Spiritual Retreat

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.