Alleluia, in a minor key

This morning, our opening hymn at Lauds began, “Sing alleluia, praise the Lord.” But instead of the usual major key brightness of a hymn of praise, Sr. Magdalena struck an E minor chord. The subdued minor key carried us through the entire hymn.

On the surface, there seemed to be a contradiction between the musical key and textual theme. But as we sang verse after verse – all six of them – I realized that they indeed work together because the praise we are called to render to God is not dependent on circumstances or feelings. We are called to praise God at all times and in all situations, in streaming sunshine and under cloud-soaked skies, in times of delight and in pensive reflection, in major keys, and in minor.

As we proceeded with Lauds, the Old Testament Canticle happened to be from Jonah. It was a psalm of thanksgiving cried out in the midst of distress, in fact, from the belly of a whale (Jonah 2:3-10). Jonah’s hymn ended with “But I, with resounding praise, will sacrifice to you.” Indeed, like Jonah's song, a characteristic of Psalms of lamentation is that they conclude on a note of praise.

Everyone experiences days or seasons when their hearts are cloud-soaked or their vision obscured. But we, like Jonah, are called to praise and give thanks even when external circumstances are bewildering or our internal soundtrack is stuck in a minor key.

The hymn that we sang this morning was based on Psalm 150, a psalm of pure praise which can be seen as a summation of the entire Psalter. By the time we got to the hymn’s final verse, the minor key seemed just right – life in all its complexity being given to pure praise.

A life-sized life

I have come to realize that people sometimes have idealized ideas about monastic life, as if monastics somehow live in some other sphere that exists beyond the aroma of burnt toast and the miscues of crossed signals. But like any life, life here in the monastery has its share of lost keys, burnt toast, crossed signals, borrowed books that never quite get returned, and clothes that someone (surely not me!) forgot to take out of the dryer. It is, in short, a life-sized life, with joys and failures and hopes and disappointments similar to those of anyone who ever sighed with pleasure over some small success, only to then forget to mail the letter that was supposed to go out that day.

Perhaps what makes our life different, beyond the unique promises of monastic profession, is the degree to which the common life actually intensifies the ordinary experiences of daily life. Our foibles and failures, joys and disappointments are there for the whole community to share at close range. This can be heartwarming; it can also be humbling.

The Rule of St. Benedict exhorts us to support “with the greatest patience one another’s weaknesses of body or behavior (RB 72:5).” It is humbling to realize my failures of patience, but even more humbling to realize that others are patiently supporting me in my weakness. Perhaps they even recognized my weakness long before I did, and quiely upheld me until I could grow into the shoes I was trying to fill.

Three times a day, we pray the Our Father together as a community – at Lauds, Mass, and Vespers. St. Benedict built this into the framework of the monastic day, knowing of our need to continually pardon and seek pardon.

Like any ordinary family on any ordinary street, we struggle along, sometimes losing our keys or dropping a glass or singing out of tune or grieving a loss even as we rejoice in the rich banquet that God has set before us. We stumble, even as we grow in grace.

It is indeed a life-sized life. Yet the holy work of patiently upholding one another calls us to be larger than life. It calls us to root ourselves deeply in the life of Christ, bringing His life, love and mercy to our Sisters and to a struggling world.

Rubato

In its musical sense, the term tempo rubato means ‘stolen time.’ It is time taken from one measure and given to another, or maybe even lost altogether, under the sensitive lead of the conductor’s baton. Or perhaps the soloist’s expressive voice finds its own melodic phrasing beyond the strictures of the metrical score. In tempo rubato, one takes a little time here, perhaps adds a little time there, and blurs the edges between the two, creating a melodic phrase that adds beauty and lyricism to a musical work of art.

Monastic time is fundamentally, and very intentionally, metrical. Every monastery has their monastic horarium – their daily schedule of prayers, meals, and other common activities. A monastic horarium, along with our liturgical Ordo, is part of the orderly rhythm that underlies our life, creating a steady tempo that is stable, sure, sound – a firm foundation upon which we spend our lives seeking God.

Sometimes, though, every monk needs a little tempo rubato – not for self expression, but for retreat, for rest, for health, for extra prayer, or for many other reasons… St. Benedict even incorporates a bit of flexible rubato sensibility into his monastic Rule, altering the horarium with the cycle of the seasons. He also counsels monastic leaders to take into account the special needs of the young and the old, as well as to respond to the souls under their care with a regard for individual temperaments. There is a healthy balance in the Rule of St. Benedict between a well-ordered monastic rhythm observed by the entire community and the occasional, well-discerned need for flexibility and variation in phrasing the musical line of the day.

In a monastery, however, flexibility is not about individualism or personalized rhythms and certainly not about a lack of self-discipline. Rather, it’s about the occasional need of an individual Sister to carry a musical phrase beyond the strictures of ordered time - but always within the context of the stable monastic rhythm of a well-ordered community. It’s a fine balance, and individual monastics and monastic leaders must use careful discernment as to when and whether to stray from the metrical score. However the sensitive application of flexible phrasing can be what keeps the metrical from becoming mechanical, and I think St. Benedict, in his wisdom, knew that. A tempo rubato phrase, whether in the strict sense of time or more generally in the care of souls, can add a touch of lyrical beauty and grace to the stable rhythm that anchors the monastic endeavor of seeking God together.


Postscript: We all need a bit of tempo rubato now and then, even if it's just a few moments of prayerful contemplation in the midst of our work. I had an extended such moment today following a very busy few weeks of intense daily demands and a heavy schedule. This afternoon, I left the office and went up to my room for a short rest and wound up taking a rare afternoon nap. I awakened refreshed and re-energized. It was tempo rubato at its best – an unexpected melodic phrasing of my day, blurring the edges of my usual tempo and responsibilities, seeking to remain healthy for the sake of God and my monastic community. Thanks goes to Sr. Magdalena for reminding me about rubato this morning as we practiced a chant piece on flute and organ for tomorrow’s Solemnity of the Assumption.

"See if you think a 90-year-old could pull that cord and have the blinds go up and down.”

That sentence was part of a conversation I overheard between two workmen as I was walking through Ottilia Hall the other day. They were working in what will eventually be the infirmary, and were tending to windows and blinds in one of the bedrooms.

We are all so grateful for the quality workmanship that is going into our renovation, and also the thoughtful attention to the needs of our eldest. But I had to inwardly smile when I heard the comment, thinking, “They have no idea just how mighty our 90-year-olds are.”

Any monastic will be quick to tell you that our eldest, while perhaps weakened in body, are our strong ones. They are often the ones are doing the spiritual ‘heavy lifting,’ opening the blinds of spiritual insight for the rest of us. They do indeed know how to pull strings and let the Light shine in.

Monastic life is inherently multi-generational. St. Benedict tells us that “the younger monks…must respect their seniors, and the seniors must love the juniors.” Here in the monastery, we younger ones lovingly lift the mechanical blinds for those who cannot, but the eldest lovingly lift spiritual blinds for us, teaching us how to seek God through this monastic way that they have faithfully lived for more decades than I have been alive.

Every Sister eventually retires from active, external ministry (usually long after her non-religious counterparts would have retired). But none of us ever retires from the commitments of our monastic profession. And none of ever retires from prayer. No matter our age or physical limitations, we never stop seeking to raise the blinds to let in the light of Christ.


Postscript: We are indeed extremely grateful for all that is being done to make our monastic home more accessible for all of our Sisters, and for our guest areas as well. The new elevator for Ottilia Hall cannot come soon enough; it will be a real boon for monastic community life, allowing every Sister to have access to every floor of the monastery, as well as helping guests to access the chapel. Thanks to all the workmen whose careful attention is helping to make this a reality. By the way, each of these images is from pre-renovation Ottilia Hall, mementos of some of the very ordinary gestures of daily life in the monastery.

Cloud Tau

People keep asking me if I was on Cloud Nine after the profession ceremony last Saturday. Well, no. Being a grounded, understated sort, I was not on Cloud Nine Saturday, and am not now. Cloud Tau is more like it. That’s the cloud on the grassy path to the creek where, when I sit down amongst the tall grasses, the simple, supple leaves of green lap like waves on the shoreline of my folded knees. It’s the cloud where three raccoons scamper playfully amongst the branches of yonder sweetgum. It’s the cloud where the distant drone of traffic along the highway mingles with the nightly cicada chorus. And it’s the cloud where, at the foot of the sloping Tau-shaped trail, two tangled banks of green hold Eight Mile Creek within their ancient embrace.

The profession ceremony was simply that – a ceremony. Important, yes, but not such that it changes who I am or how I approach that which is important. I may now wear a ring and a commitment, but that doesn’t suddenly transform me into a Cloud Nine sort of person.

In our monastic community, we have 40-something Sisters with 40-something personalities. We each carry our personality into all that we do, some of us reveling in the heights of Cloud Nine and the center aisle and some of us sighing contentedly over simpler vistas and desert isles. But whatever our perspective and personality, each of us lives at the cruciform nexus of here and everywhere, of now and forever, knowing that eternity resides not just in yonder cloud and chapel aisle but also in the oft-tangled banks of here and now, of dishes, deserts, and the daily round of prayer.

Each evening, when the last supper dishes have been put away, the final prayers of the day have been said, and the cicada chorus has finally drowned out the sounds of the highway, each Sister walks the Tau-shaped trail to her room – each in her own unique way and with her own personality – and places herself for another night within the everlasting embrace of God. A cloud of grace goes with us always, a pillar to guide us, challenge us, and lead us across tangled banks and into everlasting life.




By day the LORD went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud to guide them on their way and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, so that they could travel by day or night. Neither the pillar of cloud by day nor the pillar of fire by night left its place in front of the people. Exodus 13:20-22

Profession days

Yesterday was my profession day, the day on which I promised a lifetime of obedience, stability to the community, and fidelity to the monastic way of life. There was a festive Mass, resounding song, and a cloud of witnesses as I made my vows to God.

Today, the strains of the organ have ceased and the dressy suit has been put away. In the quiet of this tranquil afternoon I donned a wide-brimmed hat and work gloves and strode into the woods to spend an hour or so in solitude, in simple manual labor, and in communion with God. The sky was restful and still. Yellow daisies brightened the banks of Eight Mile Creek. My boots quietly parted the tall grass. My arms welcomed the strain of my work.

Yesterday was appropriately festive, but today is why I am here, and is the source of a joy deeper than any ceremony: seeking God through the ordinary ora et labora – prayer and work – of life in this monastic community, welcoming both the beauty and the strain with a spirit of gratitude and quiet joy.

Our archivist will record the date of August 4 as my profession day, but for the rest of my life every day will be profession day as I faithfully live the promises I professed. On some days I will bring out the dressy suit. On others I’ll don my work boots and gloves. But no matter what I’m wearing, I pray that on every day I will be clad in a habit of thankfulness and praise.