point of despair and committed suicide. I thought despair was always a mortal sin, and it never occurred to me that Jesus had reached a point of despair because he never sinned. If you reached a point of despair, then didn't you also commit a mortal sin?]]

Thanks for your question. It is important to distinguish between the feeling of despair or hopelessness and the act of despairing or giving up all hope. We also need to be clear that we take seriously what the Church teaches today, and not only in the past regarding despair and suicide. Remember that the Church has always been explicit about the voluntary character of despair as a mortal sin. She said, essentially,  [[Despair (Latin desperare, to be hopeless) is ethically regarded as the voluntary and complete abandonment of all hope of saving one’s soul and of having the means required for that end. It is not a passive state of mind: on the contrary, it involves a positive act of the will by which a person deliberately gives over any expectation of ever reaching eternal life.]] 

This definition stands, and at the same the Church today has a greater sensitivity to the psychological conditions that can eventuate in acting out of despair. After all, most people who are truly despairing are so because they have been overwhelmed by circumstances and can no longer see clearly or act freely. They feel despair, which is not what the Church considers a sin. Remember that Par. 2282b  of the CCC reads as follows: [[Grave psychological disturbances, anguish, or grave fear of hardship, suffering, or torture can diminish the responsibility of the one committing suicide.]]

In relation to the post you reference, I am thinking of what the Church teaches about suicides here as she approaches, cautiously and prudently, the ultimately reassuring conclusion I wrote about in light of Jesus' cry of abandonment.  What I said was,  [[(Hermits) make this choice [to make this inner journey] so that they might experience genuine hope rooted in God and the Christ Event for the sake of God's Kingdom and Gospel. Doctrine, per se, while important, is not enough for the life of the Body of Christ. Interpretations of the cross by others are a critical start, but what is essential if one is to really witness to the truth of the Gospel to others, and bring them to genuine hope, is the truth of our own experience -- even, and perhaps especially when that experience is one of journeying into the shadow of death and despair or near-despair. Recently, I said to my director, "I would not wish this particular journey on anyone, and yet, what I have come to as a result of this very journey, I want for everyone!"  

In the Catechism of the Catholic Church (Par 2283), we also hear: [[We should not despair of the eternal salvation of persons who have taken their own lives. By ways known to him alone, God can provide for the opportunity for salutary repentance. The Church prays for those persons who have taken their own lives.]] While I was not suicidal in the personal journey I referred to in my earlier post, because of the nature of that journey and its roots in past trauma and the search for healing, it definitely happened in incredible anguish and the shadow of death and despair or "near-despair". My sense is that Jesus' journey to Golgotha and beyond took him beyond this experience of mine into godless death itself, and still he remained open to God. 

The words of the catechism's reassurance is rarely far from me: "In ways known to Godself alone. . .." These words apply to so many things that seem absurd, incomprehensible, or overwhelming to us! They were also consciously present to me some of the time during the journey I have referred to; at other times, I now believe, they were an unconscious and strengthening pedal tone that made the journey possible at all. Even more strongly with me was Paul's similar assurance from Romans 8:37-39: No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

In other words, I did not lose hope (though sometimes what I felt made it seem a very near thing indeed!). Instead, I both drew on hope and sought it out in a deliberate search for healing. The irony or paradox here is that faith and hope are required to undertake and engage in such a journey to the depths of darkness and hopelessness in search of God, of one's truest self, and for the greater faith, hope, and abundant life to which this leads. 

Another way of saying this is to affirm that such a journey requires the trust of faith and the courage of hope to look despair full in the face, experience the pain and anguish of that reality as it may have existed in one's past, grieve it, reconcile oneself with it, and find both God and one's deepest self in the process. As I understand it, this inner journey is an essential part of the hermit's asceticism and "dying to self," albeit the "false self" that so distorts and limits our true humanity. Again, I am grateful to God for inspiring this journey and for sustaining me (and those accompanying me in various ways) throughout it. As noted above, I would not wish this particular journey on anyone, and yet, what I have come to as a result of this very journey, I want for everyone! It was not anathema (a curse) but truly a blessing.

Approaching Jesus' Ascension: Abba John Colobos and the Fruit of Obedience (Reprise)

 In the apothegmata (sayings) of the Desert Mothers and Fathers, the story is told of Desert Abba John Colobos' elder (mentor) having taken a dry stick and planted it in the ground. He told Abba John to go every day and irrigate the stick. John did so even though water was a long way away, and it meant John had to travel to the spring each evening only to return hours later at dawn. For three years, John made this trip every day. At the end of this time, we are told the stick turned green and flowered. John took the flowers to the Church and shared them with his brethren, saying, "Behold the fruit of obedience!" We hear in this story a clear lesson on the importance and the fruitfulness of persisting in obedience, not merely in the sense of doing what one is told, but in the very much richer and more challenging terms of entrusting oneself to the wisdom and loving mentoring of an elder in a way which, over time, produces astonishing fruit despite the evident impossibility and apparent absurdity of the project undertaken.

Variations on the Original Story:

Unfortunately, today, few are familiar with the original story, but many have heard scaled-down and skewed variations in which religious superiors demand something similar, usually in order to humiliate and bring to heel novices having difficulty submitting themselves to their superior's commands. In such stories, obedience is less about entrusting oneself to the love of an elder as a necessary part of long-term formation in life than it is about a blind "faith" which demands a subject check their intellect at the door or about breaking another's spirit and causing them to submit to one's will. It is less about opening oneself to a God one can trust to be present even in the darkness and more about simply saying yes to the absurd. It is far less about entrusting oneself to the wisdom of one who knows how to live eremitical life and who is immensely savvy in the ways of the human heart and far more about buying into a narrowly authoritarian notion of obedience.

It is not hard to see why believers and unbelievers alike ridicule the notion of religious obedience, and sometimes faith itself. We can hear them scoff: "Imagine someone persisting in the belief that a dead stick will one day flower! Imagine someone wasting their time, and even their entire lives in subjection to superiors (or a "gospel") that command such absurdities! Imagine such blind and entirely senseless 'faith' where someone submits to the punitive or at best, misguided commands of a superior moved by cruelty, ignorance, and even outright superstition!" We believers have not always done well with our foundational stories.

Desert Apothegm as Analogy of the Story of the Cross

I doubt that many of us today could imagine planting a wooden stick in the ground, watering it daily for years, and having anything fruitful at all come from such a project. Fewer still might listen to the story of Abba John Colobos and adopt such a stick as a symbol of profound hope, true wisdom, or supremely Good News. But it occurs to me that right at the heart of our faith is the story of a wooden stake planted in the ground and watered with blood and tears to bring forth astonishing, even measureless fruitfulness.  God takes the very symbol of barrenness, gratuitous suffering, senseless cruelty, hopelessness, and the despair of godless death, and through the faithful obedience (the trusting, persevering, openness, and responsiveness) of his Son, he redeems and transforms reality. Through this event, God destroys sin and death, brings about the reconciliation of all creation, transfigures it into a new creation that shares intimately in his own divine life, and prefigures the day of fulfillment when God will be all in all. In other words, it is through Jesus' own obedience that a barren stake of death is transformed by God into what Christians call today The Tree of Life.

And yet, we have not always done well in conveying this rock-bottom foundational story of our faith either. As with Abba John's response to his desert elder, Jesus' obedience was not simply a matter of doing what he was told; it was a matter of faithfully entrusting his entire life --- every moment and mood of it --- to the One whose wisdom was greater than his own and whose powerful and kenotic love he would, over time, come to embody or incarnate exhaustively. Obedience here would mean becoming the actual counterpart of the One he called Abba just as it would mean Jesus' committing his whole self to the service of all those whom this One loved and yet loves with an everlasting love. I am sure there were many times when such openness to his Father's will tempted Jesus to see his mission as marked and marred with futility. I am positive that working with his disciples and with the religious leadership of his day felt like trying to teach brainless and heartless chunks of wood to explode in cascades of flowers and fruit. Perhaps this is part of the reason Jesus was so upset by the barren fig tree.

Over the past 40-some days, we have heard a number of similar stories rooted in the power and model of Jesus. Paul's own story is one of a man converted to what must have seemed like a futile project and who persevered in his own obedience nonetheless. Certainly, some of the original Apostles in Jerusalem thought his mission to the Gentiles made as much sense as John Colobos' apparently absurd stick-watering --- especially since these Gentiles lacked the roots of the Jewish Law and covenant to build on. And yet, Paul and his pastoral assistants brought incredible fruit from what was considered to be Gentile's religious rootlessness and barrenness. Paul in particular entrusted himself to the crucified Christ, rethought Judaism in light of the cross and resurrection, and forever changed the face of Christianity from a sect of Judaism to a worldwide faith with a mission to proclaim the Gospel to everyone without limits or boundaries. Every story of martyrdom, every witness to the Gospel, every call to forgive and be forgiven, every commission to minister to others in the power of the cross, reminds us that what we proclaim is a scandal to religious folks and foolishness to the wise of this world. It is our own revealed version of the stick-watering story of Abba John Colobos.

Applying the Story of Abba John Colobos Today:

In today's readings, both Paul and Jesus entrust the story of the barren-stick-turned-fruitful-bough to us. This is the proclamation or kerygma we are entrusted with by God, a bit of Christian foolishness many will simply deride, the proclamation we call Gospel. This Friday, we will hear the story of Peter's "rehabilitation" by the risen Christ and his call to "feed Christ's lambs, feed Christ's sheep." Because he entrusted himself to Christ's reconciling love we have a Church whose highest leadership is summoned to be a model of obedient love and servanthood.

The mission we are given, the obedience to which we are called -- a responsive commission ratified and empowered at Pentecost ---requires perseverance and trust in a love and wisdom greater than our own.  It means being asked to do great things in our world, but far more often it means saying a trusting yes to small, ordinary acts of faithfulness which -- at least in the short term -- seem to be worthless and of no great moment at all. Especially, it means opening ourselves daily so that the Holy Spirit of both the Father and Son together may empower a responsiveness that brings life out of death, hope out of despair, and an often pervasively barren world to flower in faith and new life.

Like Paul and Peter, like John Colobos and armies of Desert Abbas and Ammas, like Christians of every age and culture we are each called to labor daily to water all of these tasks and many others with ourselves, with our tears of love, joy, grief, and sometimes even with our very blood; more, we are asked to embrace and persevere in our commitments of self-gift so that the scandal and foolishness of the Cross may continue to cause the whole creation to sing in joy, "Behold the New Creation, behold the fruit of obedience!"

N. B. References to readings are taken from the original article, May 2016.

Why does the Church Need Hermits? On the Journey of Existential Solitude and Jesus' Cry of Abandonment

[[Hi Sister, is the inner journey you speak about under the name "existential solitude" frightening? Maybe that's a weird question, but you have said that everyone hesitates to undertake this journey even though it is necessary in order to be truly human. Why is this form of solitude so scary, or why do people want to avoid it? You also said, My sense is that Vatican II gave us a more robust access to Scripture and to a Jesus whose humanity was rooted in faithful prayer (i.e., dialogue with God at every level of his being) and expressed in his active ministry and life with others, as well as in his regular turn to solitude. Both of these revealed Jesus' union with God and the nature of divinity and humanity. But if Jesus was rooted in prayer in this way and united with God, why did he cry out in abandonment on the cross? Did God really leave him, and if he did, then how did God raise him from the dead? I have never understood that or believed that God would abandon any of us, so how could he abandon his only begotten Son? The way I have felt about this is, if God could do that to Jesus, then what chance do any of us have?]]

These are all great questions, and difficult ones. They are questions I have struggled with myself, especially in light of my own recent experience of journeying to the depths of myself and there discovering both God and my deepest, truest self. I haven't asked the questions in the same way you have. What I said to myself was, if Jesus was entirely open and attentive to God (because that is what obedience means), and if he was open in this way even unto death on a cross (even unto sinful or godless death), how could he have not been aware of God's presence unless God truly turned away from him? And yet, how can Jesus reveal God is truly and most profoundly God With Us, if he is a God who abandons us in our sinfulness? I recognize there is paradox right at the heart of this experience of Jesus, but this didn't completely resolve my own questions --- especially as I made my own journey into the center of my Self and discovered the deep darkness and hunger there.

Thomas Merton once wrote, [[My brother, perhaps in my solitude I have become as it were an explorer for you, a searcher in realms which you are not able to visit -- except perhaps in the company of your psychologist. I have been summoned to explore a desert area of man's heart in which explanations no longer suffice, and in which one learns that only experience counts. An arid, rocky, dark land of the soul, sometimes illuminated by strange fires which men fear and peopled by spectres which men studiously avoid except in their nightmares. And in this area I have learned that one cannot truly know hope unless he has found out how like despair hope is.]] It was reflecting and meditating on that last sentence, and in conversations with my spiritual director exploring my own experience and the meaning of all that, that I came to an understanding of what Jesus' cry of abandonment both did and didn't mean.

After all, what does it mean to say that despair and hope are very like one another? This line of Merton's comments fascinated me precisely because of my own inner journey where, in the midst of darkness and anguish, I came to experience light and know hope in a new way. And yet, I also knew I had never felt abandoned by God, was never abandoned by God! So, how could Jesus have been? Was this also something Jesus' death and resurrection changed? Or, did God abandon Jesus and then come back to raise him from the depths of godforsakenness? (I admit, that last possibility didn't make theological sense to me!) Was Jesus' cry of dereliction like my own cry in the darkness of despair or near despair? Did he discover God there in that dark and anguished journey to the depths as I had recently done? But I knew that Jesus' cry was from a darker and more anguished and godforsaken place than my own could ever be precisely because Jesus had made that journey before me, and for that reason, because he implicated God in even that godless place/space/time, I truly never had experienced abandonment by God.

And this still left me wondering what abandonment meant in Jesus' cry. If he was abandoned by God, then how had God raised him from godless death? How could Jesus continue to "exist" at all? And if God continued to hold Jesus in existence in some way, then how could someone entirely open to God, as the scriptures tell us Jesus was, not sense God's presence? I won't multiply my questions further here. Needless to say, there were a number of them. So, I began at the beginning by looking up the Greek word for abandonment. What I discovered was that it is a composite word made up of three words: to leave, as in forsaken; down, as in (experiencing) defeat or hopelessness; and in, as in (left in) a set of hostile circumstances. When I put these together, I saw that "abandoned" meant "left in a hopeless set of hostile circumstances" or better, God "failed to rescue" Jesus from these circumstances. Abandonment thus meant the absence of rescue. And then I remembered several examples of someone loving me precisely in NOT rescuing me from terrible circumstances. One of these involved a story I believe I have told here before regarding my major theology teacher and a group of us undergraduates.

John Dwyer once said, "If I see you (any of you students) doing something stupid, I will not stop you! The majors among us looked bewilderedly at one another and asked, "But he loves us! How could he not rescue us??!!" John saw all this and went on, "If you are impaired in some way, yes, I will intervene, but if you are just making a stupid decision, I will not stop you!" He continued, "Let me be clear. I will always be there for you, and I will do what I can to help you both before and afterwards, but I will not rescue you from your decisions." It took me years to learn that this was what genuine love looked like!! It took me even longer to see this as the key to understanding Jesus' cry of abandonment.

Jesus "set his face toward Jerusalem". He took step after fateful step toward the authorities' violent reactions and subsequent actions as he continued to proclaim his Father's kingdom. His prayer in Gethsemane asked his Father if there wasn't another way, and, I believe that in response, his Abba asked him to continue acting with integrity,  choosing to discern and continue his vocation step by step, wherever those steps led him; I also believe he promised Jesus he would be with him -- for that was also his will. Jesus' Abba promised to reveal himself fully as Emmanuel (God with us), and Jesus continued to act with integrity and trust in his Abba's promises. God did NOT promise to rescue Jesus from the hostile circumstances his integrity led him to face. Quite the contrary. And in the very depths of Jesus' journey into the darkest absence of being and meaning, life and love, God was there. But Jesus' question in the Garden was also sharpened there on the cross: why can't you pluck me out of this situation? Why HAVEN'T you rescued me? How will you vindicate me and, more importantly, my proclamation of the truth of your Reign, your sovereignty, if sinful, godless death is allowed to win out? Don't you see, godless death is swallowing me up!! I have nothing whatsoever left to give!! My God (not the more intimate, Abba!), why haven't you rescued me? 

I don't think there is any sense that Jesus felt God turning away in a failure to love him -- and usually, it seems to me, that is what we mean when we speak of being abandoned by someone, namely, they failed or ceased to love us adequately or appropriately. God did not rescue Jesus from the depths of the darkness and anguish of his journey into godless, sinful death, but neither did he cease loving him profoundly and effectively. Neither did Jesus, for his part, close himself off from God (or from the depths of darkness and anguish). Jesus remained wholly open to God, and God continued to accompany him as Emmanuel into the farthest, most alien land we know. Here is the paradox. In his moment of deepest distress and even despair or near-despair, God was there and would bring consolation and life out of it all -- though not immediately or in the way we tend to expect or desire, perhaps. And this dark, even horrific, journey that Jesus made was made for God's sake and for ours. Indeed, it was the most human journey we are each called to make, the journey of inner or existential solitude where what seems infinitely dark and empty of either being or meaning to us, is also the place where we discover the presence of God, and so, a hope that is capable of sustaining and enlivening us in unimaginable ways.

We often want to be rescued from circumstances, and we cry out to God and others when this occurs, but God does not promise us rescue in the usual sense people mean this, I think. God's rescue means to give us the space to be ourselves and experience the consequences of our decisions (along with the consequences of others' decisions and actions as well, whether these are loving or unloving), and it means he will accompany us there. God's rescue means giving life and meaning to our circumstances, sometimes immediately, often eventually, or even only ultimately. God's rescue means transfiguring our darkness and anguish into sources of grace and hope, life and love, confidence and trust. He does this with his Mysterious presence, a presence we may not always be aware of and can never "comprehend". One point is incontrovertible: God cannot do this if he simply lifts us out of these circumstances and drops us into what is really some (or no) other person's life. That, as I eventually learned from John Dwyer's comments that day in that moral theology class, and from my spiritual director and others, for instance, would not really be loving.

The journey Jesus made, from birth right on up to Golgotha and beyond, was thoroughly human. Yes, in many ways, it was also the journey that human sin colored and made necessary. It was the journey of existential solitude, the journey we each make throughout life as we embrace death in all of its many degrees, forms, and faces so that God might redeem these with and in his life and love. Though you didn't ask about this, Merton understood that hermits (and monks and nuns more generally) make this inner journey in a way most do not because they choose and commit their lives to doing so!** They make this choice so that they might experience genuine hope rooted in God and the Christ Event for the sake of God's Kingdom and Gospel. Doctrine, per se, while important, is not enough for the life of the Body of Christ. Interpretations of the cross by others are a critical start, but what is essential if one is to really witness to the truth of the Gospel to others, and bring them to genuine hope, is the truth of our own experience -- even, and perhaps especially when that experience is one of journeying into the shadow of death and despair or near-despair. Recently, I said to my director, "I would not wish this particular journey on anyone, and yet, what I have come to as a result of this very journey, I want for everyone!" 

I think that too is reflected in Merton's comments cited above and in the following continuation of those comments, The language of Christianity has been so used and so misused that sometimes [we] distrust it: [we] don't know whether behind the word 'Cross' there stands the experience of mercy and salvation, or only the threat of punishment. If my word means anything to you, I can say that I have experienced the Cross to mean mercy and not cruelty, truth and not deception: that the news of the truth and love of Jesus is indeed the good news, but in our time it speaks out in strange places. Recently, as I think you refer to, I wrote about hermits under c 603 as pioneers and explorers. What hermits explore is the realm of existential solitude, and that brings with it both great suffering and ineffable joy. We do this because our experience here undergirds and verifies the Church's proclamation of the Gospel. We do this for her, as well as for ourselves and for the entire world. 

One person recently also asked me if I knew what I was committing myself to when I made my perpetual eremitical profession and accepted consecration. I have to say, no, not clearly. Maybe hardly at all. It never occurred to me that the darknesses and anguished places I explored along this journey could truly benefit anyone -- sometimes not even myself -- yet now I know that in that "strange place" occasioned by trauma and serious and chronic illness, that place where I faced despair and the desire for death straight on while yearning almost beyond words for life and wholeness, is a privileged place where I met God (and my truest self) and was granted the hope, joy, and healing that such an encounter brings. THAT is the journey of existential solitude, and it is also the heart of Paul's theology of the Cross that I, in my youthful "naivete", once told Abp Vigneron I wanted to explore and understand completely. 

I know this doesn't answer all of your questions, but it is already quite long, and I hope it is a good start. May the peace of Christ be with you!!

** Consider what every Benedictine affirms as their primary motivation when they enter a monastery. They declare they are here "to seek God". They do this, not because they do not know God or because God has "gone missing" from the larger world, but because they do not know themselves or God as well or as profoundly as they are called to, and because the monastery (or hermitage) is a privileged place to pursue such intimate knowing. It is this journey of existential solitude, a journey in search of fullness of life and hope rooted in God, that they enter to pursue. So too with every hermit under c 603.

On the Hermit's Role in Providing a Sense of Privacy to Others

[[Dear Sister, what you wrote about privacy vs hiddenness made me wonder if one of the things a hermit brings to this world (especially to the internet) is a sense of privacy. If the internet is as influential as we all know it is, and if it leads to the erosion of boundaries, as you and others say it does, then would a hermit using the internet as you do have a role to play in educating people about this dimension of living?]]

That's an interesting question. My answer would be that we do so indirectly. Directly, I don't think it is the hermit's place (or at least it is not my place) to educate about privacy and the internet except in regard to issues like the one I just wrote about, that is, the difference between hiddenness and privacy, the need for respect for oneself and others in whatever one communicates publicly, and the necessity of discernment for the sake of the eremitical vocation and one's readers or viewers. It is also important for the hermit to be able to distinguish between inner (existential) and external solitude and to appreciate existential solitude's requirements of discretion and privacy. 

It is true that I would hope all hermits model a sense of these realities and how they are related in whatever they write or produce, and I certainly believe we each have a responsibility to do so, not least, out of charity for God, ourselves, and others, but this is an indirect way of educating. Having said that, I am aware that in writing about existential solitude and the inviolable, ineffable nature of this journey, a hermit or other contemplative might be coming very close to educating about the relationship of privacy and personal integrity,  but again, I think this is indirect. Still, modeling values is a significant way to teach about them, so my response to your first sentence about "bringing a sense of privacy" is that yes, hermits should certainly do this. What a great paradox that is!

By the way, what I wrote in the last post about habits and titles reminds me of the use of a prayer garment or eremitic (or monastic) cowl. I believe symbolizing the inviolability of existential solitude, and so, a reminder of the need for ensuring privacy for oneself and others, is one of the reasons hermits and some other religious wear cowls with hoods up at times. It is also the reason monks and nuns practice forms of custody of the eyes (see my earlier post on this from several years ago). Thanks very much for the question. I enjoyed thinking and writing about this.