Facing Snakes at the Monastery

A few weeks ago at the monastery, we had several encounters with snakes.

On our Sabbath—a day set aside for rest—a worried guest approached me, saying a snake had appeared just outside her room. My first reaction was avoidance, a familiar impulse. Thankfully, Brother Francis suggested we ask Dave, who had been living with the community and whose calm presence we trusted would handle the situation.

At first, I stayed distant, hesitating at the top of the stairs. But something inside gently urged me forward. Reluctantly, I went downstairs, watching as Dave and Brother Francis calmly removed the snake from the ceiling and released it outside. Seeing someone else handle what unsettled me made my own fear feel slightly smaller, more approachable.

Just days later, another snake appeared—this time even more startling. It was the Feast of Corpus Christi, which celebrates Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. The monastery bell rang for worship, and as I hurried toward the crypt church door, I opened it and froze.

Right at my feet, just inside the threshold, was another snake—black, four feet long, its head alertly raised. My heart quickened. Determined not to retreat, I fetched gloves from the garden shed and returned, but even with the protection, I couldn’t bring myself to pick it up.

I hurried to the sacristy and explained the situation to the altar party, minutes before they would process into church. Brother Ben, a novice experienced with wildlife, stepped up immediately. Without the gloves I offered, he gently picked up the snake and carried it outside. Watching him, I realized with fresh clarity how we all carry fears that others handle with ease.

Our culture tells us strength lies in self-reliance, in facing every fear alone. But the Eucharist, which the Feast of Corpus Christi honors, proclaims something different: that true courage is found in acknowledging our vulnerability and our need for God and each other. Loving God and our neighbor means letting ourselves be loved by God and our neighbor, even in the parts of us we most want to hide, the doors we don’t want to open.

Carl Jung wrote, "One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious." The snakes we most fear are often not outside, but within—our wounds, our shame, our shadows. These internal snakes haunt our daily lives until we have the courage to open the door to ourselves and face them.

In the wilderness, when the Israelites were bitten by snakes, God instructed Moses to place a serpent on a pole and lift it high—not to destroy or avoid the snakes, but for the community to look directly at what they feared most. In looking, they were healed. Their salvation came not from avoidance, but from the willingness to see what haunted them—and not look away.

This image returns in the Gospel of John, as Jesus compares himself to that serpent lifted in the wilderness. Jesus allowed himself to be lifted up on the cross—facing suffering, shame, abandonment, and death—so we too could face our darkness with honesty and courage. In vulnerability and love, he accompanies us through our fears.

During the Eucharist, the priest lifts and breaks the consecrated host before the assembly. At that moment, we are invited to look directly at what we fear most: the brokenness of the world, the weight of death, the shadows within ourselves.

But we do not look alone. We look together, held in divine love. Just as the serpent was lifted by Moses, the communion host is lifted and broken as Christ’s body was—not to terrify us, but to transform us. In this act of communion, our darkness is brought into the light, held by God and by each other.

Every time we open a door and encounter a snake—whether literal or within ourselves—we’re offered the chance to face what haunts us. We don’t need to have everything figured out or be fully healed to take that step. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is simply keep showing up, moving one step closer, however small.

And we don’t have to do it alone. In community, at God’s table, we find a love that meets us in our fear, draws us out of hiding, and walks with us through the shadows. Here, fear slowly gives way to trust, and our darkness is gently transformed into light.

Maybe next time I’ll find the courage to pick up the snake myself, or maybe I’ll just take one more step than I did before, and that’s enough.