Convent: (n) a community of persons devoted to religious life under a superior.
I’ve never been motivated by fear, even when some of it may have been legitimate.
I cannot stand to be intimidated and frightened just so somebody will believe that I’m adequately aware of a pending horror.
I have been a fortunate man because my journey has taken me every place I wanted to go, and many places I did not envision going but ended up benefitting me.
I once found myself, along with my family, staying for two days at a convent. It was an experience. Let me tell you the difference between “experience” and “blessing:”
A blessing is something you wish would go on forever.
An experience, though initially pleasant, is something you are overjoyed has an expiration date.
The women living in the convent, serving God, praying, and taking vows of both chastity and poverty, were some of the sweetest, gentlest and kindest souls I had ever met. But after about thirty-six hours, I discovered that their profile and practices were initiated through a fear of being displeasing to their Master—their husband. God.
Over breakfast one morning, I shared with these lovely souls my intention to write a novel on the life of Jesus, with him telling his own story. I felt confident that they would be moved by such an adventure. The intimacy we had shared over the stay made me relaxed, and I was forthcoming about details.
They were shocked.
They were offended.
Matter of fact, they pleaded with me to not write such a book, because it would “be offensive to God.”
Honestly, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was argue with nuns—especially on their home turf, the convent. I listened patiently to their objections, and for the rest of my visit I remained quiet, eager to get back to a world where poverty is not preferable and there is a God who welcomes scrutiny instead of feigning offense.