From confusion to confession

Tonight I was reading a pdf document on the computer that was shrunk down to a miniscule font. Being too lazy to right-size the text with the cursor, I just squinted and read on. When I got to the part of the document about the Prayer of Confusion I was, well, confused.

What in world is the Prayer of Confusion, I thought. I mean, I’m reasonably well-versed liturgically, but I’ve never heard of that! Squinting even further I saw what it really said: Prayer of Confession. Oh.

I chuckled to myself over the mistake, but as I thought about it I realized there is hardly a more appropriate malapropism than accidently substituting confusion for confession.

Truly, I am confused most of the time. I’m even confused in my confession, not always fully aware of my own mistakes or the condition of my own heart. I stumble through confession as I stumble through life, not always knowing the true state of affairs.

Indeed, I - and dare I say "we" - see through a glass darkly, confused about the extent of our infirmity, or too afraid or too spiritually sluggish to open our hearts to the illuminating light of Christ. We just squint, and walk on in the darkness.

A good Examen can go a long way toward leading us out of confusion, out of darkness. Before Compline tonight, our Prioress called our attention to the Holy Father’s remarks of earlier today as reported by the Vatican Information Service. She suggested that they would constitute a good Examination of Conscience for each of us and challenged us to take his words to prayer in these final days leading toward the Nativity of the Lord.

As I do so, I pray that I can cease any spiritual squinting, that I can open my eyes and see the way from confusion to genuine confession, and thus to true reconciliation.

May the Light of Christ, shining in the darkness, illuminate our hearts and minds.

http://www.vis.va/vissolr/index.php?lang=en
(click on the top two of the entries dated 22/12/2014)

Like a litany...

These days of mid-December have always felt a little awkward to me.

On the one hand, we still are still draped in the shawl of Advent, with the color of violet filling the chapel and the O Antiphons filling our O-shaped mouths with the sound of longing.

On the other hand, we are busy decorating trees, arranging crib sets, draping garland along the Ottilia Hall banister, wrapping gifts and hanging wreaths. We’ve had our Employee Christmas Party and received seasonal visitors. We are writing cards and receiving cards. Except for the chapel, the whole monastery is looking a whole lot like Christmas. (And even the chapel is full of Christmas strains as the schola rehearses for the upcoming season.)

This year, I’ve participated a little less than usual in Christmas preparations around the monastery. Yet I’ve paid close attention as others have gone about their tasks – first one tree, then another, then the garland, then one crib set, and then another, and then another, and then another tree…and on and on.

As I've watched, I've begun to feel less and less awkward, experiencing the preparations this year as a kind of litany…first one thing, then another, and another, then another…all variations on a theme...all punctuated, like a litany, with a cry: “O come, O come, Emmanuel”…like a litany that says first in one way and then another that we long, and that we believe. We long for the Lord, and we believe the Lord is nigh.

I also see it - indeed I feel it - as a litany of footsteps, the footsteps of a donkey on a darkened road under a shawl of violet sky…the footsteps of a tired husband and fatigued wife walking on the words of an angel…a litany of footsteps that says, against all odds, I believe.

And so now I don’t feel awkward at all. The violet vestments in chapel somehow seem all of a piece with the shimmering lights on the trees and the garland that drapes the staircase. The lights, the garland, the trees, the cards are like the lines of a litany that says, I long, and I believe.

Come, Lord Jesus.

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...

“When foundations are being destroyed, what shall the upright do?”

Mid-way through Lauds this morning, during a silent pause between Psalms, the demolition crew began their day by toppling sections of the old cellar walls next door and trying to burst through the concrete foundation. The giant excavator’s ferocious work sent repeated jolts through the chapel that we didn’t just hear, but felt.

I opened my eyes long enough to see that no one else was opening theirs. We just sat - silently praying - through the earth-shattering shudders that were occurring just outside the window. One Sister who bears a specific responsibility regarding construction activity briefly left her choir stall to investigate, but she was back within the same span of silence. And so we just sat. And prayed. And then began the next Psalm when it was time. Like nothing was happening. Like foundations were not being destroyed. Because when foundations are being destroyed, what shall the upright do, except keep praying? Except keep trusting in the presence of God?

The demolition process for Mary Hall and Joseph Hall started with the upper floors and has now reached the foundations. It is time to pull down the final stone walls and crack through the cellar floor.

This was the work they began today with their furious whacks from their fierce machines.

So when the Psalmist asks, “When foundations are being destroyed, what shall the upright do?” (Ps. 11:3) I now know not only the answer from the Psalmist, but the answer from us. You just keep on praying, confident in the presence of God.


The LORD is in his holy temple; the LORD’s throne is in heaven. God’s eyes keep careful watch… (From Ps 11)


Postscript: There is actually one other thing that Sisters do when foundations are being destroyed, and that is to watch! I can hardly pass a window without finding a Sister who has paused in the stairwell, at her bedroom

window, in the dish room, at the back door, or at any of the countless other vantage points from which we can watch the demolition. And of course I can't just pass by. I have to stop, too! It is a fascinating process to watch as the workman wield these giant machines with such care, precision, and even, at times, gentleness.

In the photo at top right, the excavator takes the final "bite" out of the northwest corner of the old cellar below the former Sisters' dining room. For more demo pictures, there are several photographs from the early phases of the demo process on the Community News page of our website (July 10th entry). We will be posting more recent photographs soon.

Brick by brick

This morning, brick by brick, I dismantled my day in prayer. Lingering in the quiet chapel after Lauds I took the day apart before it even began, letting my plans, my constructions, my assumptions, my dreams absorb back into God like the nighttime dew absorbs back into the day.

Sure, I will follow the calendar. I will be present for the scheduled arrival of guests. I will attend to my assigned duties in the monastery. But I’ll do so after having first let the day implode into praise, after letting the Dawn from on High break upon me and shatter my heart into freedom, into shards of light that will illumine the way as, brick by brick, I construct the day.


Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel;
He has come to his people and set them free…

…In the tender compassion of our God
the dawn from on high shall break upon us,
to shine on those who dwell in darkness
and the shadow of death,
and to guide our feet into the way of peace.