Novitiate

"Other seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it."

-Words of Jesus from Mark 4:11

I hated most of my time in novitiate. I chose to be there, but high school seminary did not prepare me for this. In high school, I was told how awesome novitiate would be: developing a close relationship with Jesus, wearing a cassock, drinking. I didn't realize how infrequently I would be able to talk to my family or that I would spend the majority of those two years in absolute silence.

Breakfast was a drag. We would sit there eating oatmeal after praying for an hour and a half (we'd woken up at 5:30 am to do this). All I could hear during breakfast was the clanking of silverware on bowls and plates; and spoons sliding on platters passed from novice to novice. Waiters would patrol the cafeteria and novices would get their attention by raising a hand when they wanted a refill. 

Our days were structured in high school, but there were many departures from the daily routine. In novitiate, there was no such departure. The monotony wore me down. On a physical level, my body was not ready for such active days with such little sleep. I remember talking to an ex-military guy who was a novice with me. He told me that the Legion was harder than any military experience he'd had, because at least in the military there were breaks.

Not everything was bad, of course. Stations of the cross during lent were pleasant, and I mean that. I'd walk into the candlelit church after a boring, silent dinner and stand by each station for as long as I wanted. Mary Magdalene washing Jesus' face was always my favorite station. I'd imagine her as a pretty girl giving Jesus the only comfort he experienced on his road to crucifixion. Perhaps it resonated because it reflected my life. My least favorite Stations: Jesus falling 3 times. I would run out of material to meditate about pretty quickly after fall number one. My other least favorite prayer was the rosary. Just endless beads, the same words, and a struggle to find a reason for this mindless repetition. 

Easter was beautiful. I loved being in the choir, and when we sang "Resurrexit", I would have a spiritual orgasm over the harmonies. The Church smelled like the lilies that surrounded the altar. Holy Thursday night was special. We would be woken up in shifts all through the night for perpetual adoration. There's something special about walking a moonlit hallway at 2am to contemplate pure love. 

I am grateful for the public speaking classes. My teacher was a living dictionary, and he tuned me up. It was the only place I could be self expressive, and I was always sad when class came to an end. 

Hike days were also spectacular. We would form groups of three and go wherever we wanted. We'd eat our lunch and return home. Connecticut hikes were not as fun as hiking mountains in New Hampshire, but it had its own beauty. 

I had a crush on a fellow novice and wanted to spend all my time with him, and I spent more time with him than the rest of the novices. His laugh, smile and personality gave me immense joy. I'd find him and join him in whatever he was doing: washing floors, doing the laundry, walking in our conversation cohorts—where we would band in groups of 3 (no more) to converse for 15 minutes, twice a day. I found every way I could to be with him, and that was not easy in a cage-like environment. He was lovely. I remember telling my spiritual director how I felt about him, and he would awkwardly tell me to pray about it and hope for the best. That was it. This love story never actualized, and perhaps it was one-sided. I will never know. All I know is that my struggles with my sexual identity persist to this day, perhaps because I didn't have anyone who encouraged me to explore and love every aspect of myself during my teenage years. 

I attribute some of my current struggle with depression to the hours upon hours of silence and lack of contact with friends and family. I have very few friends from my time in seminary because most of the day we were not allowed to talk to each other, and close friendships were discouraged. I had the worst kind of out-of-body experience—where you watch yourself fall apart. I was helpless but unable to cry out for help.

    

I remember going to my novice instructor the day before taking my temporary vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, and expressing my apprehension with being a Legionary priest. He looked at me in disbelief and asked, "then what have you been doing all novitiate long?"

I had no answer. I had wasted two years of my life. I hadn't even asked myself if I wanted to live this way forever because I believed I had to. To me, this was the only route I could take to deep fulfillment. The suffering was just a part of it. It pains me to consider that there are people out there who live this way all their lives. I would not wish this misery on my worst enemy. The Legion is a cult, and it fucks you on a psychological level. The only happy Legionaries I know are those perfectly suited to this lifestyle. If it's not for you, it's hard to make the decision to leave because you are pressured into staying. 

I hope the Legion has changed in healthy ways (I've heard it has), but I would never encourage anyone to join. I was a seed that thrived in the high school life and got choked during my time in novitiate. My soul withered and died, and I still struggle to allow my mind to be free and happy. Therapy has been my greatest help. One therapy session has done more for me than all the confessions of my life, and I wish everyone was in it. 

"Even the worst of us need someone to talk to."

-Hannibal