Lectio
“A brother came to Scetis in the Egyptian desert to visit Abba Moses and asked him ‘Father, give me a word.’
The old man said to him ‘Go, sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.’”
— Sayings of the Desert Fathers
Meditatio
For years, I have been sitting prayerfully with and carrying around in the back of my mind something that Abba Moses, one of the desert fathers of early Christian monasticism said, “Go, sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.” In nearly any search of the sayings of the desert fathers and mothers, this saying comes up as one of the, if not the, most well known of all of these ancient, often mysterious spiritual aphorisms from ascetics and saints who fled society to be with God alone in a life of unceasing prayer.
Having been a student of these ascetic monks, and having practiced contemplative prayer for many years now, I’ve always had some idea what Abba Moses meant, but this spare, seemingly simple saying contains within it many lifetimes worth of hard-won spiritual wisdom — wisdom that even deep prayer may not reveal, for only grace can do so.
The sayings of the saints, the monks, and the mystics are only truly understood through lived experience and the inner revelation of the grace of the Spirit who, alone, makes understanding possible. We only truly understand what the Spirit is teaching through these teachers when the Spirit chooses to put us in their place, to live, to see, and to feel as they lived, saw, and felt.
I had some such experience with the wisdom of Abba Moses while camping with my wife, daughter, and a group of family friends recently. I tend to live a relatively structured, routine-driven life. This is largely by necessity, but it is also, in many ways Spirit-led, in that I have found that I am most spiritually connected and settled with a certain set of daily and weekly routines within which I am more easily able to sense the movements of the Spirit and my movements away from it when I inevitably do so. Naturally, going on vacation — something others seem to look forward to and enjoy much more than I do — disrupts my daily habits in a way that I often find unsettling and unpleasant.
On multiple levels, camping with a large group of people is perhaps the most extreme example of disruption to my routines that I have experienced. For many people, camping means resting, relaxing, and spending time communing with nature and one another. For me, while I often wish this were true, it means that I am not sleeping where I always sleep, waking up when I always wake up, praying where and when I always pray, attending morning Mass at my local parish or teaching jiu-jitsu at my academy, and this break from routine is emotionally and spiritually challenging for me in a way that the people around me, who seem to be at perfect peace and ease in nature and with one another, albeit with the assistance of the dubious emotional comforter and social lubricant that is alcohol, seem to be unfazed by.
But none of this pleases me. I not wish to be this constrained by own heart or habits. For as long as I can remember, I have always felt out of place within the social contexts within which others seem to find pleasure and comfort. And this has not been for lack of desire or effort on my part. I have spent many years of my life trying to live like others, attempting to enjoy what others enjoy, and going to great lengths to fit in or at least to try to understand what they have in them that seems to be missing in me. As the years have passed, however, I am slowly coming to understand that it is not what I am lacking that has set me apart, but rather what is in me and where it pulls me that does so — and that is that, for reasons unknown to me, and more often than not resisted or rejected by me, the Spirit of the Lord has been drawing me away from the finite pleasures and comforts of the world and into and toward Himself ever since I was a child. I have no explanation for this. I certainly did not ask for it, nor do I deserve it. And yet, it is at times undeniable to me that the Lord is calling me to Himself, alone, and that nothing less than perfect, eternal union with God will bring me the peace or satisfaction for which my heart longs.
Which brings me back to camping. In this place, out of my element and out of my routine, I find myself wondering why I am here, what I am doing, and why I feel so out of place. It shouldn’t be this way. I’m in nature with family and friends, and we are doing fun things, eating good food, and, by all outward appearances and worldly standards, all is well. Most importantly, perhaps, my daughter is in her element, enjoying the outdoors, playing with her friends, and experiencing new adventures as a child should do. I know this is a wonderful moment in a blessed life, and yet I am distraught, like something is wrong, like something is missing for me — like something is missing in me.
As the sun sets over the mountains, everyone gathers around the campfire. After a fierce water balloon battle with me and two other dads, the kids bundle up together to make smores while the adults drink and talk. But I find myself wandering away, wondering why I feel exiled from all of this by my own heart and my own longing for something else, not because this is not good. It is good. The Lord said so. Rather, at least for me, it is not the one thing that gives all other things meaning. Nor is it the one horizon toward which my heart’s gaze stares. And so I sit on tbe porch, alone, reading a book.
Time passes by and, one by one, everyone begins to retire for the evening, myself included. My wife heads to bed in the hand-built room offered us by our friends, and my daughter goes into a tent with her friends. I finish my book, say my prayers, and settle in for the night. The next morning, I wake up early as I usually do. Only a few people are up, and it is quiet in a way that it can only be in a mountain valley at dawn. I feel comforted by the quiet and consider doing my morning prayers outsise. But as time passes, more and more people begin to emerge from their tents and trailers, and I feel called to retreat back to my room.
In our room, there is simply a bed, a table, a mirror, a wall-mounted ac unit, and a window. It’s small, cozy, and perfectly suited for retreating from the elements and the stirring beginning to happen outside. I sit on the bed with my daily devotional readings, my rosary, and my prayers. As I sit in silence, I can hear all of the people outside making coffee, preparing breakfast, and talking about how they slept. It all feels so tempting and so normal. But I remain in my room — in my cell, as Abba Moses might call it — silent, listening, and letting it all float by my mind like leaves floating down the river my daughter played in the day before. This is my vow of renunciation. This is my vow of silence. This is my vow of stability. And my room becomes my teacher.
Oratio
Nothing Without You
Lord I do not know
what I want
nor do I know
what I need
but somehow I know
that I need You
and that should be enough
yet I do not know
how to find You
I do not know
how to have You
I do not know
how to be with You
how to give myself to You
how to receive Your Self in me
but I have nothing left, Lord
I have nothing without You
Contemplatio
What would it mean to let your ordinary room become holy ground?
Related Scripture
“But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.”
— Psalm 131:2 (NRSVCE)
For Further Reading
For Further Reading: If you enjoyed this post, you may also like Given Freely and Eternally: Spiritual Gifts as Participation in God, which explores how the gifts God gives us — like the wisdom our own stillness can teach — were never ours to earn or claim, only to receive.
Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity.
Wrestling With God.
Returning To Love.
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