Monday, January 7, 2019

monastery #1: 153rd Street

I was tired and I was cold. I was exhausted, rushed, and homesick, feeling rootless and discombobulated.

The priest lifts up the host, it’s a broken white within the white-washed walls of the miniature church.

And the world goes silent.

For a magic moment, the entire world is hushed.

There are no sirens.
There are no horns.
There is not a hint of the constant whirr of motion that buzzes in your ears when on Manhattan.
No one moves. Not a single coat rustles. No one coughs or sneezes—we barely even breathe. The world watches, breaths bated, as God comes to this quiet haven on 153rd Street.

This God of contradictions brags at being both prince of peace and a sword of division.

But here we get a rare moment of respite from paradox, and God is simply peace.

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