“The Peaceable Kingdom”

Well, here I am. Again. For about the umpteenth time. The Sacred Heart Jesuit Retreat House.

It’s about 20 miles south of Denver on US 85. Which is a two lane road that got its reputation as “The Ribbon of Death” the old fashioned way: it earned it. Until, that is, it lost it when it was supplanted by I-25 just over the rise to the east as the primary route between Denver and Colorado Springs.

To cover the last couple of miles to Sacred Heart, turn west on CO 67 at the little hamlet of Sedalia, thumpty-thump over a couple of still active railroad crossings, and drive right past the front door of the town’s most famous business: Bud’s Bar. I’ve heard tell that Bud’s is a biker bar. Can’t swear to that. But I do know that it serves delish, extremely greasy, artery clogging burgers. And that, if you ask for fries, you’ll get what you deserve: THE BOOT!

Bought And Paid For

My father-in-law, Cliff Gardell, was a gentleman. And a gentle man as well.

With his wife, Eileen, they could glide around the old Trocadero Ballroom to the sound of the big bands like they were on roller skates. He was just as good in the backyard garden that he meticulously tended, starting with the tomatoes he raised from seeds under basement grow lights in midwinter to the superabundant summer harvest that kept all of us in veggies until late fall. You wouldn’t believe how he organized the annual Colorado peach sale fund raiser for his Most Precious Blood parish. His handmade “Enter Here”, “Turn Here”, “Pick Up Here”, “Pay Here” signs would have put General Patton to shame. Even if a lot of the peach lovers got discombobulated anyway and Cliff had to spend a bunch of time unsnarling traffic jams.

He was also a big fan of the Sacred Heart Retreat House. More than 50 years ago, Cliff was one of a group of guys who spent occasional weekends actually helping build the place. And, remember, back then Sedalia might not have been in the middle of nowhere. But you could see it from there.

So, like a good father-in-law, he wanted to share a good thing with me. I don’t know how many times I replied “No” to his question, “Would you like to join me for a weekend retreat?” “Why,” I thought to myself, “would a good Protestant boy like me want to go to a Catholic retreat?” My answer?-under my breath, of course-“I wouldn’t.” But what did I tell Cliff? “Can’t get away from the family.” “Too busy.” “Got something else planned.” Etc., etc.

Until, finally, Cliff offered to pay my way. Now understand, the tuition was by no means exorbitant. But also understand that things were tight for us back in those days.

So finally, in what must have been about the spring of 1990, with the last probably unspoken obstacle removed, I surrendered. And I’ve never looked back in the succeeding decades.

“Silence Is The Gift We Give To One Another”

What? Silence?! That came as a shock as I sat down with 20 or so other retreatants Friday evening for my very first, introductory “conference.” The evangelical mens’ retreats I’d gone to before were more like . . . raucous talkfests . And here I was, with a bunch of complete strangers (except Cliff) for the next two and a half days; I guessed that my merely being there implied that I’d taken some sort of vow of silence. Two and a half days! I stole a glance at my watch; the second hand was either stuck or seemed to be going in reverse.

Until, that is, our retreat master, Vince Hovley, welcomed us by sketching out the theme for the weekend: “We’ve all heard,” he said, “‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’ But that,” went on Vince, “has it exactly backwards. Over the next couple of days, from the Gospel of Mark, we’re going to see that the reality is that you have to believe it before you see it.”

Now, that really got me to sit up and take notice. And not just because that bit of verbal jujitsu appealed to me. It was almost like . . . what? Harmonic convergence?

Is This Amway? Again?!

Marleen and I were still wet behind the ears in “The Business” that Friday night as I listened to Vince talk. But newbies that we were, we’d heard “You’ve got to believe it before you’ll see it,” over and over. On the tapes. At the “open meetings.” At the “seminars and rallies.” So here I am, a duck out of my Protestant water, surrounded neck deep by Catholics. And Jesuits to boot! Somehow believing that I’ve been teleported into an Amway rally.

You can’t make this stuff up.

While my memory over yea so many years is hazy at best, I imagine I got a bewildered, “Huh?” from Vince when I got him aside for a few minutes to discuss my remarkable Amway insights. And when I, shame faced, I brought it up with him the other day at my latest retreat, he was gracious: “No recollection at all. But, then again,” he added with his impish grin, “I’ve pretty much heard it all one time or another during my 30 years down here.”

The Gory Details

Now, I’m not going to regale you with a second telling of my Jekyll and Hyde experience with Amway and bipolar disorder. Suffice it to say for purposes of this post, Amway was about the worst thing I could have done to bring out the Mr. Hyde in me. But, hey, if you’re one of those gluttons for punishment, you can read all about it here. But I’d advise against it. Sort of like Phil in Ground Hog Day, “Ned, I’d love to stand here and talk to you. But I’m not going to.”

The Gospel Of Love

The word “love” appears 57 times in the Gospel of John, more often than in the other three gospels combined. Vince has taken John to heart, especially chapter 15, verse 9: “As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love.” Every day at the retreat house, one of the retreat masters celebrates mass from the Missal just before lunch. Now, I’m certainly no expert on how Catholics do the mass, but if I understand what goes on generally, Scriptural passages from both the Old and New Testaments are read in such a fashion that the entire Bible is read through over the course of the year.

But Vince has his own way. It doesn’t much matter to him if the scripture for the day happens to be from one of the stern Old Testament prophets or a flight of intellectual fancy from one of Paul’s epistles, Vince will slip a reference to John in somewhere. Count on it.

Myself? I’ve never never been a big fan of John’s near woo-woo mysticism. Give me the relatively straight forward lyricism of the beloved physician’s Gospel, Luke.

But this is to quibble and cavil. The Sacred Heart Retreat House is not to be missed. For Catholics. For Protestants. For Orthodox. For those of all beliefs. And, perhaps particularly, those of none.

And, if you’re smart, you’ll stop by Bud’s Bar either coming or going. And don’t say you weren’t warned about the fries.