Prologue: What follows is an account of a very special occasion in
my life. This experience was more than a component of my
spiritual journey; it was a time for healing, for breaking down
walls. ·
Having been incarcerated at such a young age, it was not only
necessary to learn how to cope with this environment, but also how
to rebuff the nasty thoughts of predatory men. Early on, I
reasoned that if I built a wall around myself people would not
notice me, they would leave me alone...for the most part. This
went on for eons. Now, having been in this archaic trench for most
of my life, I was becoming loathsome of seclusion. Although this
environment is riddled with nefarious people, as is to be
expected, there are also many good individuals. The conundrum?
Good or corrupt, very few could see me because of this wall.
Realizing this facet, I have been chipping away at my barrier over
the past several years. Enough of this blockade had been eroded
so people could occasionally peer in and, for the first time, I
could peek out. Despite this wearing away, the height of my wall
was still an obstacle. Friendships were tough. Although, such
friendships were noticeably becoming better and more wholesome.
Yet, progress was slow. Very slow. However, to my disbelief, I
encountered a group of people who effectively kicked a huge hole
in my wall. Not only can I walk out, but people can walk in.
That has been a tremendous blessing. For that alone, I am
indebted. As for the strength of my spiritual journey? Priceless.
For many years I marched to my own drum. To a spiritual beat, that is. Not
really settling on any particular religious practice, but a conglomeration of
everything. A smidgen of Judaism. A fairly good wedge of Buddhism. And,
yes, the most significant piece of pie consisting of Christianity. Those
qualities which I understood and thought suited my opinions were embraced, and
what remained would be disposed of like a stinky sock. Because I failed to
fit into a particular box, I considered myself a spiritual mutt. (In many
respects, I still am.) However, this created a pitfall...a lack of foundation.
Because of my nearly hostile predisposition towards organized religion,
shunning anything resembling a group belief has not been difficult. To be
more blunt, I was rather proud of not being so simple-minded as to follow a
predetermined arrangement of doctrine like sheep chasing after a shepherd.
Savant that I perceived myself to be (not serious), I had the capacity to see
through all of this hocus pocus which the herds otherwise seemed blinded to!
Why anybody of competent mind would subject themselves to more routines than
life demands escaped me. Preposterous, that's what it amounts to.
Apparently, my outlandish self-absorbtion did not go unnoticed. From time to time, friends would invite me to attend a spiritual retreat. For some, their approach could be better rationalized as badgering. Surely, you have similar friends in your life and can recognize my peril!
From rumor, I knew the retreat was a Christian-based fellowship, but that was
about the extent of my familiarity. Oh, and I was also aware that the program
had some daft name like Keryx. Was that an acronym? If so, of what? All I
could think of was: I did not want to be in the presence of a bunch of
counterfeit Christians who found God in prison. What a joke! Yet, I
respected and admired my friends. I had no preconceived notions of them at
all, other than they had demonstrated themselves to be outstanding
individuals. Indeed, this was an anomaly, they were different. But this did
not dispel any questions. Were the facilitators of this retreat going to
repeatedly impose upon me that I was no good and possessed no possible chance
of redemption? Were they going to force scripture down my throat? Were
they...? I had no clue.
On the many occasions where I was being berated by my friends, I inquired as
to what Keryx was all about. Asking many questions like I set forth just
moments ago, their responses were alarming. To start out with, I was unable
to distinguish whether the expressions on their faces were sinister or something otherwise benign. My friends, at which point their motives were beginning to come into question, would allude no further other than to
encourage me to be open and trust the process. What? Hm, I think it may be time to reevaluate what my definition of a "friend" consists of! Time and again I pleaded with them to reveal the dynamics of this retreat so that I could make an informed choice as to whether or not to commit. Each one of them simply said: "Trust us." Wow, there was a less than promising endorsement! Yeah, those two seemingly innocuous words, "Trust us," carried a hidden warning to my psyche to find something else to do. Immediately.
When all is said and done, I can divulge that Keryx is unmistakably
identifiable as a Christian-based fellowship which is open to persons of any
background. Jews, Muslims, etcetera. Everybody. Buddhists, too. Even those
who do not believe. Such is organized and presented by volunteer laypersons
and clergy, Catholic and Protestant. The program is premised on Cursillo
weekends which originated in the Catholic Church during the middle of the last
century as a way to extend an olive branch to the faith challenged...um, those
of us who are secular. Though non-denominational, such is more biased towards
Protestantism, if that even has any bearing. Without regard to any of that
mumbo jumbo, one of the underlying charms of this fellowship is that it is
ecumenically intended to introduce people to God. Or, reintroduce, as the
matter may prove. Or, strengthen. I could labor on, but you get the idea.
Perhaps to muffle them, or maybe to prove that this was all a bunch of
poppycock, I finally succumbed to their relentless poking and prodding. How
much worse could things get? They already had me teetering on the edge of
kicking and screaming. Silly me, what was I thinking? Matters did
deteriorate. Ahem, please permit me to go off on a tangent, clarifying once
and for all that my friends are pesky and annoying!
When entering the lobby area where the retreat was being held, anxiety
immediately reared its head. I was not alone: there were 23 other
individuals awaiting to embark on the same journey. As not a single one of
them was a familiar face, their presence was of little consolation. Oh, how
uncomfortable this was going to be. Yippee! I wanted to leave right then,
but an annoying little voice inside my noggin kept chanting: "Be open to the
process." Were my friends practicing voodoo; was that why their words seemed
to resonate? I tried my darnedness to stamp out the rhetoric, all to no
avail. (If that "little voice" was God...whew, it is suspected I will have to
answer for inferring His nagging was the equivalent to that of being a pest!)
After what seemed an eternity (all of five minutes), we were ushered into an
auditorium. I stood my ground like a stick in the mud and melted into the
wall, graciously permitting of the other participants to mosey past. Taking a
big gulp, I fell into step. Really, there was nothing else I could do; nobody
else remained to enter but me. Plus, I could visualize the proverbial boot
winding up to punt me through the entrance. So, I might as well enter under
my own volition. Three strides in and I was choking with misgivings (I do not
typically fare well in crowded situations) and wanted to leave through the
door from whence I came...through the wall...up and through the roof...just
get me out of this mess!
All of these cooky Christians whom I had never seen
before were overly happy to greet me (us) with peppy Kumbaya music,
handshakes, hugs, and other uncomfortable salutations. And I mean these
people were nutty! Where was their dignity and sense of social etiquette? It
was all quite overwhelming.
About to turn and run like a dickens out of there, anywhere, my eyes betrayed
me with the glimpse of a friend. Bugger! Here was a man who had taken time
out of his life, away from family and work, so he could share this experience.
He had no idea that I would be there, but when he took sight of me, a smile as
big and warm as the rising sun set across his face. Ouch. I was now stuck.
*** It should be noted that the vast majority of volunteers and organizers
were from the free community and had likewise set aside their regular
responsibilities to share in this retreat.
The first day was way in excess with singing and clapping. This was not my
cup of tea, whatsoever. Grueling. To compound matters, some friends, whom
had been considered loyal, thought it would behoove them to share my
background as a musician with the visiting band. The damage inflicted? I was
continually harassed by band members for my lack of ferver. It did not help
that I was seated squarely in front of the Noisemakers for God, either! Time
and again, one would chirp: "Come on, Karl, sing." Or some variation thereof
where they would try to shame me into clapping like a child. These wacky
fanatics were really putting the coals to me, though not out of spite or
meanness. When the evening ended, I was so thrilled to get out of there, it's a wonder I did not knock the door off the hinges with my exuberant departure.
In the wee hours of the next morning this whole procession began, again.
Nothing really changed. Clapping and singing for what seemed like longer than
it takes paint to dry on a rainy day. My mind steadily muttering: "Oh my
gosh, will this tyranny ever end?" Thank goodness there were other activities
to break up the day, but nothing as prominent as all that offensive noise!
Day led into night and it was finally over until the next morning.
Hallelujah!
I was not sure day three could be survived without my head popping off, but it
was completely different. The program had changed. Drastically. The
testimonies had a familiar ring to them. The community volunteers were not so
much talking about what God had done for them or how their lives were blessed
or without God .... Instead, they were sharing their struggles prior to faith.
Their struggles with faith. These laypeople and clergy were human, not
pretentious. They were not afraid to reveal their dents and dings. They,
too, had made some unsound or regretful decisions. Very plainly, it was
conveyed that regardless of how rusty and rotted a person's life had been `
(they were living examples), hope continues to remain. I was impressed. As
the day proceeded, I found myself thoroughly embracing the fellowship. Yes,
even the music from grandpappy’s hillbilly hootenanny. *** I would like to
reclarify: these individuals are not common. Far from it. It takes a
special and compassionate soul to enter this environment in order to
demonstrate love, expecting nothing in return.
Later in the evening, absorbed in camaraderie, some nincompoop found it
necessary to play a radio outside the auditorium. Loudly. The callous nerve
of that individual. Much to my dismay, he chose a Christian station. Adding
insult to injury, it sounded good. Much better than we did! Though, in all
honesty, that would not take much. Still, his nerve. If that were not bad
enough, the door opened and pleasing harmonies flooded into the auditorium.
The atmosphere was so saturated with rich tones that I could not help but
notice how uplifting it was. Abandoning conversation, I looked up and
immediately found myself immersed in emotion. I was mistaken about from where
the sounds were coming from. Did I ever feel sheepish. One by one, members
of a choir entered and sang with the most angelic of voices. (Now, nearly a
year later, tears continue to well up at the mere thought of what was being
shared...it was that profound.) In all, about eighty blissful voices
presented us with a serenade. (My numbers may be inaccurate; I was not
focused on each individual present.) As it so happened, I was sitting in the front row. These celestial spirits (some would say God) were touching my soul
with song. My eyes leaked like a faucet. Tears flowed and I was running out
of tissue. The volunteers around me were consoling me and were likewise
emotionally moved. Even a Buddhist individual who I had befriended over the
weekend had become noticeably red-eyed and puffy-faced at my total coming
apart...he fully knew how reluctant I was. Their divine voices spawned the
turning point for me. The seed of conversion had been planted. No matter how
much I would have wanted to deny it, there was a presence in that auditorium.
A presence which surged right through me, and I suspect many others (as they
were all behind me, I do not know). Wow, what a conclusion for that evening.
Day four started rather wonky. Bittersweet. It was the last day of this
gathering, and I had met a whole procession of looney people who I now
understood and...uh, could identify with. To a point! And, let's face it,
nothing could top the serenade. Nothing. Or, so I thought.
What unfolded on this day brought me to my knees. My soul was ripped apart
and then healed. What I refer to as the culmination of the entire weekend
could be summed up by a ceremony of breaking bread. Not in the sense of the
Eucharist, which Catholics embrace. Nor as a token of remembrance, like many
Protestants practice. This was something totally different and hugely unique.
It was so stirring that I am of the opinion if churches practiced such on a
regular basis there would be much less division. (To give a description is
pointless, as words will not suffice. My world was rocked.)
The last hours were doubly emotional because I was not only heavily focused on
that spiritual euphoria enveloping me, but my dad, as well. I longed to share
this experience with him, wanting him to be privileged with the same
tranquility. A sad impossibility as he is no longer physically with us. (My
mother has not been overlooked. It would have been so monumental if she could
have shared in this experience; in lieu of such an impermissibility, I have
enthusiastically encouraged her to attend a similar retreat.)
In an attempt to disassociate myself from what was happening and prevent a
verbal outcry to my dad, I squeezed my hands so tightly that it seemed as
circulation and sensory responses ceased. The volunteers seated in close
proximity observed this breakdown building and did their best to comfort me.
which they accomplished. But nobody had any idea of the turmoil being
experienced...I ached to have my dad on this journey with me.
I was broken. Splintered. Grieved.
In conclusion, this journey can only be equated to having a burden lift from
my shoulders. (Kind of. That onus has been replaced by another: hours and
hours of studying.) Nevertheless, that comparison fails to capture the true
essence. And, let's not forget the passion. There was a tremendous presence
of honest love during those four days, and ever since.
I do not know what tomorrow will bring, but it is hoped that I continue to
pursue this journey with enthusiasm and openness.
For those of you who have taken part in a similar retreat, or plan to in the
future, this statement will only make sense to you:
My name is Karl.
In the spring of 2010, I attended Keryx 53.
I sat at the Table of Peter.
Epilogue: Most every participant comes out of the retreat on a
spiritual high. Not to be negative, but it is almost comical;
society's outcasts running around like a bunch of ninnies,
offering blessing to every passerby. Sadly, the attrition rate is
calamitous; many fall out of step with their profession of faith.
Studies have been conducted on the effects of unrelated programs
which reach deep into a person's psyche. Without regular
reinforcement of what was shared, the results last approximately
seven weeks. This average seems applicable to Keryx, as well. I
remember the weekend coming to a close and being bent on
fulfilling myself spiritually. As did everyone else. At about
the seven-week mark I began to witness a sharp decline in
participation. I, too, hit a lull. (And, will undoubtedly do so
again.) The difference being, my desire for answers and a deeper
understanding caused me to continue my pursuit. As did others.
Unlike the majority of outreach programs, no matter how well
intentioned, the Keryx volunteers maintain their commitment.
Laypeople and clergy enter this environment to fellowship with us
once a week. They are a small contingent, but essential for
spiritual maintenance and nurture. In itself, that level of
constancy is impressive. Though not to be outdone, once a month
many of the other volunteers arrive from all over the state and
share the day with us. This helps retreatants remain motivated until their foundation is strong enough to stand.
