Sister went a-singin'

One morning earlier this week I rounded the corner from our dining room and into the first floor of Ottilia Hall. As soon as I made the turn I heard the muted refrains of chant – sung simply, sung lowly, sung like a slow southern ballad on the lap of a summertime porch.

I paused to figure out who in the world was chanting – and why – since nearly all the Sisters were over in the Retreat Center stuffing envelopes for a monastery mailing.

I also tried to figure out the chant mode. It sounded vaguely familiar, but was so quiet, so subtle, so lazy hazy summer days-y that I just couldn’t quite make it out.

Puzzled, I resumed my trip toward the end of the hall and the source of the singing, only to discover it was not chant at all. It was one of our elder Sisters stuffing envelopes at the Information Desk and smiling ever so happily to herself, and then to me, as she sang verse after verse of Froggy Went a-Courtin’.

Uh, huh. Froggy Went a-Courtin’ was what she was singing as she stuffed envelope after envelope. So much for chant! But as much as I like chant, I was even more delighted to see and hear this elder Sister so happy as she sang.

She couldn’t remember all the verses, and neither could I, but it didn’t matter. It was a moment of simple joy and shared smiles, sittin’ on the lap of a September morn.

Uh, huh. Uh, huh.

The Sixth Glorious Mystery

Early this morning, already at prayer long before coming to the chapel for Lauds, one of our Sisters happened to fall back asleep in her room while praying the rosary. “I was on the 4th or 5th mystery,” she later said.

A 6th mystery had been unintentionally created by this Sister herself when she wasn’t in chapel in her usual 20-30 minutes early time frame, a puzzling absence.

An empty spot in the monastic choir truly leaves a sense of emptiness among us, and there is a sense of rightness when the empty spot is filled again with the person who belongs there, a glorious mystery amongst thirty-something other glorious mysteries, each singing glory to God with her voice and through fidelity to her call.

If the monastic call, or any vocation, is rooted in the mystery of God’s action within the heart of a person, our fidelity to that call is rooted in the mystery of an individual heart seeking union with God’s heart. It is indeed a glorious gift to watch each of my Sisters, day in and day out, live this mystery – even when, and perhaps especially when, we stumble, fall, or even occasionally fall asleep with rosary beads in hand.

A desire for God so strong that it defies the discouragement that comes from falling is a glorious and gracious gift, one that we can treasure as the priceless gift that it is, and one that we can nurture, and contemplate with gratitude, in one another.



Postscript: If you are unfamiliar with the Mysteries of the Rosary, here are a couple of links. The Glorious Mysteries are typically prayed on Wednesdays.
http://loyolapress.com/mysteries-of-the-rosary.htm
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosary

SHMSE

The folks at the NYSE and other giant stock exchanges around the world have nothing on the Sacred Heart Monastery Stock Exchange in terms the dynamic material economy that gets stably expressed in our little SHMSE. We may be small in number and materially modest, but we could corner the market on the stable exchange of goods  - although there are occasional situations that require subtlety, nuanced timing, complex trading…and yes, wisdom.

Yes, I know we’re more associated with prayer than with material goods, and rightly so. But we pray and live within an environment of tables and chairs and clothing and computers and jump drives and lamps and books and picture frames on and on and on. We can go long stretches with our stocks of furniture and other items remaining relatively stable, with goods staying put where they have stayed put for almost forever. But occasionally the ante gets upped and along comes a run on stocks.

Lately we’ve had a massive market rally as a total of twelve Sisters have moved within the past six weeks due to ministry reassignments. Furniture from Birmingham mission houses has returned to the monastery. Monastery furniture has made its way to Birmingham. Three mission apartments have closed and another two have opened. Rental trucks have left the monastery full, and returned to the monastery full. Trading has been extremely active.

St. Benedict calls us to regard all goods of the monastery as if they were vessels of the altar, and so we are careful with our material goods. So careful that under normal market conditions our main stock exchange consists of what we call the “Give-Away Table” (which is not really a table, but a chair, which replaced an actual table, which replaced a banister). The Give-away Table is the spot on which Sisters place items that they no longer need but that someone else in the monastery could perhaps use. It is governed by what you might call a free trade agreement. You might find a Benedictine medal or a bookmark or a calendar or an old watch or an article of clothing or a pair of shoes. Or you might leave for the taking a holy card or a sweater or a yard stick…

It is mostly a very stable market with very little volatility. Things come and things go. You suddenly see Sister A wearing a sweater that used to be worn by Sister B. And so on. When stocks get too high, Sr. Bernadette packs it all up and takes what can be potentially used by others to the local thrift store.

But every once in a blue moon there is a stock market crash. A real market panic. It happened to me this weekend (during which there was, of course, an actual blue moon). It happened like this…

Much earlier in the summer a black jacket had been left in an odd place. It stayed. And stayed. Some of us wondered. And discussed. And asked around about the mysterious jacket, hoping to discover where it belonged. We were true market speculators. After some weeks we were still speculating. I took a risk and placed it on the Give-away Table (Chair), hoping that the proper Sister would find it. The next morning at Lauds, a Sister was wearing it. I was pleased. All was well.

That is, until this weekend when a note was posted asking if anyone had seen a black jacket. I panicked. I went to the Sister who posted the note and confessed my error. I went to another Sister to see where the jacket might be. She no longer had it. The jacket was nowhere to be found.

After a ripple effect of consultations and searches and rapid heart beats and prayers, the jacket was finally located – in a sack of clothing that was two hours away from being taken to the thrift store.

I was pretty much a mess of regret and contrition as I rode the waves of a suddenly volatile market. But this is where lessons are learned. And hopefully wisdom, too, as I learn to relate to my Sisters with love, and to the goods of the monastery with both reverence and restraint.


Postscript: Much of the moving of these past weeks is the result of ministry reassignments following the election and installation of Sister Tonette Sperando as our new Prioress (see June 8 story on our Community News web page). Some reassignments are common with a shift in leadership. I think I have now updated all the ministry assignments on our "Meet the Community" page. If you haven't seen this page before, or haven't in a long time, you can learn a bit about us at this link.

“Look, there is water. What is to prevent my being baptized?”

This phrase from today’s first Mass reading (Acts 8: 26-40) caught my ear as I realized the baptismal call implied within it.

>“Look, there is water. What is to prevent my being baptized?” becomes: “Look, there is parched earth. What is to prevent a call to water the thirsty ground?”

In our baptism, we become sea-farers and water-bearers forever because stepping into the baptismal font is like stepping into a sailing vessel, destination unknown (yet Known), traveling on grace, immersed in grace, with grace falling down from the heavens and washing in with the tide, whirling in eddies all around us.

Our baptismal call impels us to keep traveling on, bearers of grace borne on currents of grace, our destination set by the One who whispers into the ear of our heart, our path guided by the Spirit who sets wind to our sails. What, indeed, is to prevent our being called to any shore, to any role, to any parched place that longs for the grace that flows from the Savior’s side?



Postscript: Even those of us who are called to the monastic life and have made a vow of stability to the community (one of the traditional monastic vows) never stop traveling. We continue to be called to serve God and one another in new and deeper ways. This weekend we will be discerning for the election of a new Prioress for our community. Prioresses serve for a set amount of time, and then it is time to seek the Spirit's guidance as to who is called to serve the community as Prioress at this particular time. So for one among us, her baptismal call will bring her to a new shore, a new role, but still immersed in grace, traveling on grace, with grace falling down from the heavens and washing in with the tide, bearing her up in all things.

Please pray with us this weekend as we enter our time of discernment.

Fermata

Amidst the humming and whirring and mechanical music of the various machines here at the monastery, I sometimes wonder whether there are invisible fermatas hanging in the air above them. Things break here just like anywhere else. But in general, things seem to last a whole lot longer in the monastery than in any other place I’ve ever been…longer than a half note, longer than a whole note, longer than any reasonable expectation of how long a piece of equipment should keep singing decades after it should have sputtered into breathless brokenness. Surely, there must be fermatas dangling over their heads telling them to “hold on.”

Two incidents yesterday had me wondering about invisible fermatas. First, for a while now I’ve had my eye on two laundry carts for which the original canvas liners are finally past their point of appropriately holding our laundry. The liners need to go, but the cart frames themselves are still as sturdy as on the Bronze Age day they were born. As we measured for replacement liners, I figured that the last time these carts were measured, it was probably in cubits. Yet even after all these eons the frames are still holding up, and holding on. The replacement liners arrived yesterday morning, hopefully ensuring a least a few more decades of noble endurance.

Then yesterday afternoon, I had to call a specialty parts company about a replacement part for another piece of equipment. I gave the model number to the clerk. After a couple of phone calls back and forth I was told in disbelieving tones that the piece was made in the 1950’s. “No replacement parts are available,” she said. “You'll need to buy a new machine.” “Ha!”, I thought. “She can’t see that fermata hovering in the air.” I jumped on-line, found a similar part from another maker, and now there’s no reason to think we can’t make it to the 2050’s with this same piece of equipment.

Of course it begs the question – is it the fermata, or is it simply the Benedictine way of caring well for the things entrusted to our care? St. Benedict tells us to care for the goods of the monastery as if they were vessels of the altar. And so we take seriously the responsibility to steward well the things that hum and whirr and make the mechanical music that accompanies and helps sustain our life. Stewarding well the things of the monastery has the effect of placing a little fermata above each one, both telling them to hold on, and helping them to hold on.

The term fermata comes from the root Italian word fermo, which means strong or fastened, and from the earlier Latin firmus, which means firm or stable. Here in the closing days of Lent, I feel as if I’m standing under the sign of a fermata, telling me to be stable, to be strong, to keep holding on, to steward well these precious days.

Paradoxically, I stand in pieces, needing replacement parts for a brokenness that reaches at least as far back as the Bronze Age and should probably be measured in cubits and shekels.

So I am called to hold on, but am too broken to hold on. But Christ, who calls me to hold, upholds me. And Christ, who knows brokenness, will heal me. And so I stand in pieces, both holding on and being held, not under the sign of a fermata, but under the sign of grace and in the arms of our dear Lord, arms that can hold forever.






Postscript: We have some amazing employees who help us keep things in tip top shape and who have absorbed well the Benedictine way of stewarding the goods of the monastery so that things can keep holding on and holding on and holding on...

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.