My traveling companion looks at me with as much monkish patience as he can muster and gently reminds me that we’re at a monastery. Properly humbled, I follow him to the guest quarters.

Our rooms sit across from the chapel and up from the duck pond, with its quiet muddy waters stretching into a lush Northwest forest, the air filled with the sweet scents from a thousand shades of green. In this area, we’re expected to refrain from any activity that could disrupt the tranquil setting. No loud voices, no cell phone use, no playing radios or musical instruments, and certainly no profane outbursts.

This suits me fine, as long as I remember to curb my more enthusiastic responses. After months of nonstop schedules and sensory overload, I welcome the meditative sanctuary offered in this serene setting, a silence disrupted only by birds singing, leaves rustling, and the occasional murmur of voices. And my austere guestroom, with its single bed and small plain desk, only adds to the sense of soulful retreat. There’s even a robin’s nest outside my window, for Christ’s sake.

What I don’t welcome is the large crucifix hanging over the bed. I can handle the other symbols of Catholic veneration—the picture of the last supper, the Medieval-styled statue of Joseph holding his son Jesus (I think that’s what it is), and the wooden plus sign, shaped like an iron cross, painted with five colorful images of Jesus. I look at these with the same cultural inquisitiveness and appreciation I’ve experienced in Buddhist or Muslim countries. I welcome the cultural adventure and aesthetic variation.

But the crucifix over the bed gets to me. There’s something about a tortured, emaciated body hanging above my head that makes my dreams anything but sweet.

It’s not that I haven’t been around this stuff. I was raised a Catholic, but a very loose one. On the occasions I was forced to go to church or catechism, it felt like punishment. And historically, the Church has been big on punishment—though Catholics hardly hold a monopoly on that.

But attacking the Church’s history is too easy—the witch hunts, the Crusades, the Inquisition, and its questionable role in the Holocaust. Even the contemporary Church, with its institutionalized discrimination against women and gays, seems too simple a target. Just this past May, the Pope called gay marriage an insidious and dangerous threat. That’s right, he insists that we protect those straight Vegas weddings from the sinister spread of love and commitment.

Yet the Church’s bloody history and cycles of discrimination give way quickly to the sense of sanctuary I feel at the abbey. And soon I give no more thought to the crucifix—or the Christian-centric pamphlets or Bible on the desk—than I would a full-page Wal-Mart ad. I even attend the day-hour and vesper prayers. Sure, I notice the monks’ off-key chanting and the slight whistle one makes whenever he sounds an s and the bat that hangs from the rafters, but I notice even more the sense of sincerity and devotion that emanate from these guys as they participate in their daily rituals.

At that moment, I’m not seeing the Church. I’m seeing a small group of individuals, ranging in age from thirty to eighty, committed to a way of life that promotes respect, tranquility, and a belief in a higher calling. And even a sophisticated Seattleite like me can’t fault them for that. In fact, I envy them some, living in a community that so faithfully shares a common set of beliefs and values. My stomach still rumbles and I squirm against the hard pews and I keep straightening my spine, but much of that is a carry-over from my youth, and the spine thing, that’s just a response to the stooped backs of the aged monks whose years of veneration and humility have taken their toll.

But as I listen to them, I understand that it’s the generations of devotion that have created such a peaceful environment, a place where stewardship and sanctuary seem one in the same, a place open to anyone seeking rest and serenity—although the openness part is not something I fully test. True, I’d feel easier if they used biodegradable cleaning products or instituted a more effective system for composting and recycling—especially here in hip northwest Oregon.

But the lack of such steps doesn’t make their dedication seem any less genuine. If anything, it’s a good reminder that not everyone’s priorities are the same. Besides, if they were more environmentally proactive, I might not have discovered the can of Odor Assassin in the shared bath. And I might not know that Odor Assassin promises to eliminate even the smell of skunk.

I wonder if the monks leave the deodorizer there as a joke. I suspect they’re not without a keen sense of humor.

When walking on one of their trails, I follow a sign that reads, “To shrine,” only to discover an undulating, overgrown ball field with a rusty backstop complete with a giant plastic Miller’s beer bottle, a Jack Daniels tailgating sign, and a set of baseball cards mounted in Plexiglas. And next to all this sits a small, wooden cross, perhaps to remind shrine-seekers why they’re there.

It doesn’t seem possible that the people who could create such a space—not just the ball field, but the entire retreat—are cut from the same cloth as an institution that has been responsible for so much suffering, that the men who work every day to build community, to resist the plague of consumerism and greed, to welcome strangers into their sanctum, are tied to a system that continues to denigrate and ostracize. Yet when I look at these monks as individuals—a small group of individuals participating in an intentional community—I can see beyond the institution and witness their faithful and profound journeys.

On my way back from the baseball shrine, I walk along the pond near the guest quarters. The pond is teaming with bullfrogs, turtles, and long, slow-moving fish, merely silhouettes in the muddy water. As I stroll along the pond’s edge, I come across a sign: “Caution: Walking on Water Prohibited. Monks Only.”

Yes, the monks do have a sense of humor. Perhaps we all need more of that. Humor somehow cuts through the institutional thinking and stagnated beliefs, the divisive politics and religious prejudices. Without humor, and the openness it affords, I suspect none of us would be able to negotiate these murky waters.