Contemplation was never meant to help us escape life. It was meant to return us to life awake.

I get it.

There is something wonderfully romantic about seeing an ancient monastery in the distance, tucked into the side of a mountain, almost disappearing into the mist.

Stone walls. Bells marking the hours. Monks walking quietly through cloisters worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Prayer before dawn. Work with the hands. Bread. Gardens. Books. Silence.

Part of me looks at that and thinks:

Now that would be the life.

And perhaps that tells us something important about the enduring appeal of contemplation.

Historically, monasteries became some of Christianity's great laboratories of the interior life. Men and women withdrew from the noise of civilization to pray, work, study, listen, and seek God in silence.

There is something extraordinarily beautiful about that.

But there is also a temptation hidden in the mist.

Because when family relationships become complicated, work becomes overwhelming, money becomes tight, someone we love becomes sick, a marriage struggles, our plans fall apart, or death suddenly enters the room, the monastery on the distant hillside begins to look especially attractive.

Sometimes it seems easier to escape life than engage it.

And engagement can take everything we have.

Thomas Merton, one of the great contemplatives of the twentieth century, understood the danger of imagining contemplation as withdrawal from humanity. He wrote:

“Love is our true destiny.”

Not escape.

Not isolation.

Love.

And love, unfortunately for those of us who would occasionally prefer the monastery, requires other people.

Then I Look at Jesus

Whenever I become confused about Christianity, I find myself returning to Jesus.

What did he actually do?

Jesus certainly withdrew.

Again and again.

Luke tells us:

“Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.”
— Luke 5:16

Mark tells us:

“Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.”
— Mark 1:35

Before choosing the twelve apostles:

“Jesus went out to a mountainside to pray, and spent the night praying to God.”
— Luke 6:12

Jesus had his mountaintop experiences.

Silence was not an occasional spiritual luxury for him.

It appears to have been a way of life.

But here is what interests me.

Jesus always came back down the mountain.

He returned to people.

To sickness.

To arguments.

To children.

To religious controversy.

To hungry crowds.

To grieving families.

To prostitutes and tax collectors.

To Pharisees.

To friends who disappointed him.

To disciples who misunderstood him.

To people who wanted something from him.

To people who rejected him.

Eventually, he returned to Jerusalem knowing exactly what awaited him.

Jesus withdrew into silence, but he never used silence to escape life.

He used silence to prepare himself to enter life more completely.

That distinction may be the difference between contemplation and escapism.

Jesus Engaged

We sometimes turn Jesus into such a serene religious figure that we forget how thoroughly engaged he was with the messiness of human existence.

Jesus attended weddings.

He ate dinner with people considered morally questionable.

He touched lepers.

He spoke with women society ignored.

He welcomed children when his own disciples wanted them removed.

He cried at the grave of his friend Lazarus.

He fed hungry people.

He restored dignity to people whose dignity had been taken from them.

He debated theologians.

He confronted political and religious power.

He overturned tables.

He forgave sinners.

He challenged the wealthy.

He defended the vulnerable.

He washed feet.

He told stories.

He asked questions.

He listened.

And he repeatedly confronted religious leaders whose traditions had become more important than the human beings those traditions were supposed to serve.

That should make all religious people—including me—a little uncomfortable.

Jesus said:

“You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions.”
— Mark 7:8

That is a frightening sentence.

Because religious traditions can become so familiar that we stop recognizing them as traditions.

They simply become:

the way God wants things done.

And once that happens, we can spend enormous amounts of energy defending things Jesus never asked us to defend.

I Learned Something About This in a New Members Class

For years I led a new members class at a dynamic, growing church.

The class lasted four weeks.

And something beautiful almost always happened.

People bonded.

Not because everyone believed exactly the same thing.

Not because everyone came from the same background.

Not because everyone understood Scripture the same way.

We bonded because we talked about things that actually mattered.

We told our stories.

Where did you come from?

What has happened to you?

Where is your faith?

Where have you struggled?

What brought you here?

What are you searching for?

What has God done in your life?

Suddenly people who had been strangers were no longer strangers.

Their stories had made them human to one another.

C. S. Lewis wrote:

“Friendship is born at that moment when one man says to another: What! You too?”

That is exactly what happened.

You too?

You struggled?

You doubted?

You lost someone?

You made mistakes?

You have questions?

You are trying to figure this out too?

There is something sacred about discovering that another human being carries many of the same questions we carry.

For a few weeks, we stopped being categories and became people.

And then inevitably we would get to music.

And Then We Started Talking About the Organ

This was almost always where trouble appeared.

Some wanted traditional hymns.

Others wanted contemporary praise music.

Some were convinced that church simply wasn't church without an organ.

Others thought the piano was too informal.

And, listening to some of the conversations, you could almost imagine Moses descending from Mount Sinai carrying stone tablets engraved with instructions for pipe organs and hymnals.

Of course, none of that is in the Bible.

And there is something wonderfully ironic about how quickly yesterday's innovation becomes today's sacred tradition.

The point isn't whether hymns are better than contemporary music.

I love many of the old hymns.

The point is how easily the small things become the big things.

We had just spent weeks talking about grace, forgiveness, suffering, family, doubt, redemption, Jesus, and the mystery of God.

We had shared our lives.

And suddenly we were capable of becoming divided over musical instruments.

I sometimes wonder how often Christianity still does this.

Jesus said:

“You blind guides! You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel.”
— Matthew 23:24

That may be one of the most humorous—and devastating—things Jesus ever said.

We are remarkably talented at gnats.

Culturally Curated Christianity

Every generation inherits a version of Christianity.

Some of it is beautiful.

Some of it is ancient wisdom handed faithfully from one generation to another.

Some of it is simply culture wearing religious clothing.

And distinguishing between the two requires discernment.

Søren Kierkegaard spent much of his life attacking what he saw as comfortable cultural Christianity. He believed Christianity had become something people inherited rather than something they actually lived.

He wrote:

“Christ did not appoint professors, but followers.”

That sentence still stings.

Because it is possible to know a great deal about Christianity without actually following Christ.

It is possible to defend Jesus without becoming like Jesus.

It is possible to memorize Scripture while ignoring the person standing directly in front of us.

It is possible to worship the Prince of Peace while enjoying conflict.

It is possible to preach grace while withholding it.

It is possible to sing about love while refusing to love someone who thinks differently from us.

Paul understood the danger:

“Knowledge puffs up while love builds up.”
— 1 Corinthians 8:1

And then, of course:

“If I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.”
— 1 Corinthians 13:2

Nothing.

That is an astonishing word.

Not less spiritual.

Not slightly misguided.

Nothing.

The Monastery Is Not the Destination

This is where contemplation becomes essential.

Because contemplation keeps bringing us back to the center.

Silence removes many of the places we hide.

In silence there is no audience to impress.

No argument to win.

No social media post to answer.

No reputation to manage.

No sermon to give.

No theological position to defend.

Eventually there is simply:

you, God, and reality.

The Psalmist says:

“Be still, and know that I am God.”
— Psalm 46:10

Elijah discovered God not in the wind, earthquake, or fire, but in what Scripture describes as:

“a gentle whisper.”
— 1 Kings 19:12

Pascal famously observed:

“All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”

That may be an exaggeration.

But not by much.

Because silence eventually introduces us to the person we spend much of our lives avoiding.

Ourselves.

Carl Jung wrote:

“Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”

Contemplation turns us inward—not so that we remain inward, but so that we can return outward awake.

That is the pattern I see in Jesus.

Withdraw.
Listen.
Return.
Engage.
Love.
Withdraw again.

Silence and engagement.

Contemplation and action.

Mountain and marketplace.

The Great Temptation of Spirituality

The temptation is to use spirituality to avoid reality.

Sometimes we can even use God to avoid God.

We read another book.

Attend another conference.

Listen to another sermon.

Study another theological question.

Learn another spiritual practice.

Go on another retreat.

And all of those things can be wonderful.

But eventually Jesus brings us back down the mountain.

There is still someone we need to forgive.

There is still an apology we need to make.

There is still a lonely person who needs companionship.

There is still injustice that requires courage.

There is still a marriage that requires patience.

There is still a child who needs our attention.

There is still a neighbor we don't particularly like.

There is still grief we have not faced.

There is still a truth we don't want to admit.

There is still someone lying beside the road.

And Jesus asks the same uncomfortable question he asked through the story of the Good Samaritan:

Will you stop?

The priest had religion.

The Levite had religion.

The Samaritan engaged.

Jesus concluded:

“Go and do likewise.”
— Luke 10:37

Not:

Go and think likewise.

Do.

That is praxis.

Contemplation Without Love Is Just Another Form of Ego

The contemplative life can become another identity.

I meditate.

I understand mysticism.

I read Merton.

I practice silence.

I have transcended all those noisy religious people.

And suddenly the ego has simply put on a monk's robe.

Thomas à Kempis warned centuries ago:

“At the Day of Judgment we shall not be asked what we have read, but what we have done.”

The test of contemplation is not how peaceful I feel while sitting alone.

The test is who I become when someone interrupts my peace.

Can I remain present?

Can I listen?

Can I forgive?

Can I see?

Can I love?

Because Jesus gave us an extraordinarily simple measure:

“By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”
— John 13:35

Not our music.

Not our buildings.

Not our denominations.

Not our politics.

Not our theological sophistication.

Not our ability to win arguments.

Love.

Presence

Perhaps this is what we are actually seeking when the monastery in the mist captures our imagination.

Not escape.

Presence.

We were created for Presence.

Presence with God.

Presence with ourselves.

Presence with creation.

Presence with one another.

The tragedy is that we spend so much of our lives somewhere else.

We are physically here but mentally yesterday or tomorrow.

Replaying.

Planning.

Regretting.

Worrying.

Defending.

Imagining.

Judging.

Jesus keeps returning us to now.

“Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.”
— Matthew 6:34

The kingdom of God is not merely somewhere we go when we die.

Jesus said:

“The kingdom of God is in your midst.”
— Luke 17:21

Here.

Now.

This person.

This moment.

This breath.

This conversation.

This opportunity to love.

The Soulprint Rhythm

Perhaps the monastery still has something essential to teach us.

But we don't all need to move into one.

We need to discover its rhythm.

Silence and engagement.
Solitude and community.
Contemplation and action.
Withdrawal and return.
Being and doing.

Jesus went to the mountain.

And Jesus came back down.

Maybe that is the rhythm.

Go into silence long enough to remember who you are.

Sit before God long enough for the masks to become uncomfortable.

Listen long enough to distinguish God's whisper from the noise of your own ego.

Become still enough to recognize the image of God within yourself.

And then—

come back down the mountain.

There are people waiting.

There is work to do.

There are wounds to heal.

There are tables where someone needs a seat.

There are religious assumptions worth questioning.

There are stories worth hearing.

There are enemies who somehow must become neighbors.

There are people who need mercy.

There is bread to break.

There are feet to wash.

There is a world desperately hungry for people who have spent enough time in silence that they no longer need to make everything about themselves.

Frederick Buechner wrote:

“The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet.”

I love that.

Because our spiritual journey eventually must meet the world's hunger.

Otherwise it remains incomplete.

The monastery is beautiful.

The silence is necessary.

The mountain is sacred.

But Jesus always came back down.

And so must we.

Perhaps the purpose of contemplation was never to escape the world.

Perhaps it is to become quiet enough to hear God whisper:

Now go back into it.

And love.