there are no gates

"Mount Angel Abbey, this is Brother Columbo."

Me: "Hi, uh, I'm wanting to come visit the Abbey tomorrow, and I've never really been there and just wanted to check on when you are open?"

"Oh sure! Our bookstore hours are 9:00am to 4:30pm, serving espresso until 3:00pm."

"Okay, thanks. And are those the same hours for, like, the whole Abbey?"

"Um... no, we have prayer and mass throughout the day which you are always welcome to join."

"Oh okay. So, like, what's the earliest I could come...?"

"Well, the bells for vigils will ring at 5:20am..."

"Okay, I guess I was just trying to figure out if there are any gates or something that I need to wait to open?"

"Oh, no, there are no gates!"

"Oh.... well, that's cool!"

"Ha, yeah."

"Okay then, thanks a lot! I'll see you tomorrow."

"You're welcome, see you soon!"

I was looking for somewhere beautiful, peaceful, and safe to spend a day alone. I thought of the Abbey, called, and had the above conversation. And in a world of locks, keys, security, borders and prisons, I was taken aback by the simple availability of the Abbey to me. Something about it just felt right.

The Abbey is home to several dozen Benedictine monks, an order based on St. Benedict who, I gathered from observation, is perhaps best known for his philosophy of welcoming others as Christ. Their website states, "We are called by the Gospel to embrace the marginalized and break down the privileges that exclude those who are different or disadvantaged. Guided by Church teaching, we celebrate the "transcendent dignity of each human person" and we accept our common duty to make ourselves neighbors to others and actively serve them."

As I arrived, something about it really did feel right. Though I couldn't remember ever being there before, it felt like I was truly welcome, like this was a safe haven created for me just as much as for the monks that called it home. And I was welcome just because I am human, no other criteria. 

Was it a taste of the deeply familiar? A reminder of heaven? 

I'm in the middle of reading Bob Goff's new book, Everybody Always, and he writes this:

We actually build castles all the time, out of our jobs and our families and the things we've purchased. Sometimes we even make them out of each other. Some of these castles are impressive too. Lots of people come to admire what we've built over the course of our lives and tell us what great castles we have. But Jesus told his friends we weren't supposed to spend our lives building castles. He said He wanted us to build a kingdom, and there's a big difference between building a castle and building a kingdom. You see, castles have moats to keep creepy people out, but kingdoms have bridges to let everyone in. Castles have dungeons for people who have messed up, but kingdoms have grace. There's one last thing castles have - trolls. You've probably met a couple. I have too. Trolls aren't bad people; they're just people I don't really understand. Here's the deal: it's how we treat the trolls in our lives that will lets us know how far along we are in our faith. If we want a kingdom, then we start the way grace did, by drawing a circle around everyone and saying they're in. Kingdoms are built from the people up. There's no set of plans - just Jesus. [emphasis mine]

Jesus is building the kingdom of heaven through us and for us, and everyone is invited. Everyone. Our lives are the active invitation to those on the guest list: everyone. Wow, let's be the most welcoming people!

But... we know that's not as easy as it sounds. First of all, loving people is hard, especially the ones that are hard to love. Second, we have all sorts of reasons that radical openness and welcome just won't work in our situation. And, if you're anything like me... you just don't have the capacity or extroverted-ness to be high-functioning and entertaining and hosting all the time.

I've also recently read Reaching Out, by Henri Nouwen. He writes about the inner journeys from loneliness to solitude, from hostility to hospitality, and from illusion to prayer. I was very struck by Nouwen's means of re-explaining how to be truly hospitable. First of all, hospitality is not only the opening of your home, but "a fundamental attitude toward our fellow human being." He writes, "The mystery of love is that it protects and respects the aloneness of the other and creates the free space where he can convert his loneliness into a solitude that can be shared." There is something refreshing to me in the reality that I am not responsible for reaching in an fixing another person, but for simply providing the place where other people can truly be themselves. Nouwen states this: "Hospitality, therefore, means primarily the creation of a free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy. Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place. It is not to bring men and women over to our side, but to offer freedom not disturbed by dividing lines."

Kingdoms with bridges. Everyone's in. Freedom. Stranger to friend. These thoughts were percolating in my mind as I drove up to the Abbey. Yes, these are tastes of heaven.

The Abbey wasn't perfect; in fact, it was a few moments of us-and-them, I'm-the-outsider that were most jarring to my spirit while I spent the day there. But despite those, I was impacted by the vision to welcome all as Christ.


I want to be a welcomer.

I want to be someone whose attitude toward my fellow human beings is hospitality.

I want to be a demonstration of what a friendship looks like where people are safe to be the truest versions of themselves.

I want to know myself and know God so well that all my treasure is there, and everything else is expendable for the sake of others.

I want my time and living room and phone contacts to be full of all sorts of different people: those I understand and those I don't.

I want my life to proclaim, "The kingdom of heaven is here!"



Yes.



The kingdom of heaven is here. And there are no gates.