From May 18 to June 1, the Benedictine Volunteer Corps welcomed the 2025–2026 chapter of volunteers for a retreat rooted in rhythm, reflection, and community life at Saint John’s Abbey. Over these two weeks, the volunteers embraced a daily schedule of prayer, shared meals, manual labor, afternoon classes, and moments of play - an intentional immersion into the Benedictine spirit of ora et labora.

Mornings began with prayer and breakfast, followed by time spent in work assignments ranging from the woodshop to the arboretum. Afternoon classes with monks and alumni covered topics like cross-cultural service, interior prayer, and language learning. The days ended in fellowship from volleyball games, bonfires, evening prayer, and quiet reflection, each moment weaving the group closer together as they prepared for the year ahead.

Among this year's volunteers are three returning alumni - Jack Scheck, Jacob Lipke, and Joseph Stoddart who will embark on their second year of service. Their experience and leadership throughout the retreat were a steady source of insight and support for the incoming group.

We now send these thirteen volunteers into the world, carrying the Benedictine values of humility, hospitality, and service:

Cole Brown – Kenya

Ethan Engh – Guatemala

Ethan Riddle – Spain

Jonathan Hill – Guatemala

Henry Braun – Italy

William Musser – Puerto Rico

Jack Scheck – Israel (2nd Year)

Jacob Lipke – Israel (2nd Year)

Joe Stoddart – Puerto Rico (2nd Year)

Cameron Klick – Spain

Andrew Jurek – Italy

Jack Meyer – Newark

Tommy Hessburg – Kenya

As they go forth to serve monastic communities around the globe, we hold them in prayer and gratitude. Their presence in these places will be a testament to the enduring call of listening, learning, and loving well.

When Fr. Josef first landed in Israel nearly three decades ago, the Sea of Galilee shimmered in the background as he was handed an IV bag. A monk lay ill. The community was aging. The monastery was crumbling. And nothing, absolutely nothing, resembled the quiet Trappist abbey near Düsseldorf where he once dreamed of living his monastic vocation.

“I had never planned to end up here,” he says with a wry smile. “Israel was never my dream. Silence, structure, the cloistered life - those were my ideals.”

And yet today, Fr. Josef is the Prior of the Benedictine Monastery in Tabgha, nestled on the northern edge of the Sea of Galilee. At 200 meters below sea level, he jokes that it is “the lowest monastery in the world,” both geographically and spiritually, a place where one’s own depths are tested as much as the land’s.

It is here, among ancient stones and fractured borders, that the Rule of St. Benedict collides with modern history. In a land charged with tension and sacred memory, Fr. Josef leads a fragile, resilient monastic community that listens, quite literally, with “the ear of the heart.”

A Faith That Doesn’t Flee

Since the war broke out in Gaza and conflict escalated along the northern border, Tabgha has not been spared. Fighter jets roar overhead. Alarms blare. Rockets occasionally strike nearby. “We hear the war,” Fr. Josef says, “before we even see it. And you cannot sleep through sound like that.”

But the monks stayed.

“It would have been easy to take a plane back to Germany,” he admits. “But the Rule calls us to stability, to love the place we’re planted.”

He pauses.

“Our workers told us, ‘You are like a tree. We are the birds. We come and go. But without the tree…’” He lets the image settle.

What roots a Benedictine community in a place like Tabgha isn’t nationalism or politics, it’s fidelity. It’s choosing presence over escape. Even as concern, fatigue, and sorrow quietly thread their days, they stay rooted in a liturgy of hope. “Pope Francis declared 2025 as a year for ‘Pilgrims of Hope,’” Fr. Josef adds. “That’s not a slogan. That’s our vocation.”

The Fifth Gospel

Fr. Josef refers to the Holy Land as the Fifth Gospel, a phrase lifted from Saint Augustine and echoed by pilgrims and theologians alike. The landscape, he says, speaks its own sacred language.

“But the Fifth Gospel isn’t just stones and sites. It’s the people. The pain. The joy. The complexity. If you stay long enough, if you listen deeply, it begins to reveal something about the God of Jesus Christ.”

And this listening is no romantic metaphor. In a land where liturgy coexists with landmines, and Eucharist with evacuation drills, the call to be present becomes a radical act.

“Tabgha is lonely,” he confesses. “It’s hot. It’s far. It forces you to face yourself, your wounds, your longings, your truth. You cannot outrun your soul here.”

Beit Noah: Where Peace Sits at the Table

If the monastery is the beating heart of Tabgha, Beit Noah is its extended arms. The guesthouse welcomes groups of disabled children from both Israeli and Palestinian communities—creating rare spaces of joy, rest, and shared humanity.

“There’s no programmatic peace-building,” Fr. Josef clarifies. “But something sacred happens when people barbecue together, share laughter, or play. Reconciliation begins not with treaties, but with presence.”

The law of hospitality, he reminds us, is ancient and sacred. “When we welcome the other, we welcome Christ. And somehow, in giving, we always receive more than we offer.”

The Volunteers Who Come With Empty Hands

Since the early days of the Benedictine Volunteer Corps, Tabgha has welcomed Johnnies from Saint John’s University, young men arriving with no fluency in Hebrew or Arabic, no clear roadmap, and often, no idea what they’re walking into.

But they come with something more important: openness.

“What I love about the BVC volunteers is that they are older, independent, grounded,” Fr. Josef reflects. “They bring stability to our younger German volunteers. They ask questions. They listen. And sometimes, they bake pizza.”

He laughs, remembering the Thanksgiving the BVC inaugurated the community’s handmade clay oven, crafted from earth dug up near the ruins of the ancient monastery. “That oven became a sacrament,” he says. “Turkey, fire, shared bread—it was all communion.”

The presence of the volunteers, he says, has widened the monastery’s lens. “We are a German-speaking bubble. The BVC reminds us we’re also part of something bigger, the universal Church, a global monastic tradition, and a shared search for God.”

The One Leader Who Doesn’t Fail

As the sun sets over the Galilee and the monastic bells call the community to vespers, one last question lingers: What gives Fr. Josef hope?

“I don’t use the word ‘hope’ lightly,” he says. “Too often it’s vague. Sentimental. I prefer ‘confidence.’ Confidere—to trust.”

His gaze is steady. “I trust in God. That’s it. That’s where I place my hope, not in political leaders, not in programs, but in the one King who does not fail.”

And maybe that’s what makes this monastery so essential, not its size, or its reach, or its resources, but its witness. In a world of chaos, it has chosen presence. It has chosen fidelity. It has chosen to remain rooted, 200 meters below sea level, in the deep soil of prayer, welcome, and quiet faith.

When Fr. Nick Kleespie first set foot in Hanga, Tanzania, in 2006, he was fresh out of college, a young volunteer uncertain of his future, drawn to this Benedictine monastery by a desire to serve and discover more about himself. Nearly two decades later, he has returned to those same red-dirt roads as a monk and priest, on a journey both literal and deeply personal.

“What surprised me most,” Fr. Nick says, reflecting on his return, “is how little Hanga has changed, and how much I have.” Now on sabbatical from Saint John’s Abbey, Fr. Nick finds himself revisiting a place that quietly but profoundly shaped his vocation. “Back then, the young monks used to joke, ‘You could be a monk here.’ It planted a seed,” he laughs, “though my mother would have strongly disagreed about Tanzania.”

Yet the gentle humor of those monks lingered, subtly reshaping his internal landscape. “I realized that maybe, just maybe, I could pursue monastic life at home,” he says, speaking slowly as if still processing the decades-old conversation.

Returning to Hanga now feels, in many ways, like coming home. He walks familiar paths between classrooms, the monastery kitchen, and prayer services, observing routines nearly identical to those he once experienced as a volunteer. Yet, this time around, he engages not as a visitor, but as family. “There’s something profoundly comforting in the stability,” Fr. Nick reflects. “In our fast-changing world, Hanga remains beautifully constant.”

Fr. Nick’s days unfold without grand agendas or expectations. He teaches English when asked, celebrates Mass in Swahili with gentle humor about his linguistic limitations, and gladly washes monastery floors. He smiles warmly, recounting the sisters’ shocked reactions: “They couldn’t believe a priest would scrub the kitchen floor. But that’s what community is, sharing the humble tasks.”

He has deliberately kept a respectful distance from this year’s volunteers, Jacob and Max, trusting in their independence. “They’re thriving without me,” he proudly notes. “The greatest gift I can offer is simply my presence, sharing a meal, trading stories, or occasionally, laughter.”

Interestingly, Fr. Nick’s unexpected mentoring role emerged with two young German volunteers struggling nearby. One approached him, confessing loneliness and frustration. “He said, ‘You understand this place. Can we talk?’” recalls Fr. Nick, visibly touched. “It reminded me that ministry often comes disguised in ordinary conversations and unexpected friendships.”

Yet Fr. Nick remains careful not to idealize Hanga. He sees more clearly now both the strengths and the struggles of the community. He candidly describes an unusual structure, with younger and elderly monks at home, while those in between often work externally. “It raises questions about community life and stability,” he observes thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s a different interpretation of the Benedictine rule. It's something I’m still pondering.”

These reflections feed into broader insights about monastic hospitality. Fr. Nick sees ways both Hanga and Saint John’s could grow from each other’s strengths. “Hanga’s openness to visitors is inspiring,” he notes. “Despite my broken Swahili, they eagerly invite me to celebrate Mass or offer confession. It makes me wonder how we at Saint John’s could extend similar trust and inclusion to those visiting us.”

One afternoon, former students from Fr. Nick’s teaching days surprised him by vividly recalling their classes together from nearly 20 years earlier. “They remembered playing soccer, Sunday afternoons spent together,” he smiles softly, amazed at the impact. “It reminded me that even the smallest interactions leave a lasting impression.”

Fr. Nick passionately encourages young people to pursue volunteer service after college. “It provides space to ask essential questions, about faith, identity, and purpose,” he explains. “Questions you rarely ask in a corporate setting.” For him, the Benedictine Volunteer Corps was transformative: “I learned simplicity, intentionality, courage, and to nurture relationships that truly matter.”

As evening prayer bells ring gently in the background, signaling the end of our conversation, Fr. Nick chuckles warmly: “Latin Vespers isn't my favorite, but being here, I go anyway. That’s the essence of this place, you keep showing up.”

In returning to Hanga, Fr. Nick hasn’t just revisited a significant location in his life; he’s rediscovered the core of his monastic vocation. Each day he spends there is a testament to the quiet, powerful grace of simply being present.

Despite his enthusiasm to be a member of the Benedictine Volunteer Corps and to live in a new, exciting place, Tyler Johnson (SJU ‘21) initially struggled to find his footing. The work he was doing didn’t match his expectations of what service in the BVC was supposed to be.

“What am I even doing here?” he found himself asking. “I’m eating good food, learning Italian, and working among people who have everything they need.”

Indeed, Tyler’s site, The Benedictine Abbey of Sant’Anselmo sits atop the Aventine Hill in the heart of Rome, Italy--the kind of place where one could lose themselves in the beauty and history of the ancient city. Moreover, he was surrounded by hundreds of graduate students and clergy from across the world who live and study at the college housed on the Abbey grounds.

He was experiencing a renaissance life, but that’s where Tyler’s struggle began.

How could he reconcile his experiences working in the library, chauffeuring the Abbot Primate to-and-from Vatican City, or helping wash the wine glasses after dinner with the stories from other volunteers who were experiencing real challenges at their sites. How was he really making a difference? 

Tyler came into the BVC knowing that it was supposed to be a purposeful year where volunteers grow through service and relationships.  He realized that to learn the site-specific lessons that Rome was trying to teach him, he had to redefine what service meant to him.

“It’s silly to play a comparison game,” Tyler reflected. “Number one, you’re not helping anyone by doing that. Number two, the benefits and services you provide are just different.”

While Sant’Anselmo does not offer the severe poverty of Nairobi’s slums, the challenges inherent in teaching English in Puerto Rico, or the inspiration of helping disabled children in the Holy Land, Tyler came to understand that opportunities to serve exist everywhere. “People that seem like they're doing just fine still need conversation, a friend, positive influence, and interactions.”

“Even though there might not be poverty,” Tyler said, “the daily interactions and energy you bring can make a huge difference in the lives around you.”

In this case, Tyler’s realization had a positive impact on himself as well. Having found comfort in his sense of purpose, Tyler decided to extend his volunteer term in Rome for several months, allowing himself to “stay in the experience I was in.”

As his time in Rome was coming to an end, Tyler realized he needed an exit strategy, and after a few emails, an unforeseen opportunity presented itself.

Brother Paul had heard about a shortage in the St. John’s Prep Spanish department, and he quickly let them know that Tyler was the man for the job, claiming,  “He doesn't currently have a working knowledge of Spanish but has an uncanny ability with languages.”

Whether or not Tyler agreed with that statement, he allowed this new path to open before him by accepting the challenge and leaning in--even if it meant relying on that “uncanny ability” to cram next week’s material before teaching it to his students.

Teaching turned out to be a perfect job for the mindset he developed during the BVC; he served by being present and creating an impact in the lives of others through conscious, daily action. Three years later, faculty and students will still ask any BVC volunteer who goes through the school about what Tyler is up to now.

After discovering a passion for teaching during his time at St. John’s Prep, Tyler was accepted into Notre Dame’s Alliance for Catholic Education (ACE) which provides a two year Master’s in Education with graduate coursework during the summer and full-time teaching in under-resourced schools during the school year.

Today, Tyler is completing his final semester teaching high school math at Roman Catholic High School in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. After concluding the ACE program he hopes to continue his teaching career in the fall of 2025.

“The BVC showed me that I was capable of so much more than I thought.  I learned how to say yes to crazy opportunities and go in with an open mind.  My path to the ACE program doesn’t exist without the BVC first.” - Tyler Johnson