Artaxerxes

With as many scripture readings as we proclaim during the course of our daily liturgies, we regularly encounter unpronounceable names that must be pronounced – out loud and in public and in a liturgy - which means it's important to get it right. Sometimes we ask one another how to pronounce Akkub or Shephatia or whatever the name may be, or we consult one of the biblical pronunciation guides that we have. But still, for me anyway, there are occasional stumbles. I will practice a name ahead of time, and then when I proclaim the reading I draw up short and stumble and stammer over something like Pahathmoab and will wind up saying Pahathmabob or something equally and awfully wrong.

In this morning’s reading from Nehemiah, the name Artaxerxes figured prominently. The Sister who was reading handled it correctly (although who would really know?) and with aplomb. But still, each time she spoke the name there was a barely perceptible pause, as if the name were a miniature mountain range that she must quickly and deftly traverse and she needed momentum for the journey.

With each tiny pause, I began to realize how appropriate it is that a name should be unpronounceable. When we can pronounce something, we think we know it. But an unpronounceable name ‘speaks’ to the reality that each of us is – in our depths and in our fullness – unknowable to anyone but God. We are all mountains and valleys of mystery, with depths and crevices and heights and precipices that cannot be fully known by another. We are mostly unpronounceable even to ourselves as we strain and stammer to understand our own hearts. There is no deft traverse.

Only God truly knows us – the One who created us, formed us, and calls us by name. It is only God who can truly pronounce each of our names in their depth and fullness. Thus, it is only God who can truly pronounce the name of another, no matter how well we think we know them.

When we approach the unutterable mystery of another person, and of ourselves, it is only fitting that we draw up short in stammering unknowingness, and that we pause in reverence of the One who created, formed, and calls us each by name.


Lord, you have probed me, you know me: you know when I sit and stand; you understand my thoughts from afar. You sift through my travels and my rest; with all my ways you are familiar. Even before a word is on my tongue, Lord, you know it all. Behind and before you encircle me and rest your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, far too lofty for me to reach. Psalm 139:1-6



Postscript: We are blessed to have in our community numerous Sisters who have studied theology and/or scripture at the graduate level. These are the ones most commonly turned to for pronunciation help, in addition to the reference books on hand. What a gift to be able to study and learn, and then to sit in the silence of unknowing before the source of all Wisdom. The ancient monastic practice of Lectio Divina offers us a way to pray with Sacred Scripture that draws us toward contemplation in God's presence.

Plymouth Rock, Noah’s Ark, Turtledove…

Yesterday, on the weekend between the departure of the demolition crew and the arrival of the earth movers who will smooth and shape our hillside, I took a walk across the upturned earth of the demo site.

I don’t know if I was supposed to be there because caution tape still surrounded the site. But there I was, carefully making my way across a moonscape of scarred earth riddled with broken brick and cratered rubble and shards of shattered wood and glass…trace elements of the life that once was there.

It was just a Sunday stroll, but somehow it felt epochal. The twists and turns and ups and downs of renovation and construction for year after year after year have felt like the longest of the longest of ocean voyages. Will we ever reach land? Will this ever end? Will the construction crews ever finish? Will things ever get back to normal?

For me, yesterday was the first hint of “yes.” Exploring the now-open slope, I saw the surrounding monastery grounds and structures from this particular spot for the very first time. The new Guest Houses were just a glance away, visible even from the Sisters parking lot. The east side of Ottilia Hall basked expansively in full sunlight for the first time in a hundred years. Our dear little lake was just down the slope, within the gaze of anyone looking out a back window in Ottilia.

Looking around at the transformation, and seeing that it was almost complete, I felt like a pilgrim catching sight of Plymouth Rock. Or like Noah seeing the leafy sprig. Or like hearing a turtledove begin to sing in its mother tongue of tranquility.

There’s still a bit of work to do – maybe a month and a half or so. There are some sidewalks to pour, some earth to sort and smooth, a parking lot to pave, and a bit of electrical work. But Plymouth Rock is in sight. A sprig is in the bill of the dove. And a tranquil song is heard in the land...

Thanks be to God!



“Arise, my beloved, my beautiful one, and come! For see, the winter is past, the rains are over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of pruning the vines has come, and the song of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines, in bloom, give forth fragrance. Arise, my beloved, my beautiful one, and come!" Song of Songs 2: 10-13



Postscript: Even though the construction crews will soon depart, we are still working hard on the Capital Campaign to help us complete the final funding of the new Retreat Center guest houses. Here's a link to how you can help us with this. Also, we have a wish list to help us finish outfitting the new Retreat Center spaces in a way that will improve the experience of our guests. We will soon be posting the list on the Retreat Center pages of our website. God bless you for partnering with us in this ministry venture!

Inhabiting a life

Structures which our Sisters have inhabited for generations have been falling all around us…and none of us seem upset. I’ve heard no moans, no sighs, no poignant words of regret. Our guests routinely bemoan the loss of Mary Hall, the old Rafter Room, etc. and say things like “The Sisters must be so upset”, but I’ve heard hardly a trace of sorrow from a Sister.

In a way, it seems curious that there would be so few moans among us over the loss of these trusty (though rusty!) old buildings in which so much community life and ministry has unfolded over so many years. But I think the answer as to why there is so little sorrow can be found in an after-dinner scene from a week or so ago. I had been in the scullery washing dishes with Sr. Lynn Marie. I rolled the cart of clean dishes through our new kitchen and saw Sr. Brigid silently preparing for the next day’s breakfast. I rolled the cart onward into the dining room and saw Sr. Bertha silently wiping the tables and Sr. Benita rolling the crumb sweeper across the carpet. It was so normal, so ordinary…a post-dinner monastic-community tableau that looked as if it had been plucked up from the old kitchen and set down intact in this one. The same people, the same tasks, the same monastic heart, the same Spirit animating our actions….

I think our lack of overt sorrow over the old buildings isn’t a lack of appreciation for them, or a dearth of thanksgiving for the many years of community life which these buildings upheld, or that we haven’t told story after story about events that happened in the old structures, or that we don't have the fondest of memories. Rather, it’s the implicit realization that we don’t inhabit buildings, we inhabit a life. Whether the kitchen is old or new, our monastic life continues right on. We are the same people living the same monastic life with the same monastic heart and filled with the same monastic zeal.

This morning I passed through the kitchen and saw Sr. Emilie peeling apples. I paused, she handed me an extra knife, and I worked with her for a few minutes before continuing on my way. It was so simple, so ordinary, so absent of the sentiment of either gain or loss…simply two monastic Sisters silently peeling a rich and fragrant fruit. We were working in a kitchen, but we were inhabiting a life.


Postscript: New pictures of the demolition - with descriptive commentary - have been posted on the Community News page our website...