Our family had the privilege of bringing in the New Year in a very old place: Rome. These are some of my favorite pictures from the time in Italy.

After three lovely days in Pescara for GCE's Awaken conference, we took some time for our family to enjoy the old Caput Mundi. Our kids enjoyed themselves, but I found it challenging to impress upon them how remarkable it was that we were walking around in the cradle of Western civilization where some of the earliest foundations of the Christian faith were laid and where Caesars and popes have ruled throughout the centuries. I don't know how much we succeeded in getting them to appreciate the glory and grandeur of Rome, but I sure enjoyed it. The sense of history is palpable in Rome, yet it also remains a thriving urban center today in 2012. It was a very unique setting for the New Year's holiday (with an extra bonus of sun and mild temperatures during our visit, as well!).

During our time in Rome, I was impressed with the words of Psalm 31:14-15, where it says, "But I trust in you, LORD; I say, 'You are my God.' My times are in your hands."

This is my hope and prayer for 2012: that I will grow in trusting God and walking by faith, content in the knowledge that my times (as turbulent and chaotic as they may often seem) are in God's hands. I don't think I'm going to make any other resolutions this year except for an actualization of Psalm 31:14-15.

As you may have noticed from my weekend writing, I recently spent some time in a Benedictine (Roman Catholic) monastery. To the Conservative Baptists among whom I grew up, such a forray into Catholic territory might have been considered a step outside the faith: paying homage to Rome's Evil Institution, allowing a part of the money spent for my accommodations to go towards "statuary, and buying the souls of pagan babies, and buying diamonds for the Pope's shoelaces" (to quote from the ubiquitous Midwestern humorist, Garrison Keillor).

I, however, thought my time at the monastery was a wonderful experience which really brought me closer to God.

Granted: the Catholic monastic experience had both its joys and its difficulties. For instance, I genuinely enjoyed the push back to an appreciation of the simple elements of faith, seeking God, depending upon God, cutting myself off from distractions and focusing purely on God. And because of the monastery's focus on these elements, I ultimately decided to stick with the full cycle of the monastic rhythms (7 prayer services per day). At the same time, however, I noticed (and noticed some irritation at) the cultural differences I experienced.

The morning prayer services got to feel very long and laborious. Their liturgy used a very limited Scriptural pallette (almost entirely chapters from the middle part of the Psalms). And perhaps most notably, I felt bothered by the emphasis on formality and hierarchy, particularly in the daily celebration of Mass. I've never understood the apparently-varying levels of access to God's grace: first to the bishop, then to the father of the monastery, then to the other brothers from the monastery, then to other clerics from the church, then to other Catholic believers, and only then to everyone else (including me). I don't understand why I should be excluded from sharing in the Body and Blood of Christ (though I could have easily faked my way through the line, if I had wanted to). These things don't make sense to me.

Even so, I can appreciate the solemnity and ceremony of the Catholic culture of worship. I admire the way that their traditions tie in so directly with the ways Christians have been worshipping for thousands of years. I enjoy the multi-sensory worship experience, utilizing sight (beautiful robes, a simple-yet-magnificent sanctuary, a white haze of incense smoke), sound (singing, speaking, the clinking chains of the censer), smell (incense), taste (the Eucharist), and touch (standing, kneeling, sitting, holy water, and crossing oneself). Furthermore, I really appreciate the sense of holiness that pervades Catholic worship. At the monastery, all of the monks bowed deeply before the cross on the altar, both upon entering the room and upon leaving the room. The priests all bowed before the Eucharist at (what they believe to be) the moment of transubstantiation. They administer the mass from behind the altar, so that Christ gets top billing. And in this I can see that, for all their issues with formality and hierarchy, they've at least got that much right: Jesus is King. He deserves to be treated with some degree of reverance and respect -- probably more than our church in Amsterdam typically gives Him. So as much as I can be irritated by the cultural differences, I can also appreciate them and let myself be instructed by them.

In the end, I really came to appreciate the monks' rigorous traditionalism: wearing the robes, singing in Latin, maintaining the Benedictine rhythms... I felt glad, actually, that some Christians feel so strongly led to maintain these traditions. I do wonder, though, about the future of these traditions. I reckon that the youngest of the monks at the Benedictusberg was in his 40s, and a couple might even have been in their 80s. With only 12 of them on-site, how will the traditions continue into the future?

Why don't I take personal retreats more often? Such an experience -- like the one I just experienced at the Benedictusberg -- inspires me and renews my love for life and ministry. It provides priceless perspective and spiritual refreshment. And at just €30 a day (for three lavish meals per day, three coffee-and-snack breaks per day, my own private room, plus access to the monastery's sanctuary, library, and grounds!), such extravagance is really quite affordable.

Ever since getting back to Amsterdam, I've been encouraging my friends to consider taking personal retreats of their own. I know it takes some work to set the time aside and break out of our normal routines for such an experience (I, too, regularly feel the resistance -- even knowing how great such experiences can be!). Even so, I cannot more highly recommend a regular discipline of seeking special encounters with God!

Even though a personal retreat is, by definition, somewhat "mystical," I thought it might be useful to demystify the idea of a spiritual retreat (i.e. answering the question, "What exactly am I supposed to be doing with three whole days of being away from regular life, seeking God?"). This is the approach that I mapped out for myself, on this most recent retreat. It can be adapted to fit individual tastes and personalities (in fact, I myself reviewed and refined my own plan on the train ride down from Amsterdam to the borderlands between the Netherlands, Germany, and Belgium). Still, I went into my personal retreat with a handful of general goals in mind:

• To read through all my old journals. My collection goes back to 1999, so there's some significant ground to cover there, but I felt it was important for me to do this. As I read through the old journals, I looked for trends, scriptural inspiration points, and spiritual inkshuks through the years. I tried to get a feel for the overall arc of my life story, with the hope that this might help me to anticipate and follow any upcoming plot twists.
• To take long, meandering walks (international walks, even, in the case of this most recent retreat!). I wanted to soak the styrofoam cup of my soul in the oceans of God's presence.  I wanted to trade my anxieties, arguments, and emotional architecture for God's mind about me, the family, my church, and the world. I wanted to experience God's peace, even in the face of any disturbing, unsettling, unexpected truths that might be revealed in my life. I wanted to sync my spirit with God's Spirit.
• To re-read some of my "core material" from the Bible. For each individual, there seems to be certain sections of the Bible which regularly and repeatedly speak into that person's life through the years. For me, this "core material" includes Joshua, the Proverbs, Matthew, Acts, Romans... and maybe some of the other Old Testament history books. So going into my personal retreat, I determined to spend some time reading these parts of the Bible and letting myself be led down rabbit-trails of cross-references, as God would lead. I wanted to be inspired.
• To experience (however temporarily) the monastic life. Believe it or not, I was actually looking forward to spartan surroundings, early morning prayers, and a general atmosphere of silence and simplicity. I did have some anxieties about being in such a Catholic environment and adhering to such a right schedule (particularly worried that it might get in the way of my opportunities to go on long walks or spend extended time in solitude)... But even so, I wanted to go through the motions of monasticism. I sensed that it might be surprisingly refreshing... and indeed this sense turned out to be accurate.

Of course, in all this I realized that it was much less important to consider what I wanted out of these three days, as opposed to preparing myself for however God might have wanted to use the time. Still I felt that it was helpful to outline some expectations ahead of time -- and then submit them all, respectfully, to God.

I can understand that the monastic experience is probably not for everybody -- and maybe even not always what I would need for my own spiritual refreshment, depending upon the season of life -- but I have to say that it was quite satisfying for me this week. The prayer services provided me with time for reading the Bible and getting fresh input from outside my normal stream of consciousness. The shorter breaks between services provided me with time for personal processing (even while eating) and journaling (including reading old journals). The longer breaks between the services, especially in the late afternoon, provided time for long walks and prayer (I always seem to pray best when I'm walking). And the breaks between sunset and dawn provided time for more extended journaling and analysis of my journal archives, which are a kind of prayer and meditation for me. All of these activities felt like they were infused with a sense of prayer and meditating on God's Word, which is just what I really wanted for my three-day getaway: an extended soak in God's goodness and nearness.

In case you couldn't tell, I came back to Amsterdam with a rich feeling of satisfaction and gratitude -- and a hearfelt recommendation for others to experience the same.

The sun streamed into my room through blue skies and  two glorious sets of double-tall, double-wide windows facing the afternoon sun. The fields and farmlands in the valley below me were partially obscured by a thinning layer of fall foliage, down to the last of its papery leaves.

It took some traveling (bus - train - bus - bus) to get to this Benedictine monastery, situated on a hillside right up against the Dutch - German border. But I didn't mind. After less than half-an-hour at the Abdij Sint Benedictusberg, I felt refreshed already.

The monastery building itself was very simple in its construction: all stone and wood and concrete. Every room in the monastery was equipped with uniformly simple, custom-made wooden furniture -- not a cushion in sight -- still it was comfortable. Elegant, even. I loved the simple color schemes, all white and grays and browns and muted greens. My guest room was quite large and comfortable, and I was especially appreciative of the large desk facing the windows. It would be home for my much-anticipated three-day spiritual retreat.

I arrived at the Benedictusberg a bit later than expected because of some mix-ups about the bus stops. Consequently, upon arrival I had to wait in the front entryway while most of the people on-site were busy with lunch. After fifteen or twenty minutes, however, a bald, bearded, middle-aged monk in a black friar's robe came to meet me. He introduced himself as Brother Marc, the same monk who had confirmed my e-mail registration word with a two-word response ("genoteerd. welkom."). He spoke with a soft Limburgse accent, bidding me welcome, then he immediately started leading me to my guest room in the bottom of the southern tower. As we walked through the monastery he offered friendly indications of where I could find the inner courtyard, the gardens, the toilets, and then my room. Leaving me to unpack, he said he would return in 20 minutes to bring me to the dining hall for a late lunch. Quickly placing my things in the cabinet that stood along the one wall of the room, I took to snapping a bunch of pictures with my camera phone, completely charmed by the setting. Shortly a light drumming of fingers on the door indicated Brother Marc's return to bring me to my lunch.

When I entered the dining hall it was almost completely empty. Two monks with white hair and black robes sat at one end of the long room. The monks at the Benedictusberg are not committed to any sort of vow of silence; however, they ask their guests to respect a general environment of stillness and contemplation. Thus when I first entered the dining hall I could only hear the sounds of their cutlery on their plates. I was shown to a table in the middle of the room where a very impressive lunch awaited me: steaming vegetable-beef soup, meatballs with tomato sauce, asparagus au gratin, three boiled potatoes, a large salad with hard boiled egg on top, a plate with a single piece of wheat bread, and a carafe of water. The food was really good! I ate in silence, but I was somewhat relieved to hear the two older monks occasionally murmuring to each other in low voices (this not completely hard-core about the silence thing). When I finished with my meal, one of the two monks helped me to clean off my place at the table, and then I had about 15 minutes to take a walk through the gardens before the mid-afternoon prayer service.

The grounds were beautiful. The sun warmed me as I drank in the scenery. Both Germany and Belgium were visible from where I stood, in the Netherlands.

The church bells started ringing five minutes before the start of the prayer service. Walking quickly through the monastery corridors, I entered the sanctuary and found a seat just before the monks entered. Their liturgy was done entirely in Latin, Gregorian chant. I could understand almost nothing of it, but glancing down into the Benedictine prayer book I brought with me from my room, I noted that they were going through the Psalms, which I quickly cross-referenced in my own NIV Bible. As the monks read / sang from Psalm 114-117, my attention was captured by Psalm 116:7, which said, "Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the LORD has been good to you."

The following three days would be a powerful experience of God's presence and peace, on multiple levels (I hope to write more about my experiences sometime soon). Really, though, the essence of the entire experience was boiled down for me right there, in those words from the 116th Psalm. "Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the LORD has been good to you." Even since returning from the Benedictusberg back to Amsterdam and trying to get caught up in my normal rhythms and routines, these words and this sensation have stuck with me. And for that I am incredibly thankful.

I need to grow in being small.

I need to strengthen my skills in being weak.

I need to buck up and claim complete and utter dependence on God and others.

Over the last several weeks, I feel like God has continually been leading me to the theme of dependence upon God. Seemingly whenever I draw near to God, whenever I turn my ear to hear what He might be saying, the thing that I hear is this theme of dependence.

One of the ways that I've recently felt God pointing to this issue of self-sufficiency in my life is through the 50th Psalm. It unmasks self-sufficiency for what it really is: pride and a mistaken assumption that God is somehow dependent upon us. The early verses of the Psalm recognize God as the Creator and Sustainer of all things: "The Mighty One, God, the LORD, speaks and summons the earth from the rising of the sun to the place where it sets..." And then it comes right out and states what should be obvious: that we -- humankind, the followers of God -- are inadequate. We stand deficient. In any court of law or creation, the judgment does not fall in our favor. Even so, God doesn't begrudge us our deficiencies. He doesn't rebuke us for our lack of sacrifices or burnt offerings. In fact, it's the complete opposite!

God doesn't need us; we need God.

God doesn't need our good deeds. God doesn't even need our radical commitment to his Word or to the Gospel (except so far as these things promote an attitude of humility and dependence in our hearts towards God). God doesn't need us; we need God.

It's so basic, yet so necessary, to be reminded of these truths. God wants us to live with hearts of gratitude and dependence, not self-willed, self-sufficient, stubborn insistence on our own ways of doing things. "Sacrifice thank offerings to God," says Psalm 50:14-15, "Call on me in the day of trouble; I will deliver you and you will honor me." It's all about gratitude and dependence. Dependence and gratitude. Verse 23 reiterates the same thing: "He who sacrifices thank offerings honors me, and he prepares the way so that I may show him the salvation of God."

I love the simple, kind-of-silly line of rhetorical questioning from Psalm 50:13, where God asks, "Do I eat the flesh of bulls or drink the blood of goats?" That is, What do you really think the sacrificial system is all about? Were you really under the impression that we are responsible for keeping God's belly full?!? It's so silly... and yet I fall into this faulty way of thinking far too often. I do it with prayer, or evangelism, or reading the Bible, or raising up Christian leaders, or raising a godly family, or maintaining sexual purity... And it's just plain silly! God doesn't need those things from me nearly as much as I need those things from God! As we revel in God's provision and protection for us, we can get off our little kingdom-building high-horses and avail ourselves to however God might want to use us (or not use us). It can feel counterintuitive... yet when I really stop and meditate on these reminders, I know them to be true.

I need to grow in being small.

I need to strengthen my skills in being weak.

I need to buck up and claim complete and utter dependence on God and others.