Benevolence

It is April 27 and I am watching the hours pass by one by one, thinking back to the day last year when the Alabama sky rolled up its sleeve and pummeled us poor mortals with punch after painful punch. I realize that I’m unconsciously waiting for 3:15, or thereabouts, the hour when Cullman winced, braced, ducked, and took its hit. I’m remembering the series of news reports that kept coming throughout the day – a blow here, and then there, and then elsewhere, and then Cullman…and then… The punches just kept coming, north and south across the state, all the livelong day. The muscular sky just wouldn’t let up.

I’m remembering the increasing frequency of our skyward glances as the day wore on. I’m remembering the fervor of our prayers. I’m remembering the unplugging of computers, the gathering of flashlights, and other preparatory measures. I’m remembering the cry of the TV weathercaster, “If you’re in Cullman, take cover NOW!” And then the TV went dead.

We had taken cover. We were safe. Several of our buildings suffered damage and swaths of trees were downed in our woods. But we were safe, thanks be to God.

Our town and state are have spent the past year recovering and rebuilding. A Cullman café that the tornado ground like handful of coffee beans is once again pouring joe. The downtown barber pulled his scissors from the rubble and has reshaped his shattered shop. Dentists, lawyers, and others have found new spaces for their offices and businesses. The churches that were destroyed have their rebuilding plans in hand.

But there are so many who lost their lives that day – 244 in Alabama alone. And so many whose lives are altered and not yet fully rebuilt. And in the year since, there have been so many others in so many other places who have had to yield to a pummeling sky.

But right now the day is radiant and the sky is bright, as if someone has poured a decanter of benevolence across the land. It is kind of like the decanter of benevolence that flowed after last year’s post-tornado darkness, flowing from all quarters in the hours, weeks, and months after the storm as people rolled up their sleeves and poured kindness, support, beneficence, and compassion across our town and our state. And they have not let up. As the rebuilding continues, the goodness of God and the goodness of neighbors are proving to be more than a match for a muscular sky.


Postscript: To read more about our community’s experience with last year’s tornado, click on the April and May archive entries at left. And here is link to a brief piece in the American Monastic Newsletter.

An open door

A retreat group arrived and while still in the parking lot one of the leaders asked, “Do we use the usual entrance?” After our affirmative answer, the group proceeded toward a rarely-used door that was, as usual, locked. Oops! Sr. Therese went running through the building to open it from the inside, realizing that yes, this group does use an entrance that otherwise gets utilized just a few times a year. For the group, the door was usual. To us, unusual.

It’s good for things like this to happen occasionally because even simple, inconsequential, easily-remedied situations such as this can remind us that our own perspective can often be limited by patterns of thought, movement, etc. that prevent us from being able to see such things as a perfectly good door that is right in front of us, just waiting to be unlocked and opened.

I am sometimes amazed by the ingenuity of groups in their use of our retreat spaces. We’ve seen the various meeting areas arranged in what seems like every configuration possible, yet a new group can often envision yet another way in which to arrange one of our rooms. Thank goodness for creativity and vision!

Even when the situation is not as simple or inconsequential as an alternate way of utilizing space, encountering the perspective and vision of another can challenge us to assess and explore our own perspectives. It can be like an open door through which we both learn and share, and through which the Holy Spirit can move as we seek to grow in wisdom and knowledge of God.


Postscript: One of the gifts of monastic life is that every day we pray, live and work with Sisters with a variety of backgrounds, perspectives, personalities, and temperaments. And yet we share a common desire and call – the search for God through the monastic way of life.

The first word of the Rule of St. Benedict is “Listen." Through the discipline of listening, we learn to unlock and open the door of our hearts, attentive to the movement of the Spirit - which at times may come through the voice of one whose perspective differs from our own.

Radiance

Tonight, the closing prayer of Compline included the petition, “fill this night with your radiance.” And indeed, this evening is full of radiance. There are the budding magnolia blossoms that hang like lanterns against a green-black curtain of leaves. There is the fresh coat of white paint that brightens the St. Teresa statue on the front lawn. There is the thin crescent of moon that glows in the darkening sky.

All of this points to a brighter radiance, the radiance of God, and to the luminosity with which He alone fills the earth and our lives and our hearts. It is a radiance that shines upon both knowledge and mystery, both city and desert, both that which we think we can comprehend and that which is beyond our understanding. It is a luminosity that simultaneously exposes the limits of human knowledge and illuminates a path through the wilderness. May His radiance fill our hearts, and enable us to live as children of the Light.


For with you is the fountain of life, and in your light we see light.
Psalm 36:9

The secret language of dishes

During dinner tonight, the conversation at our table shifted to dishes and eventually we started talking about the “peanut butter knife” and how the presence of this knife amongst the breakfast dishes is a sure sign of a particular circumstance. We went on to talk about some of the other signs that point to particular times and seasons, likely happenstances, or the probable presence of certain people or events – all from the simple presence, absence, or arrangement of dishes.

There are signs such as the mysterious little dish and spoon that sometimes appear just as dinner dishes are concluding…There is the occasional early morning evidence of a midnight kitchen foray… There is the cluster of midday coffee mugs that are sure signs of a meeting (but who? and where?)… There is the orange-handled knife that has one use, and one use only… There are the distinct styles of feathering, or stacking, or arranging trays for drying… There are the few trays that look just like the other trays, but they are not like the other trays…

We all take our assigned turns at dishes, and after a while we all learn the secret language. Except that it’s not a secret at all. We just eventually come to recognize what the unspoken patterns mean.

As we talked over dinner, I got to thinking…if evidence of our presence can be so clear through such ordinary items as the dishes we leave behind, or the particular way in which we wash, dry and arrange them, what about the rest of our lives? What kind of trail do I leave behind in the course of day? Do people see evidence of a Christ-like spirit? Do people see the fruit of prayer? Do they see signs of God's love? In the course of my day-to-day life is there an unspoken pattern that bespeaks the presence and love of God?

Tonight, as Sr. Mary Adrian and I finished up the dishes and the last cycle was running, I pointed to the dishwasher and made the enigmatic statement, “That’s the thing.” And she knew just what I meant. It is shared language such as this that helps make a monastery a home for those of us who dwell here. And it is the shared language of God’s love that makes known His presence in the world. May we speak it clearly and un-enigmatically, our lives a sure sign of the presence of the One whose love is no secret at all.

Curtain call

These days, one can often find a Sister (or two or three!) standing at one of our dining room windows with the curtains pulled off toward the side. Perhaps we just happen to be passing through the dining room, or lingering after breakfast, or taking a quick glance before lunch. But no matter when or why we are in the dining room, it seems that the curtains call, and we respond. Sometimes even dinner conversation will pause as someone gazes toward the window across the room, and says “Look…” We all turn, and look.

As often as we migrate to these windows, you’d think the view was one of ocean waves, mountain vistas, towering waterfalls, a gentle snowfall, a championship game, and a crackling campfire all wrapped up into one spectacularly mesmerizing scene. But no, it’s even better than that, and more scenic than anything a travel magazine could dream up - at least to our eyes - because to the west, our dining room overlooks the site of a new elevator being slowly lifted toward the crest of Ottilia Hall. To the north, rising like dough, is a new kitchen and Retreat Center dining room. Both scenes are spectacular, mesmerizing…and right outside our dining room windows.

To say that we are interested in the buildings is an understatement. But we are also fascinated by the construction process itself, what the workmen are doing and how they are doing it, the skill involved, the care being rendered. Measuring, and measuring twice… A steady hand on a cycling saw… A sure foot scaling a scaffold... A practiced eye reading a level… A ‘know-how’ that knows how to take brick and steel and mortar and metal and skillfully weave them into a structure that only a great architect could dream up. It is a spectacular, mesmerizing performance – and worthy of a curtain call.



Postscript: The dining room windows are not the only windows with good views. The sacristy, the porches of Annunciata, and other spots offer great views of the construction sites… For the latest construction images, please visit our Community News web page. Sr. Therese posts new images weekly. For info on how to help our Capital Campaign, this page will tell you how.

Same house

When I read the news that the 1940 Census has been made public after the obligatory 72-year wait, well, I just had to look up Sacred Heart Monastery. Even though all the census details – and far more, besides – are tidily stored in our monastery archives, an outside view of names, ages, and categories promised to be too interesting to pass up.

I found the website, located our Enumeration District, viewed the census schedule, and there on my screen appeared the census enumerator's handwritten list: Mother Annunciata, Sister Perpetua, Sister Gertrude, Sister Beatrice, Sister Aloysia, Sister Agatha...and on and on...

All day long I’ve been unable to shake these names out of my head – these Sisters who dwelt in rooms that we who are here now have dwelt in and will dwell in again, rooms that are now being renovated, re-tiled, re-painted, renewed after having been lovingly cared for by these and so many other Sisters. The renovation of our monastery is an awesome responsibility, made even more so by the knowledge of how carefully the Sisters who have gone before us have cared for this house, this home...God's house, God's home.

The names of these Sisters are familiar to me. They are part of our community history. I've heard stories about each of them. But seeing them listed in this particular context was somehow poignant. There was the impersonal context of the census - just a list of names and a few biographical details. But I know them as so much more than names on a list. I was reminded of a phrase from one of Mother Ottilia's letters in which she referenced "all the dear Sisters." They are not just names on a government form. They are dear Sisters, all.

Of the various 1940 census questions, my favorite is the one that asked, “In what place did this person live on April 1, 1935?” In other words, did they live in the same location as five years previously? For every Sister listed, the answer was identical: “Same house.” On row after row after row, for Sister after Sister, this repeated answer got to the core of our monastic vow of stability. We stay put. The Sisters were in the “same house” that they had been in five years previously – and surely five years hence.

Every ten years, census takers come. In the intervening years, some Sisters will have died, and new ones will have entered. But no matter. Whichever ones of us are here, we still live in the same house, still pray in the same chapel, still sit in the same choir stalls, still live by the same Benedictine Rule. The census list will read Sister…Sister…Sister… Our place of residence will be Same house…same house…same house. Because we are Benedictine and we stay put - with all of our dear Sisters, in God's house.




Postscript: Our monastic vow of stability is actually stability to the community, to the particular group of monastics, rather than to a specific location. But the stable commitment of a community to a place over a sustained period of time is characteristic of Benedictines. It imbues our life with a richness and depth that is hard to find in the constant motion of our transient culture.

Hearts overflowing

Yesterday morning, after Lauds and Mass, we piled into several cars and drove out to a nearby lake where we spent the day relaxing, playing games, and simply enjoying being together.

It was our annual Easter Monday outing which we simply call “Emmaus Day,” so-named after Luke’s story of Jesus’ appearance to two disciples as they walked along the road to Emmaus. The two travelers were talking over the events of recent days, downcast and confused by the strange turn of events in Jerusalem – an arrest, a crucifixion, a tomb with a missing body… As they traveled, Jesus joined them on the road, but they did not immediately recognize him. It wasn’t until he broke bread with them that “their eyes were opened and they recognized” the risen Lord.

The story of the road to Emmaus reminds us, of course, of Jesus' presence in our midst. It also reminds us that what we see is not all that there is. To the physical eye, the road may appear impassable and the journey futile. The cross may appear to be the end, and even an empty tomb may lead to more questions than answers, as it did for the confused travelers to Emmaus. But in the breaking of bread, and in the breaking open of scripture, our eyes break open, and we recognize the presence of the Lord in even the most seemingly-futile of situations.

Our road to the lake requires us to take a few turns along the way. At one turn, a sign reads “Dead End.” Another sign warns, “Road ends 1 mile ahead – Underwater.” To all appearances we were on a fruitless journey, headed for impassability and impossibility. Yet our dead end road led us to a day of life and, as Sr. Bertha put it, “pure joy.”

Our Emmaus Day is a day to continue our joyful celebration of Jesus’ resurrection. It is also a day to celebrate our life as a community of believers united with believers throughout the ages, including the two who traveled the road to Emmaus. The risen Lord was in their midst then, and He is in our midst today. In Christ's presence, even seemingly dead-end roads lead to life as He travels with us on our way, “our hearts burning within us” in the delight of His love.


Do not be daunted immediately by fear and run away from the road that leads to salvation. It is bound to be narrow at the outset. But as we progress in this way of life and in faith, we shall run on the path of God’s commandments, our hearts overflowing with the inexpressible delight of love. - Rule of Benedict, Prologue 48-49


Postscript: See Luke 24: 13-35 for the Emmaus story

Holy Saturday

Last night’s full moon gleamed so brightly it was as if it had been plucked out of the sky and polished right along with the silver and brass I’ve been busy polishing in the sacristy. It's brilliant halo, though seemingly out of character for the somber tone of Good Friday and Holy Saturday, reminds us that luminosity somehow still inhabits these silent Triduum days, these days in which we fall mute in the presence of absence. It hides, perhaps, under the cover of night. Or perhaps it is made visible through acts of love and service. There is always, somewhere, a Joseph of Arimathea silently purchasing a linen cloth. There are always, somewhere, women quietly preparing their spices and perfumes.

On this Holy Saturday, in the presence of absence, let us reverently tend to the tasks set before us - polishing, preparing, serving - illuminating the darkness with the quiet luminosity of God’s love, trusting that within the darkness, the stone of night will roll away as the moon rolls across the night sky. From within that darkness, absence will become Presence.