I was immediately wondering, Do I attract the terminally broken? The weirdos? I had just met Paul, and he nonchalantly commented—as if it were totally normal—that he could talk to birds. He then launched into a story about a recent conversation he had with a bird in City Park while living in New Orleans. I nodded, not because I understood anything he said, but simply because the alternative (running away) seemed unkind. Twenty minutes later I had learned quite a bit about the “science” of how birds can coherently communicate to humans, and vice versa. Right in the middle of the cafeteria, Paul was loudly chirping and whistling— giving me the abridged Rosetta Stone training in Red Billed Sparrow. I finished my meal and told him I had an appointment with a squirrel and quickly made my way out.

At dinner, Jasmine sat down next to me. I just wanted to eat my soup—mind my own business and such. I had made sure to post the invisible sign on my forehead that read, “I’m not interested in talking. Please leave me alone.” Jasmine ignored all social cues and launched into a rather in-depth story about German cookies and her love of baking—though she confessed she hadn’t touched an oven for two years. It turns out she and her fiancé were hitchhiking from Portland to Nashville and were staying over at St. Bernard’s Abbey for a few days. I was here for a three-day silent retreat. A stack of books (fiction and non) and prayer were the only things on my agenda. I had come with a certain plan in mind, and talking was not on my agenda. Ironically, no matter where I sat in the cafeteria, people sat next to me and unloaded their brokenness on me. I looked at a monk one table over, hoping for help, and he shrugged and happily turned his attention back to his apple dumplings.

It turns out that St. Bernard’s Abbey is a hub for vagrants and sojourners. I came for the quiet acreage and solemnity that it offered. I, being a good Protestant, wasn’t really interested in the Mass, ancient liturgy, or frankly, the people. This place, among other things (a church, monastery and adjoining high school) is a retreat center. I was under the impression that St. Bernard’s was solely a place for the put together—the paying and praying and driving type. After my first day of interruptions, I almost loaded up my car and drove home. Obviously I wasn’t going to get anywhere with God in this setting. But I was two hours away from home and didn’t want to be a cry cry, so I decided to stay. I formulated a new plan. It was one of complete isolation. I assured myself that I would get what I needed from God, get re-centered, and return home full and happy.

This trip to north Alabama has now become a yearly trek. By mid-October a tiredness in my bones sets in. It’s not a physical fatigue that can be solved with a bit of extra sleep. It’s a soul-weariness. It’s hard to explain except that I become less patient. More demanding. Easily provokable. And worse yet, I stop liking people. Nobody gets the benefit of the doubt at the end of the year when I’m like this. My wife and kids get the brunt of it. But the people I shepherd can feel it as well. So I get away for a few days. I don’t bring any work with me. Lots of pleasure reading. Praying and walking. Usually I meditate on one or two scriptures that I decide on before hand. These trips are designed to fill up my emotional and spiritual tank. I want to go back with fresh eyes and a full heart to love people well. I want a greater passion for Scripture and preaching and shepherding in the small moments. These few days on my calendar are here to put my ego in check—to remind me why I pastor. I know deep down that if I don’t hear from God in these few days, I may shipwreck 2018.

At lunch on Friday, I came in late on purpose. All the monks were already well into their meals. I happily filled up my plate and sat in the corner—ready to enjoy lunch alone. Jesse sat down right next to me. I just shook my head. What was happening? I thought of those times when I’m at a movie theatre and I’m  the only one there and then some dude looks at all the empty seats and decides to sit down two seats from me. That’s what was happening at St. Bernard’s. I wanted to scream. Jesse is estranged from his wife in Michigan and looking for spiritual direction. He arrived here on a bus with $20 to his name. In line for breakfast the next morning, a young woman told me this was her first hot meal in two months. Our eyes met and I could tell she regretted telling me that. I didn’t respond.

I walked back up to my room after breakfast and began to journal. It really was less journaling and more complaining to the Lord. Why was he allowing my few days with him to get hijacked by these people? Didn’t he want me full and focused and healed so that I could go back healthy? I wanted him to speak to me.

I needed him to speak to me.

And quietly, with little fanfare, the voice of God’s Spirit just whispered into my heart, “I am speaking to you. Jesse and Jasmine and Paul. They’re mine. I know you had a plan, but my plans are not your plans. I wanted to give you a fresh look at real people. They aren’t broken people, just people. No cars or money or anything to offer, but they are image-bearers nonetheless. Real scars and unimaginable stories make up their landscape. And they need you. And Jon, you need them. They remind you that ministry isn’t building cathedrals, but building people. Church isn’t only preaching sermons, but sitting and listening—being present with people without having to feel the weight of solving a problem. Be refreshed knowing I’m bearing the weight of the gospel and people. Not you.”

I took a deep breath knowing my little room had become Sinai. No tablets of stone, but something real was inscribed on my heart. Grace. A peace that transcended understanding.

As long as I have been in vocational ministry I’ve known that people are not puzzles to be solved, but simply people to love. But then people come into my office with problems . . . to be solved. And that becomes the rhythm of most pastors. It’s certainly become mine. Problem solvers. Detectives in search of spiritual solutions. I wonder if this is one reason I am so exhausted at the end of the year.

I took a walk that evening and meditated on one of my favorite verses, “However, I consider my life worth nothing, if only I may finish the race and complete the task of the Lord Jesus Christ—the task of testifying of God’s grace” (Acts 20:24). I walked around St. Bernard’s promising the Lord that if he gives me another month or year or fifty I will do my best to finish the task. Loving people. All people. I know it’s a promise I can’t keep on my own. I will default to problem solving and not people loving. But I know that’s a promise I want to make. Grace empowers me. I want to finish the race and finish the task so that next year when I sit next to a Jesse or a Jasmine, I will see them for what they are—sweet reminders of mercy.