At my high school and at many other Catholic high schools, there is a program offered to juniors and seniors interested in deepening their relationship with God. You don’t have to attend a parochial school to embark on one of these religious retreats, but it is easier to do so if you are already engulfed by that community. It’s called a Kairos retreat, “kairos” meaning “God’s Time” in Greek. The retreat was optional, but like First Communion and Confirmation, did I really have a choice? My classmates who returned from those four excused-absent days at an undisclosed location appeared newly bonded, whispering to each other in the hallways with giddy smiles spread across their faces. The student body called this euphoric state “Kai-high.” I wanted to know what secrets Kairos held. I wanted to get Kai-high.
Unless you had already gone on Kairos, you had no idea what happened during that time. Students who partook kept their mouths shut about the experience, like it was a high-profile client whose money they managed. This secrecy only added to the intrigue and did nothing to beat the cult allegations. So like any 17-year-old eager to be included, I signed up to attend an all-girls Kairos retreat in September of my senior year. After a three-hour bus ride through towns that were increasingly pushed apart by cornfields the further west we drove into Illinois, my Kairos group finally arrived at the stoic retreat center. While others excitedly screamed and hugged the revealed peer leaders—the girls who would be leading designated small groups in prayers, reflections, and gut-spilling sessions—I found myself utterly underwhelmed. This dusty complex that couldn’t have been newer than 1965 was supposed to be the site of my spiritual revelation?
You may be wondering what the hell happened on this retreat. I’ll divulge its secrets to the best of my recollection. Each morning, I awoke in my sparse bedroom alone. There was a lumpy twin bed, a wooden desk and chair, and a wooden dresser along with an ensuite bathroom. The walls were bare, save for a crucifix and overhead light. I recall the walls of the room being a sun faded yellow, though I can’t say any of these details with absolute certainty. What this description does convey is the vibe I felt in the space. Obviously, no phones were allowed to give retreatants a taste of ascetic life. After a group breakfast in the cafeteria, there would be breakout sessions with our small groups interspersed with lunch, dinner, and larger conventions of all the girls before everyone parted ways to their bedrooms at the end of the evenings. Meditation times dotted the days, during which people strolled around the property or found a quiet spot alone. At the all-retreat sessions, student and teacher leaders would give testimonials about their faith. I can’t say I wasn’t touched by these moments of vulnerability. In fact, I deeply admired the people who shared their stories. But while others appeared to bare all, I felt incapable of connecting my emotions to God.
The morning after the final night of the retreat when participants received a manila envelope stuffed with letters from friends and family, people appeared at breakfast with puffy, tear-drained eyes. But I did not cry when I read those letters. I smiled warmly and occasionally laughed at inside jokes, but I felt more fondness for the people in my life who had taken the time to write me a letter rather than a compulsion to turn teary-eyed to God. By the end of the four days, I felt much the same as before but slightly more jaded. Where was that Kai-high feeling? I felt like I had poured water into a cup only to discover it was papier-mâché as it melted, leaving me thirsty. I had been expecting something, what it was I’m not sure. Profound clarity, strong relationships, spiritual fulfillment, I don’t know. I found Kairos, like Mass, to be devoid of religious ecstasy and joy, more so an expectation than an exploration of faith. They were institutional requirements rather than personally meaningful.
To be honest, I had forgotten about Kairos until recently. I had shoved that experience deep into the filing drawers of my memories, perhaps unwilling to revisit it out of fear that it confirmed my suspicions that I’m closed-off. Why couldn’t I feel something that so many others appeared overcome by? Maybe it was the crucifixes in every bedroom or the mention of God’s love in many of the letters or the concluding Mass. I did not feel that I had space for the spiritual exploration I was starved for when it was moderated by the structures and symbols of the Church in that looming brick building.
Not only did I feel the watchful eyes of the Church upon me, but I also felt the eyes of my classmates. How was I supposed to be truly vulnerable, really pry my ribcage open and let tears fall, when I was not among people I felt safe with? This sort of forced trauma-bonding within the faith evidently did not work on me as I was and am someone who is deeply reserved out of self-preservation. To my recollection, the girls in my Kairos small group were nice, even friendly. But they weren’t people I knew. I knew their names and we said hi to each other in the school hallways after the cult—I mean retreat—but it was a mirage of a relationship. If you reached out and touched it you’d be grasping at air. Perhaps that’s my real disappointment with Kairos: It felt fake. An empty promise of revelation rooted in an insular culture’s rites of passage.
I went on Kairos because everyone else was doing it, because I felt the weight of my community’s expectations and I wanted to fulfill them. Retreats, religious or otherwise, can be beautiful opportunities for growth, self-exploration, and reflection. But you have to want to be there of your own volition.