I feel compelled to write about contemplation. I am so compelled because the room that I now occupy reminds me too much of a monk’s cell to not write about contemplation.

I’m at Andover Newton Theological School in advance of the first meeting of the State of Formation Executive Committee. We’ll be providing editorial guidance for the journal/endeavour/forum as it moves forward. Due to East Coast snowy messes, I was forced to take a red-eye from Denver through JFK, which has resulted in perhaps three hours of sleep in the past 38 hours. I am tired; if this rambles, so be it. Sidenote: I’ve cranked the introspection meter up to 11 by listening to some dope Gregorian chants on iTunes.

The cell that I occupy is in Farwell Hall, which, according to the glorious internet, was constructed in 1829. It’s a charming little number. My cell is about 8′ x 12′, with lovely old wood furniture and a cotbed (bed + cot) with fresh (hopefully bed-bug free linens). I’m all alone here.

The renunciant/hermetic/mendicant/sadhu lifestyle has always appealed to me. I think that there’s a certain romance in truly being in the world but not of it. The number of synonyms that we have for this kind of thing is testament to its global appeal. Withdrawal from the profane and envelopment within the sacred is a powerful concept, but it ignores some very pressing issues. And that’s our dilemma today. Actually, I think it’s been a dilemma for far longer that we give it credit. Do we choose the path of renunciation or do we quite actively involve ourselves in the world?

One of my hero-dudes is Thomas Merton, who, probably better than anyone, embodied this notion in the modern era. He understood that being “in” the world meant doing lots of good stuff in the world, too. Had his life not ended so shockingly (a pun that I feel Brother Merton would have chuckled at), he would have undoubtedly risen past the strictures of his order to become an even more vociferous champion of social justice and nonviolence. But even Merton would have returned to his cell after each rally or speech or public lecture to contemplate upon his responsibilities – or at least his next steps.

I find shades of such behavior in our current digital age. We can drop in and drop out and drop back in with such low barriers to entry and exit as to make the transition almost meaningless. Whether it’s the low end of interaction, such as signing an online petition, or the high end, like presenting a speech to a large group of people who feel almost the same things that you feel but need a little extra encouragement to act, we have nearly too many options for being in but not of the world these days.

Which brings me to something like a thesis-like statement/observation. Have you noticed the proliferation of mindfulness gurus or personal coaches in the past decade? Immense doesn’t being to cover it. Disclaimer: I’ve actually counseled people on mindfulness/contemplation techniques, so I guess that I’m part of the solution (ooh, clever turn of phrase, perhaps I’ll touch on that later).

We desperately, desperately need to put ourselves in the cell every now and then. This isn’t meant to sound like the kind of blog post that gets catalogued under “productivity”, but rather a call to remember why it is that the monastic/hermetic/removed/denied lifestyle is such a vibrant part of our shared religious traditions. I’m going to attempt, in my sleep-deprived state, to sublimate into a metaphor…

When I was but a young lad, enamored of computer games, the notion of real-time strategy (RTS) games really appealed to me. On the low end of complication, these were games which required the user to handle multiple military units in warfare against a computer or human opponent. On the high end (my favorite), they required the user to manage such campaigns city-by-city, making sure to pay close attention to the production of raw materials, population loyalty and happiness, and a host of other factors. Such games are valuable only because they have a PAUSE button. RTS games need such buttons so users can plan attacks. Bigger games like the Civilization series have PAUSES built in; you have no choice but to rest and reflect upon the way that your society is building itself.

Our lives are a lot like those computer games. In the Animal Kingdom, humans excel at atomizing our concerns on the micro level – it is that attention to detail that has allowed us to prosper. But we also maintain an ability to take a step back, like in those computer games, to view the world and our existence on a macro scale. This quality, above all others, provides our…awesomeness.

And so, I say, taking a step back and renouncing the world, if only for 30 minutes at a time, can help us to reacquaint with the macro expression of human existence. That can’t be a bad thing.

I’m going to lay myself down on the cotbed and think about these things, and others. I might even leave the Gregorian chants playing. I’ve got a lot to think about.