Do not grant newcomers to the monastic life an easy entry, but, as the Apostle says, Test the spirits to see if they are from God (1 John 4:1)
-Rule of Benedict Ch.58
To begin, my journey to Newark in the first place was a little rocky. After taking the 5am flight from Bemidji International Airport (yes, that is a real airport) to MSP, I spent a day saying goodbye to friends. That night, we all got together for a joint going-away party/birthday celebration for a friend. I was reluctant to utter the term “going-away party”, because last time I had one of those was when I left for the Marines, and we all know how that turned out.
After a fun night out on town at the infamous Cowboy Jack’s, we returned to their house for late-night pizza and conversation. I will admit that at this point I had failed my personal promise of “not drinking too much” and came up with the fantastic idea of staying up through the night to catch my 6am flight to Newark. My thought was that I could spend more time to make sure I didn’t forget anything (I did), sober up on the Uber ride to the airport (I didn’t), sleep well on the plane (I couldn’t), and arrive feeling well-rested in Newark (certainly wrong). Instead, I arrived at the Newark airport and was picked up by the sub-prior bleary-eyed, sweaty, and with a pounding headache. I told him that my obvious lethargy and nausea was because I “don’t handle plane rides well”. Nobody tell him that my mother is a flight attendant, and that I’ve loved plane rides since I was a baby.
The first place he took me in Newark was the Wal-Mart to get some supplies. Anybody who frequents Wal-Mart knows that they have their own culture altogether. However, after walking into this particular Wally World, I was struck by only one thought: Where are all the white people? I promise it is not my usual exaggeration when I say that I was the only white person in the entire store. The rest of my Wal-Mart experience was typical, with screaming babies, grumpy cashiers, and people who drive shopping carts like they’re bumper cars. As comforting as this familiarity was, I couldn’t shake the feeling of isolation and standing-out that I felt. It also didn’t help that I decided to wear multiple items of Patagonia that day, so I looked more like a frat boy that had too many White Claws than a monastic volunteer. That was my first inkling of how different my time in Newark would be. Toto, we’re not in Kansas Bemidji anymore.
After arriving at the monastery, I was welcomed and shown around the property— grass and brick buildings that stand out as an oasis in the concrete and steel of Newark. The dining rooms, living spaces, and hallways are small, but are built with the beautiful simplicity that Benedictine Monasteries are known for. The monks greeted me a little cautiously, but friendly enough, and some of them seemed genuinely excited that another volunteer has joined the other three that are already there.
I’ve already gotten to join for several of the prayers, and I remember part of why I’m so drawn to Benedictine Spirituality in the first place: the sense of calm that is present no matter where you are in the world. It is easy to find a sense of peace in the serene wilderness around Saint John’s Abbey, but fostering that same sense of peace when multiple sirens go by during Vespers? It lets you know that there is more going on than just sitting in wooden stalls and chanting words in a dead language.
Only two more days and I’ll officially be a Benedictine Volunteer longer than I tried to be a Marine!
Pace,
Jack Barsody, Confused Monastic Intern
The Monastic Intern 