Krifó Scholió (Secret School) by Nikolaos Gyzis, 1885
For 30 months, I was a traveling man, rambling village to city, country to continent, learning whatever I could from whomever I could.
For two months, I lived in monasteries. In those few months, I learned more than in the rest combined.
There I was, one of the last free men in the world, sitting across from whom I thought were the least free: monks.
They own nothing, sleep in a cell, take an oath of celibacy, abide by the same schedule for years (if not decades), are under strict obedience to their abbot, and don’t eat meat.
I can take the rest, but seriously? No ribeyes?
My lifestyle was the polar opposite of theirs, and on paper, much more desirable in every category.
But if that were true, why did it feel like they knew something I didn’t? And why did it feel like the something they knew was the one thing that could topple everything I thought I knew and believed in?
This feeling ate away at me. I tried to ignore it. Fled from it. Buried it under as many worldly distractions as I could.
One of the most effective being the self-development movement: a modern religion that stands on stilts of virtue and encourages its disciples to focus the aim of worship inward.
In other words, the more you progress, the harder it becomes not to fall into the pit of self-deification and pride.
Any path that focuses attention inward, no matter how noble it may seem, ends in misery. Virtue isn’t attained through self-deification, but through self-denial and self-sacrifice, willingly embraced in service of others, without complaint.
That is what the monks taught me, and it fundamentally opposes what we hear in the world:
Live for the present. Enjoy yourself. Smell the roses. Be comfortable. Follow your passion. Do what makes you happy.
One teaches you what is worth aiming at, and the other asks what you want to aim at.
One teaches you that freedom is the purification of passions; the other teaches that freedom is the unrestrained ability to indulge in them.
One points the object of worship outward; the other inward.
Coming to terms with these ideas was not pleasant. Is not pleasant.
I didn’t enter the monastery thinking:
Gee, it’d be nice if these guys completely shattered my understanding of a good life and reconstructed it in such a way that made all the activities I used to like feel completely void of meaning!
But once your ears have tasted a classical symphony in a grand European orchestra hall, listening to Drake through cheap headphones is about as enjoyable as starting your day with toast and butter if the toast were soggy cardboard and the butter were sunscreen.
Even if you wanted to (which you do) returning feels unnatural. Your soul tasted a shred of divinity. Nothing from the Golden Arches will satisfy your hunger.
That’s how life feels after a monastery.
There are things that matter, and things that don’t. And the things that don’t matter are all the things I used to like. The things that do matter had been hidden right under my nose the whole time.
So I’m left with a hard decision.
Do I keep listening to Drake, eating McDonald’s, and doing what makes me happy?
Or do I accept that my soul is sick with cheap substitutes and turn toward the long road to recovery?
The former is fun, easy, and predictable. It ensures I’m never an outsider. And by not being an outsider, I’m guaranteed some level of social comfort and success.
The latter is sacrificial: a burden of self-denial and struggle that must be willingly accepted without complaint.
I’ve tried the fun way. Not just tried it, but leaned into the furthest extremes of it. Some of it offered satisfaction. Some of it taught me valuable lessons. None of it offered anything that is comparable to what I’ve experienced in monasteries.
So is it a hard decision?
No. Not really. Not anymore. The hard part is how far away recovery seems.
Then again, I’ve yet to find a path more worthy of a life than one spent in pursuit of virtue, not for one’s own sake, but for the sake of serving others.
