Detachment is often misunderstood. It’s not about caring less. It's about holding what we possess – whether material or intangible – so lightly that we can let go when it no longer serves our greater mission of love. 

Recently, I was in Assisi, Italy praying at the tomb of Saint Francis. Here’s a reflection I wrote while there:

Sitting in the tiny chapel in front of the body of St. Francis. Thousands of people stream by throughout the day. The look on their faces and glistening eyes communicate that they feel deeply challenged and inspired — even 800 years after the saint’s death.

Once when I was in the monastery, I remember my cousin came to visit. As she was leaving, she asked me with a bit of sorrow in her tone,

"Don't you get lonely here?” 

The question surprised me a bit. Sure, loneliness happens to all of us from time to time. But, I didn’t consistently feel lonely. Most of all, because I was blessed to experience a closeness to God that was deeply nourishing and lifegiving. But secondly, because I was with a caring community day in and day out.

How often do we feel paralyzed by a decision that feels too big, too overwhelming, or too final? Whether it’s a career change, a move, or a personal commitment, the pressure to make the “right” decision can cloud our ability to take action. We sit with the weight of it—perhaps for days, weeks, or even months—feeling stuck and unsure.

Recently, a friend asked me for career advice. He was at a crossroads of making a big career change and felt crushed by the weight of that decision. I tried to lower the stakes: “Before you make this huge switch, can you test it out first?” Testing it out can be as simple as spending a few hours a week working in a similar role.

Love is the most fundamental human experience and the ultimate purpose of our lives. 

It has the power to both start wars and to create peace. Each one of us loves someone, whether it be our children, family, spouse, or friends.

Love is the firm cement which holds our relationships together. We deeply need it, but we find true fulfilment when love is pure—free of self-interest and hidden motives.

While in the monastery, I had a brief assignment to a missionary monastery in Uganda – yup, those exist. 

I had a habit of daily vigorous exercise – running, weight lifting, etc. However, it was harder to exercise in Uganda without access to running places or a gym. Part of me wanted to just skip exercise. But I knew that everything in my life – relationships, sleep, work, mood, etc – was better when I exercised regularly. 

So I had to improvise. 

In the Christian tradition, Lent is a period of letting go of idols that hold us back from becoming whom we yearn to be. 

Stripping off the idols that entangle us like bandages on a corpse, we begin to unravel our most true identity rooted in God. 

The 40 days of Lent mirror the 40 days Jesus spent in the desert praying and fasting in preparation for his public ministry. It’s a sacred time to prepare for rebirth in the joy of our own resurrection. 

When I was in the monastery, we often did a silent retreat to start Lent. During this time, I’d use the ancient Lenten spiritual framework of “prayer, fasting, and almsgiving” to set specific goals for how I wanted to be transformed during Lent. Here are some real examples from my monastic Lenten practices: 

The “desert fathers” who lived in the Egyptian desert in the 4th - 6th centuries sought a union with God through an intensely ascetic and prayerful lifestyle. 

Here, Evagrius, one of the most well-known of the desert fathers, describes the “noonday devil”, a popular metaphor in desert spirituality. 

Imagine the heat and torpor of being outside in the Egyptian desert after a hard morning of work. This is what Evagrius would experience most days. Naturally your mind and body would want an escape – to seek some other pleasure than to be present to your duties or life. Because of this natural reality, one becomes vulnerable to spiritual temptation. 

And we all have our own noonday devils don’t we?

In the monastery, we had dinner together every night. This was a privileged time for nurturing community and relationships. Of course, doing the same thing with the same people every day sometimes felt boring or mundane.

It can often be hardest to love those closest to us – members of our family, classmates and friends that we see all the time, people who no longer hold novelty or intrigue for us. But consistently finding little ways to serve and love those in our midst actually becomes the fabric of true heroism.

When I was in the monastery, every night before going to bed, I’d kneel on the cold tile floor and lean against my simple bed made from an old wooden door. 

I’d perform a meditative exercise called an “examination of conscience” in which you reflect meditatively on the day in order to improve the next day, and each day thereafter. 

Athletes watch the “game tape” of their own games to learn where they performed well, made mistakes, and how they can improve. If athletes do this for a game, why can’t we do it for real life?

People often ask me what the hardest thing to give up in the monastery was. I think they assume it's sex, and they want to hear me say that. 

Shortly after I entered, I remember a wise older brother telling me, “People think the hardest vow to keep is chastity. Actually, it's obedience.” 

I live in Washington, D.C., and the first question many ask upon meeting me is, “What do you do?”  Of course what we do matters, but ultimately, it’s secondary to the more fundamental questions: Why do I work? How do I work? 

Have you ever made a decision motivated by fear?

I have. Plenty of times. 

Whether its a fear of failure; fear of disappointing someone; fear rooted in a childhood wound… 

Have you ever made a decision motivated by fear?

I have. Plenty of times. 

Whether its a fear of failure; fear of disappointing someone; fear rooted in a childhood wound… 

I’ve had periods of my life in which I acted like what I did with my body – whether partying too hard or staying up way too late – had no bearing on my spiritual health. 

But that’s a lie. 

In my early days in the monastery, we had classes on spirituality, during which we’d learn from the older brothers who'd been in the monastery for a while. I remember Fr. Robert, an energetic, younger friar sharing with us: 

“We all have this candle burning within us. It’s the light of hope, life, God’s presence within us. If you run around while carrying a candle, it will go out. 

There’s a tendency to think that prayer or meditation is hard. That it's inaccessible or won’t really make a difference in our lives. We kinda feel like we should do it and we’d be better for it. But in the midst of our crazy days, it sometimes feels just too distant. 

St. Therese, a French nun who lived in the closed walls of a hidden convent in a small town and died in her early 20s, reminds us here that, to the contrary, prayer is primarily just a simple movement of the heart. 

After six years in the monastery and after the passing of my father, I suddenly and strongly felt called to be more active in how I was serving God and living my life. It was jarring, and I remember literally feeling like I was being ripped apart internally. I loved being in the monastery - the routine of life, all the time for prayer, being with the brothers. But I was feeling called into something different. 

Mother Teresa did not start out as Mother Teresa. 

For 20 years, “Sister Teresa” was a teacher and school administrator in a middle class school in Calcutta with a religious community called the Sisters of Loretto. 

Daily she walked by people dying in the streets and starving for food – and love. One day, she went on her day off to bring them comfort. Then she did this for a few hours every week. She couldn’t help the millions of suffering people in Calcutta. But she could help a few each week.

In the 5th century Egyptian desert, Abba Lot came to Abba Joseph and said: 

“Father, according as I am able, I keep my little rule, and my little fast, my prayer, meditation and contemplative silence; and, according as I am able, I strive to cleanse my heart of thoughts: now what more should I do?”

The elder rose up in reply and stretched out his hands to heaven and said: “Why not become fire?”

As he said this, Abba Joseph’s fingers became like ten lamps of fire shooting flames.