One of the courses I took in graduate school included a week-long getaway at a local retreat center. Most of the members of the cohort were eager for the short respite from the daily grind of jobs, school, and otherwise engaged lives. Carving out time to actually think, pray, and talk about how to integrate some of the new learning into our lives seemed like a much-needed and timely gift for all.
Our first morning of worship was interrupted by the guest leader who arrived late. Making a rather grand entrance, he rushed into the room and proceeded to pronounce, “Christians don’t retreat. They only advance. Let’s get started!” Blustering his way to the front of the room, our guide did not seem to notice the grimacing and eye-rolling or hear the muffled groans of those of us more ready for Sabbath rest than strategizing the overthrow of civilization.
For the next few days, we engaged in a whirlwind of activities and frenzied conversations. How is it that people of faith ought to engage the culture? What opportunities exist in our time and place to proclaim and demonstrate the peace, justice, and reign of God? How do we make Christianity relevant within a pluralistic, post-Christian, and anti-institutional society? How do we repackage our faith and life together in a way that best meets the needs of the world? How do we do all of this (or any of it!) in faithful integrity?
Questions like these are interesting and important to consider. Who we are before God and how we live in relation to others is the heart of faith. These are the questions that keep lots of us awake at night and, in some form or another, consume significant amounts of time and energy all across the Quaker world. We like talking about this stuff and, ready or not, we are eager to change the world.
What I found so interesting in our non-retreat was the spirit of anxiety and a hint of fear at the surface of our interactions. In the midst of a world-in-crisis and church struggling over its own identity and direction, there was a mounting pressure within the group to somehow do something. One person expressed the concern of feeling like their community of faith was about to be overwhelmed by all of the changes swirling around them. Yes, advancing—doing something—seemed essential.
My mind, however, was stuck on retreating. I kept thinking about how often Jesus withdrew, sometimes at what appeared to be poorly-timed moments for others. After all, crowds were lining up to be healed. To get free fish sandwiches. To hear one more mind-blowing sermon. But just as anticipation and expectations began to build, Jesus would slip away—sometimes to the dismay of his allies who were ready to seize the opportunity to advance the gospel. In his ongoing battle with the religious and political leaders of his day, Jesus often retreated with his friends to pray and refocus—rather than precipitating a further crisis. Jesus, I suspect, recognized that his prophetic ministry had to be rooted in his love for God and others, or else it might become twisted into just another human abuse of power. I suspect he also had a much different sensibility about God’s timing when it comes to change than those of us who are driven to see results NOW.
At critical moments, Jesus retreats—not from others or the world but to God. He comes home, gets his bearings, and is renewed by the Spirit’s power and love instead of being wrung out by fear and anxiety. He withdraws, not to escape the world, but to become prepared to re-engage it in the Life and Power of God.
Followers of Christ do, in fact, retreat. We have followed this model of Jesus at many key moments in world history. For instance, when Constantine imposed his version of faith on the Roman empire, passionate followers of Christ determined it was in everyone’s best interest to retreat and form monastic fellowships. While there are many reasons for the rise of monasticism, part of it was rooted in the desire to relearn what costly faithfulness means in a culture that reduces Christianity to just being a good citizen. Forming monastic communities the fourth century became an important way to draw near to God, to preserve one’s own soul, and to remind others that God’s Kingdom cannot be captured by a worldly political power or owned by any one group of people.
Later, other communities formed as culture clashed—sometimes violently—with Christian faithfulness. For the most part, women and men of God withdrew not as a form of escape but to establish a visible alternative world. Unwilling to submit to cultural values they couldn’t abide and resisting the impulse to impose their own values on an unwilling world, they established an alternative community. Generally, many of these communities engaged with others around them when they were able to do so with integrity. They also clearly understood that being in the world but not of the world meant being different and distinct—and sometimes separate. Whatever sense of retreat was at work involved making space to remember who they were called to be and what they were called to do, as well as how to re-engage with others.
I have often wondered what monastic movement among Friends might look like amidst the fear and anxiety of our culture, and our own addiction to advancing our agendas now. How might we be led to re-engage one another and a watching world, if we were to take time together to pray, talk, and listen?
—Colin Saxton
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