At least that’s what the signs suggested.

I turned at the corner of Fourth and Main, where Main cuts between Lownsdale Square and Chapman Square, the two city parks that the Occupy contingent currently called home. Just then, the police hauled a man out from between the tents and ushered him toward the sidewalk, not far from where I was taking my stroll. I assumed that he’d been imbibing a bit, judging by his haphazard struggles and the bloated, bulbous, burnt-out look on his face, the sort of look you often find in this part of the city.

Once the cops got him under control, they pushed him against the sidewalk and forced him into a pair of handcuffs, while he shouted out protests that could have been accusations about police brutality or rights violations or needing to take a piss. Between his slurred speech and the fact that his face was in the ground, he could have been saying anything.

At one point, a guy standing inside the camp—another fan of all-day happy hours, judging by the look on his face—called to his handcuffed friend, “Quit resisting.”

“I’m not resisting,” the detainee shouted. “I’m not.”

“You are resisting. Just don’t try to resist.”

I left the encampment and headed toward the river.

Over the next two days, I passed by or walked through the camp several times. For the most part, the place remained relatively peaceful despite the number of tents and the mass of campers. Sure, music might have blared on occasion, and there might have been some yelling now and again, but these sorts of disruptions seemed to be the exception.

What struck me most was not the fact of the encampment or the gathering of all those young, self-styled, mostly white, mostly male revolutionaries with their prerequisite beards and carefully crafted hairdos and assortment of knitted wool beanies. We’ve all been there, after all. All of us.

What I had not anticipated was the large number of homeless and mentally ill and unsavory grunge-clad street folks who latched onto the movement like cattle to a watering hole on a dusty Oklahoma day.

It didn’t help that straw had been strewn across what little uncovered ground remained, giving the entire encampment a stable-like feel that swelled with the odors of unwashed bodies and beer-soaked sweat and the suspiciously acrid aroma of burning weed. The seedier members of the camp, the only ones I could really hear, spoke with that rough illiterate stoner slur that circled about in generalities and trendy clichés. I had the sense they could have easily landed anywhere that offered a safe haven and a place to have a good time.

It would have been easy at that point to walk away with the impression that the only thing the Occupy people had accomplished was to set up a place to party, this despite one of their signs explicitly stating that they were not there for that reason. Even so, it was difficult to see the political or social advantages of setting up an urban campsite that had been for the most part approved by city hall and at least to some degree taken over by outside forces, some of them in genuine need, others simply looking for a place to unfurl their skull-encrusted black leather bags.

That evening, however, I dropped by another city park—Jamison Square. The Occupy forces had marched there earlier that day and planned to remain throughout the night, despite threats from the same city hall that had given a wink and a nod to their semi-permanent encampment.

The gathering was small, quiet, peaceful. From what I could tell, there were nearly as many cops—on horses and bikes and feet—and members of the press as there were protesters. I’m not sure why the city decided to make such a big deal out of occupying this park, considering how accommodating they had been about the other parks, but the general theory being tweeted that day was related to the fact that Jamison Square sat smack dab in the middle of one of the city’s more affluent neighborhoods.

I don’t know whether this really was the mayor’s reasoning for giving the protestors the boot. I don’t even know whether this part of town actually qualifies as one of the city’s most affluent. But I do know, or at least I suspect, that had the city not issued their ultimatums and had the cops not arrived prepared for a riot and had the press not shown up in droves, the sit-in (or whatever they’re calling it these days) would probably have gone unnoticed.

But going unnoticed is not the point of civil disobedience. And to this end the protesters got what they wanted. Many were arrested. Many made the news. Many tweeted till the cows came home. In the meantime, those who remained at the encampment had been all but forgotten.

And they weren’t the only ones. The city was full of the forgotten, people who had nothing to do with the Occupy movement—the amputee in his wheelchair, the kid asleep in the doorway, the vet looking for work, the panhandler with her two children, the man at the bus stop sitting for hours staring at street signs and clinging to his torn and greasy pack.

Then there was the other tent city, the one on Burnside set up for the homeless, shoved behind a makeshift wall built out of dilapidated rotting doors. No members of the press followed those campers around. No politicians pontificated on their plight. No one held up signs to remind us that these people needed our attention. They had been rolled into the folds of the city so thoroughly that most of us had forgotten they were there.

My last night in Portland, I visited the Occupy camp one last time. Across the street from the tents, a crowd was gathered in a small brick plaza, round and tiered like a mini-amphitheater. In the center, a man spoke to them in a clear, calm, defiant voice. I caught only snippets of what he had to say—something about sustainability, I believe—but I could still discern that this was an articulate, confident speaker, one who knew how to carry the crowds.

I had not seen this side of the camp until now, and I was relieved to know that people like him were part of the movement. I needed to see something here that gave me the same sense of satisfaction I felt when I watched the protestors gather at Jamison Square.

I’m not yet convinced that the encampments themselves are the best way to achieve the changes we need right now. They require resources and energy that could perhaps be better applied elsewhere. And that fat ugly rat I saw scurrying across the sidewalk toward the camp hardly helped to sway me in its favor. Yet I’m grateful that these people are here. I’m grateful that so many people across the country are willing to do something to make those changes happen.

Sure, there might be the opportunists who come straggling in, an inevitable consequence of any movement. And there might be the campers thrilled to follow the latest trend. Also inevitable. And propping up tents in the middle of the city might seem like nothing but a desperate measure. But we live in times that call for desperate measures. And in my mind, it makes more sense to pitch a tent in the middle of Portland than to sit at home and watch another night of cable TV.

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.