The Retreat that Wasn’t (But Kinda Was)
I had been so looking forward to CMMR’s Holy Cross retreat; for three years I spent every Friday there, worshiping, eating, and laughing with the monks. I was even married there! And even though several of the monks I was close to have died, and my own spiritual director left for another monastic community, Holy Cross will forever hold a special place in my heart. And it doesn’t hurt that it’s bucolic and beautiful, especially in the fall, when the leaves in upstate New York are nothing short of a kaleidoscopic frenzy of gold, copper, and the deepest shade of red. God’s artistry at work.
When we booked the retreat the protocol was that all guests had to show their covid vaccine cards, and all would be well, which we were grateful for. But unfortunately, the week before the retreat, we received a letter advising that, due to a spike in the numbers, the protocols had changed. Everyone would have to wear masks at all times indoors, and couldn’t participate in chanting or singing in chapel; nor could we eat with the monks in the refectory or interact much with them. I was devastated! I have medical issues that make it impossible for me to wear a mask for more than a few minutes at a time, and trauma issues that pretty much prohibit me from spending time with a roomful of strangers in masks. With deep, deep, deep sadness I was forced to cancel my retreat, although Father Rob and Brother Joey still went.
I decided to spend the time in New York City and try to make a retreat for myself as best I could, with the bonus of getting to see my kids before my scheduled visit in December. On my first day, after going to an early Mass at St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church, which is right across the street from my mom’s apartment, I spent two hours in St. John Nepomucene Church, a Slovak Roman-Catholic Church that I often visit when I stay with my mom (as it’s just 10 blocks away and right near my favorite local coffee shop). It’s a traditionally beautiful cruciform church, with a domed chancel and a gorgeous painted ceiling. To the right of the main altar is an Our Lady of Grace shrine, and to the left a shrine to the Divine Mercy. There are light-filled, brightly-colored stained glass windows. I prayed to the Divine Mercy, and then to Our Lady for a while, lit a candle, and then sat in silence, breathing deeply. Lots of people came in and out to pray, and they didn’t seem like tourists. Maybe that’s why this church always feels so holy – the air is saturated with prayer.
After church I went into the coffee shop and began reading a book by Catherine de Hueck Doherty, who had been a friend of Thomas Merton’s, called Poustinia: Encountering God in Silence, Solitude, and Prayer. Poustinia is a Russian word meaning “desert,” and is a place one goes for a time to be in silence and solitude. She says of it, “Poustinia is the place where we can go in order to gather courage to speak the words of truth, remembering that truth is God, and that we proclaim the word of God. The poustinia will cleanse us and prepare us to do so, like burning coal the angel placed on the lips of the prophet” (14). And it begins with silence. Of silence she says, “Silence is the suspension bridge that a soul in love with God builds to cross the dark, frightening gullies of its own mind, the strange chasms of temptation, the depthless precipices of its own fears that impede its way to God” (4-5). Silence in the midst of a busy NYC avenue is no easy feat, so I am always grateful for churches that open their doors to pilgrims like me (sadly, most of the Episcopal Churches do not keep their doors open).
On my second day, I was meeting my daughter for lunch in the East Village and I decided to walk and see what God brought my way. At the corner of 34th and 2nd I came across the St. Vartan Armenian Apostolic Cathedral. This church was begun after WWI, but was not consecrated until 1968. It was built to resemble the world’s first cruciform church, the Cathedral of Holy Etchmiadzin, built in the 4th century near Yerevan, Armenia. When I walked in, I was greeted by a young man who let me inside, but to my dismay, the lights were off and it was very dim. I sat for a while, and then gathered my courage to ask about the lights. He explained they kept them off during the week to keep expenses down, but when he saw that I was excited about his church, he offered to turn them on. I was thrilled – God had indeed given me a tremendous gift!
On the chancel, instead of the usual crucifix behind the altar, there was a giant icon of the Blessed Mother holding Jesus. In front of the icon, literally at her feet, was a cross and a monstrance. Jackpot!!!! I knelt there, adoring my beloved Jesus and loving his mother. I felt free to adore as I liked, with double genuflections and prostrations; I don’t think that would have surprised anyone there. I knew I needed that silence in exactly that space in exactly that way. My nights were loud and raucous fun with my kids and I loved them, but I needed my silent time with God. I had been in a less-than-trusting place with God around several issues, and I simply prayed the prayer from scripture: “Lord I believe, help my unbelief” (Mark 9:24). Some Armenian tourists came in and received a tour, but I stayed where I was, so cocooned I felt like Jesus, Mary, and I were the only ones there. I had just finished reading Thomas Merton’s Basic Principles of Monastic Spirituality earlier that morning, and he wrote: “To truly have a spiritual life is then to think and love not just as Christ would act in a given situation, but as He precisely does act, by His grace in us, at the moment” (58). Spending time in that church, like so many others, makes me better able to receive the wisdom of the Holy Spirit and act on it.
On my last full day I went up to the Cloisters, which I had been wanting to do for years. It required two subways and took nearly an hour, plus a long, uphill walk in beautiful Fort Tryon Park. I had gotten myself a bagel with lox and cream cheese for the ride, and I ate it in perfect NYC-style – on the subway while a homeless man peed into the corner of the nearly empty car (I think you have to be a real New Yorker to appreciate that sort of thing, rather than be grossed out by it).
I admit I’m not usually much of a museum person, but the Cloisters, filled with glorious images from throughout time and geography of Mary and Jesus, along with other Christian saints, was an exception. There were paintings, icons, sculptures, and various other expressions of the grandeur of our Christian heritage. At one point I sat and prayed for a long time, becoming unaware of the many people walking in front of, behind, and around me, in front of a stunning fresco of Jesus the Man of Sorrows displaying his wounds, created in Italy c.1370. There were also beautiful gardens overlooking the Hudson River, and a lovely space around an indoor garden where I could sit and write.
I left only when I knew I would be rushing to get in my last Tasti-d-Lite of the trip and make it home in time for dinner (Tasti-d-lite is a not-great but only-in-NYC version of frozen yogurt that probably contains no real food and certainly no dairy but I have to have it every day when I’m there, like a bagel and a slice of pizza).
I arrived back at my mom’s to some drama, but I handled it better than I usually do, and I credit that to my three days of “retreat” in and around the saints and churches of the city. For me, retreats are better when they are in a quiet secluded place filled with monastics praying the office. But truly you can make it work just about anywhere – you just have to create your own poustinia.
And I have a retreat scheduled for later in January at a place I’ve been wanting to have a retreat for years – a place where I’ve witnessed the most joyful women I’ve ever come across in a religious community… or maybe anywhere. And at that monastery, which is Byzantine Catholic, there are individual cottages for the retreatants… and they call them posutinias. And there happens to be a St. Mary of Egypt room, and she happens to be my patron saint. So God knows what I need. Always. Always. Always.
It wasn’t the retreat I wanted or expected, but through God’s grace I found my solitude and silence in the midst of the loud and dizzying and wonderful tumult of New York City.
--Sister Debra Susannah Mary Rhodes, CMMR
