Christian monasticism began in the Third Century in Egypt. The early Desert Fathers were monks who desired to devote their entire life to a disciplined life of prayer. To avoid distractions, each would head off alone and establish a hermitage somewhere “out there.” Eventually, groups of monks established themselves where they could all be alone together; that is, they were close enough to be neighbors, but each hermit established his own routine and concentrated on his own spiritual quest. To achieve closeness to God, the monks practiced astonishing austerities, trying to leave the demands and distractions of the flesh behind in order to walk among the spiritualities. Other people noticed what the monks were doing, and they admired it. They sought out the hermits for advice, begged for their prayers. Some hermits were supported by a small community of admirers devoted to the hermit’s needs. Some of the hermits wrote their advice down – or it was recorded by their admirers afterwards in a Life. The most famous of the Desert Fathers, St. Antony, is the one who said, “Your life and your death are with your neighbor.” This strange connection between those who had left the world behind and those in the world who wanted guidance from them is an enduring pattern. The Eastern monks eventually formed true communities, with abbots to rule over them, though eastern monasticism was always marked by individual patterns of devotion and great austerity. This is the type of monasticism that began to appear in Gaul in the late Roman Empire. And it was the type of monasticism that was brought to Ireland and established there by St. Patrick (among others). It fit the Irish social order of the time, as well as the Irish character. In a society lacking true towns, a monastery was a source of attraction and connection. People sent their sons there to be educated. Individuals found their calling as monks and nuns. And the extreme courses followed by the Irish monks – such as casting off to sea on a raft without water or sails, just to see where God would land them (and if they died at sea, then they would make landfall in heaven, so it was all good either way) – appealed to something in the Irish soul. Wherever they went, people came for guidance. Some of those who established themselves in remote areas, such as the Isle of Man, built solitary chapels for their personal devotion, called keeills today. The small communities of people roundabout would take notice. They would attach themselves to the holy man. And though no one had invented a parish system yet, they adopted the keeill as their holy place, and buried their dead next to the walls, in consecrated ground. A little community of believers – a church – had sprung up. Meanwhile, St. Benedict of Nursia wrote his Rule and founded his kind of monasticism in AD 500, which became the pattern for all Western monks thereafter. Benedict moderated the austerities. He wanted to see monks occupied in work and prayer. His form of monasticism spread rapidly. As it spread, it too attracted people looking for guidance and a way to heaven. Before parish churches, the local monastery was where people came to attend mass, to seek guidance, to be educated in both religion and literacy. Some monasteries, particularly those under the direct leadership of a bishop, sent priests out to minister to the Christians around them. Eventually, Irish (eastern) monasticism and English (western) monasticism met in Northumbria, which benefited from both spiritual strains. Anglo-Saxon nobles founded monasteries under the patronage of their families. Ordinary folk went there for spiritual benefits. The church throve. Now, it would be tempting to look at the proliferation of hermitages, chapels, convents, and so on and the growth they stimulated in the church and say, “If you build it, they will come.” Plant a church somewhere, and the people roundabout are sure to seek out the spiritual benefits to be found there. Well, maybe. I’d like to suggest something rather different. Fast forward from the Seventh Century to the Eighteenth, to John Wesley and the People called Methodist. Wesley formed his adherents into classes and bands and societies. These gatherings of ordinary Christians were what powered his movement. These were not monks and nuns – they did not leave the world to practice another way of life – but they practiced and taught a spiritually disciplined life among themselves, which not only transformed their lives, but which brought them to the notice of others. Methodism has been called “monasticism for the masses.” It taught that holiness could be achieved by ordinary people. Its followers experienced the support of a devoted community without forming an enclave to themselves. They advanced in both spiritual life and secular learning. Sometimes they had regular chapels to meet in – eventually, chapels were built everywhere – but at first, they met in homes or wherever they could gather. The church I retired from began in the 1840s when a group of pioneers started a Methodist Society to watch over one another in love. Eventually, they were strong enough to build a little wooden chapel. Circuit Riders would come by from time to time to encourage the faithful and offer the sacraments. Finally, their little congregation was assigned a regular preacher on a circuit and regular services and pastoral care commenced. My point is, people are not particularly moved to change their patterns of living just because somebody plonks a holy place down among them. But they are very attracted to anybody who is living a disciplined spiritual life. It is the community which offers the possibility for spiritual growth that is so attractive. That is what the ancient and medieval monks had. People didn’t all want to be monks, but they wanted to be close to those who were getting close to God. The same held true for the early Methodists. Whether in established towns or on the wild frontier, people were attracted to the possibilities offered by those who were living the Christian life in a serious way. The fact that they could remain with their families and at their various trades and experience a growing closeness to God and the support of a community made it even more attractive. What our churches so often lack today is that power of that devoted, disciplined life. We build holy places and then try to attract people to them with what amounts to spiritual entertainment. SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SEE GOD TURN ORDINARY WINE INTO BLOOD! GROOVE ON THE BEAT LAID DOWN BY OUR PRAISE BAND! ACTUAL CELEBRITIES APPEARING ON STAGE! SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY! But it’s not the show that attracts them; at least, the show doesn’t hold anybody except those who want to be entertained. It’s the life the members live together, and the connection to God through the minister and the congregation, that attracts and holds people and leads to growth. A small group determined to live for God can grow into something big and transformative. But a church of any size established to sell spiritual experiences as commodities can only be sustained by massive effort, and as soon as the central figure is gone or some big social dislocation hits, the whole merry-go-round of seeking donations, recruiting workers, hustling for attendees, offering bigger and better stage productions and programs comes to a halt. He who has ears to hear, let him hear.