Lighting Candles for Others: My Journey to the Monastery 🕯

A reflection on Candlemas - “It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.”

One evening, as our contemplative prayer group gathered in St. Mary’s Episcopal Church’s chapel in Arlington, VA, we heard the door unexpectedly creak open on its own. Lightheartedly, I remarked, “It’s Elijah,” referencing the Jewish Passover tradition of leaving the door open in anticipation of a visit from the prophet.

I was reminded of one of my earliest experiences of mystery and wonder—standing at the front door of my grandfather’s Greenwich Village apartment as a child, peeking out to see if Elijah had arrived.

My family would take the Amtrak from Washington, DC, to New York City to celebrate Passover with our relatives. Tomorrow, I will take the same train north again. But this time, my journey will not end in the city. I will travel farther—beyond its lights and hurried motion—to Holy Cross Monastery, an Episcopal Benedictine community in the Hudson Valley, where I will live and serve for nine months as part of their monastic internship program.

Whenever I think of railways, I find myself reflecting on Harriet Tubman. I once assumed she single-handedly led vast numbers of enslaved people to freedom. But history tells a different story—one both humbling and illuminating. Historical records estimate that she directly led about seventy enslaved people to freedom—a number far smaller than I had imagined. And yet, her courage and unwavering faith set something far greater in motion. She became a light for others, multiplying her impact in ways she herself could never have fully imagined.

Around MLK Day in 2023, I heard a quote that stuck with me: “It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.” This quote has served as a guiding light for me these past years—so much so that I’ve taken up pouring candles and giving them as gifts to friends and family.

A year later, one of the candles I had poured and given as a gift flickered on a coffee table in the living room of Abrahamic House—a row house a mile from the White House in Washington, DC, where a Muslim, a Jew, and a Christian live together as part of a fellowship program, hosting interfaith events as part of their mission of “gathering, not othering.”

The event that night focused on the roles of heroes and saints in faith traditions. As the fellows and guests sat in the living room, everyone was asked to share one figure from their faith background. When it came to my turn, I spoke about Harriet Tubman and the passage from the New Testament Book of Matthew known as the Parable of the Talents.

In the Parable of the Talents, a master entrusts his servants with varying amounts of his possessions, referred to as “talents,” before going on a journey. Two of the servants use what they were given to create more for their master, while one servant, given only one talent, buries it in the ground out of fear. Upon his return, the master rewards the servants who wisely multiplied their talents, entrusting them with even more. However, he is disappointed in the servant who buried his talent in fear—and takes it away.

When I gave the candles I’d poured as gifts, many recipients told me they couldn’t bring themselves to light the candle, afraid of “using it up” as it had special meaning. But light is meant to be used. Just as the sun burns, bringing warmth and dispelling darkness, we too are invited to let our lives be used up for something greater.

Over the past year, as many people suggested that I consider exploring the monastic tradition as a way to be of service to others, I hesitated, feeling unqualified and afraid of my inadequacies. The night I spoke about Harriet Tubman, a parishioner at St. Matthew’s—a Roman Catholic cathedral in Washington, DC, and a neighbor to Abrahamic House—asked me if I had ever considered living in a monastery. He invited me to attend Catholic Mass with him and have dinner afterward to talk about the contemplative tradition.

As the service began, someone I knew, whom I hadn’t expected to see, walked in. After the service, as I went up to say hello, I saw that she was crying and sat down beside her. I had no answers for what troubled her, but I sat with her in her pain. At that moment, I felt most like I had found myself in loving another—feeling purpose in being able to sit with someone and provide them stability through their hardship. That doesn’t mean I always can, and sometimes I do the opposite, but just because a candle casts a shadow doesn’t mean we don’t light it in the first place.

And so, as I have now decided to light my candle and use the next nine months for others by living and serving in the monastery, people have asked if I am excited—as if I were simply going on a trip. They mean well, but monasticism is not meant to be a vacation from the world—it is a way of being profoundly present to it, living for the world through prayer and self-sacrifice. There have been nights of doubt and hesitation, and there is much I will leave behind. Yet, in a world marked by uncertainty and division, this feels less like a retreat and more like a responsibility—to sacrifice comfort in order to live out the contemplative vocation that Thomas Merton described as keeping 'alive the spirit of man.'

Yesterday was the birthday of Thomas Merton, an American monk who entered his monastery in Kentucky at the beginning of World War II and later engaged in interfaith dialogue with the Dalai Lama and Rabbi Abraham Heschel, who marched alongside MLK. Merton wrote:

"We become ourselves by dying to ourselves... if we live for others, we will gradually discover that no one expects us to be ‘as gods.’ We will see that we are human, like everyone else, that we all have weaknesses and deficiencies, and that these limitations of ours play a most important part in all our lives. It is because of them that we need others, and others need us. We are not all weak in the same spots, and so we supplement and complete one another, each one making up in himself for the lack in another."

Today, on the last Sunday before moving to the monastery, both the Episcopal and Catholic Churches celebrate Candlemas—a feast that fills sanctuaries with the glow of countless candles, honoring the power of light. If Martin Luther King Jr.’s words are true— “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that”—then in this time of division and uncertainty, each of us is called to be a candle, shining in a sea of light and unity.

The day after the election, I attended a midday service at St. George’s Episcopal Church in Arlington, VA. The rector, Rev. Shearon Sykes Williams, preached on Psalm 133:1: “How good and pleasant it is when kindred dwell together in unity!” Not long before the inauguration, I attended a brunch on Capitol Hill for interfaith leaders in the Nation’s Capital, which focused on fostering community. Dr. Sousan Abadian, director of the Interfaith Council of Metropolitan Washington, where I had been serving as a fellow, spoke about a truth woven into the fabric of human history: across cultures and generations, people have always gathered around a fire.

As I continue to reflect on the story of the Underground Railroad, I am most inspired by the collective action of those who gathered around the fire of a love greater than themselves, each playing a role in something far beyond their own lives.

I accepted the invitation to spend nine months at the monastery on the Episcopal Church’s feast day of St. Thomas, the patron saint of architects. He is often called “Doubting Thomas” for his struggle to believe in the resurrection, embodying the human wrestling with faith and doubt. Because of this, the Christian fellow at Abrahamic House at the time of the conversation on heroes and saints called him the patron saint of asking good questions, of having the courage to wrestle with the unknown.

On the Sunday before MLK Day in 2024, after morning worship at my Episcopal church, she invited me to join her at St. Matthew’s for Catholic Mass. The opening hymn rose in a hopeful cadence:

"Let us build a house where love can dwell and all can safely live, a place where saints and children tell how hearts learn to forgive. Built of hopes and dreams and visions, rock of faith and vault of grace; here the love of Christ shall end divisions."

Perhaps St. Thomas is the patron saint of architects—not in spite of his doubt, but because of it. He dared to reach into mystery, letting his questions take him beyond himself. To build a house where love can dwell and end divisions, we must first open our doors. We must let our candles burn, living our lives for one another.

The day after MLK Day in 2025, I brought a candle to our contemplative prayer gathering, placed it at the center of the room, and lit it. I shared my journey to the monastery and how I hope to live for others through contemplative life. Much remains unknown—but every adventure begins in uncertainty.

"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other." — Mother Teresa

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A special thank you to Father Andrew Merrow, Rector of St. Mary’s Episcopal Church—whose birthday falls on the feast day of St. Thomas—for his time meeting with me to discern this journey over the past few months.