Images of the Blessed Mother in which she is depicted holding a rosary have always seemed to me somewhat anachronistic in that the rosary came centuries after, certainly not during, her lifetime.  So why is Mary sometimes depicted with rosary beads draped through her praying hands, I wondered?

But tonight, on the eve of the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception, I was contemplating just such an image when I realized that it is not anachronistic at all.  During Mary’s lifetime, the mysteries of the rosary were unfolding around her, within her, held in her hands, touched with her fingers, grasped and ungrasped ungraspingly as the life of her dear Son unfolded like light, like joy, like sorrow, like glory, bead after luminous sorrowful bead, her tears transformed into gems, the petals of her opening heart unfolding like a prayer, the words of the angel echoing within: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

The mysteries of the rosary were witnessed, pondered, prayed by Mary...and then left for us like a cairn, like a touchstone, like a prayer, to lead us to her dear Son.

A leitmotif of home

We still have one area of the monastery that is heated by furnace and it has finally gotten cold enough to turn it on. Tonight I heard it crank up for the first time this season.

When it kicks on, which it does for a brief while twice a day, it sounds like a choir of anvils, iron striking iron, a jarring, discordant un-cadence of noise, as if it were a giant cast iron metronome that has lost all metrical memory and is staggering around under the weight of a Wagnerian opera. I mean, it is loud.

Even so, I smiled out loud when I heard it. The sound made me happy. It is getting cold. It is our familiar furnace. It is crazy loud. But it is a sound of home, a leitmotif that speaks of warmth, of cozy-ness, of familiarity, of family, of my sisters. Of home.

The sounds of the monastery are, like angels, myriad upon myriad. From the gentle rhythm of our monastic chant, to the blazing organ on big feast days, to the footfalls of sisters that you know by heart, to the crackle of ice when the breakfast table-waiter fills the metal milk bin, to the click of the chapel door that tells you you either did or didn’t close it all the way, to the countless thumps and bumps associated with every corner of the monastery… All are leitmotifs of home – sounds of comfort, of familiarity, of the love of sisters, of being at home in the world in this place called Sacred Heart Monastery.

When the crazy loud furnace kicks on, the choir of anvils doesn’t suddenly sound like a choir of angels. But the jarring, discordant sounds do somehow take on a kind of melodic quality. A weightlessness like that of joy. A rhythm like that of peace. A leitmotif that says "home."

Postscript: A familiar old sound has recently come back home. Our old pendulum clock that has been on the 1st floor of Ottilia Hall since around 1940 was removed before the renovation. It had not been working properly for a while, and so it was sent away to be repaired and renewed. It was put back in place last week. We are grateful for the return of this familiar old clock.

Blind Bartimaeus and the philosopher’s cloak, or when our answers go begging

I think each of us has ideas about how the world works, at least for our little corner of the world. We cloak ourselves in the security of what we know (or think we know) – our own personal cosmology for our own personal corner of the cosmos. But today’s Gospel reading from Mark 10 invites us to throw off the cloak of our own ideas and perceptions and seek the sight that comes from Jesus.

In the passage, blind Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus, sits at the roadside begging. Perhaps in a sense he is not just the son of Timaeus, but a descendant of Timaeus, Plato’s work in which the central dialogue partner, so named Timaeus, sorts out the nature of the cosmos. He concludes that sight is the sense that is of greatest benefit to humans because through it we can observe the workings of the universe and from that derive the wisdom of philosophy.

But the Gospel writer tells us of a greater vision, a greater wisdom, than that of mere philosophers. And so in true wisdom this “son of Timaeus” recognizes his blindness, throws off his philosopher’s cloak, and calls out to the Son of David saying, “I want to see.”

I know that I have my own ideas about how things ought to be and my own personal answers to every conceivable situation – my own miniature version of the Timaeus filled with my own conceptions of the universe. But I hope that like blind Bartimaeus I can recognize my ultimate sightlessness and let my answers sit begging on the side of the road, seeking the sight that only Jesus can give. I hope that I can toss away my philosopher’s cloak, and anything else that keeps me from springing up to follow the Son of David.



Postscript: Even within the physical world of the monastery – our tiny little microcosm of the cosmos – we can have our own ideas about how the world works. Rooms and chairs and any number physical constellations of the goods of the monastery can get anchored in our mind as to “this is how it is.” One of the wonderful (and sometimes challenging!) aspects of hospitality is experiencing the space through the eyes of guests who sometime utilize Retreat Center rooms, furnishings, lawns, etc. in a far different way than I could ever imagine. Sometimes I’m delighted by the novelty. But sometimes I am challenged to throw off my cloak of habit and see the space with fresh eyes. My assumptions have to go begging.

St. Benedict tells us to receive the guest as Christ. This, too, takes a particular type of vision, recognizing the Lord in the stranger at the door, and in turn, helping them to receive the sight that Jesus can give.

S'morelandia

For a time, we were a people set apart, a tiny nation of people with white-dotted noses and white-streaked chins. For a season, we were a people who could barely chew, but who could still laugh.

It started when one of our staff members found a recipe for skillet-baked S’mores, with peanut butter thrown in for good measure. We had it for dessert last night. It was sticky and hardening by the minute and a major league challenge to eat.

Everyone struggled. Everyone laughed. Everyone tried to eat with the best of manners. But everyone was trying to manage unmanageable forkfuls of white, toffee-like clumps and strands that stretched from plate to fork to everywhere in between. Everyone was at risk of white dots and streaks – if not on themselves, then on their trays and plates – like tribal markings of a people who had never learned how to eat.

In the interest of decorum, many rested their forks and did not proceed further. Some of us forged onward, undeterred.

It was hilarious. But more importantly, it was one of those unexpected, never-could-have-planned-it moments that help make community life the graced endeavor that it is. Our lives are marked by a great deal of seriousness of purpose and gravity of intent. But the seriousness of our monastic call is leavened with the relaxed and gentle ease of day-to-day community life – the casual conversation at meal time, the relaxed gathering around the puzzle table or a TV show. A walk in the evening. A shared glass of iced tea in mid-afternoon. An interesting magazine article passed hand-to-hand.

The innumerable happenstance encounters of day-to-day life are what make a monastic community a true community. And then there is the occasional shared hilarity when together we find ourselves trying to gracefully consume a chocolaty/marshmallowy/peanut buttery confection, or some other humorous happening. These things, too, help bind us together (literally, in this case) as we create shared memories and family stories.

I think that our time in S’morelandia will be one of those stories that gets remembered and re-told. Thank goodness there were no pictures taken.



Postscript: It tasted great!

Seatbelt

Every once in a while, when I take my place in my choir stall for the Liturgy of the Hours, I have a momentary impulse to fasten my seatbelt.

Yes, I know that sounds strange. And yes, I know it doesn’t just sound strange, it is strange.

It doesn’t happen often, but when it does I’ve always just chalked it up to the routine reaction of reaching for a seatbelt when entering other semi-enclosed seats – cars, planes, and the like.

Whatever the reason, whenever this impulse happens I just smile inwardly, bemused at the thought. But it has also brought about some reflection as to whether or not I really should buckle up. After all, who knows where prayer may take me. Perhaps I’d better have my seatbelt buckled. There may be some dangerous intersections or some curvy roads in there!

On the other hand, maybe it’s not my prayer that needs restraint, but my wayfaring thoughts that can sometimes rush headlong into anywhere or nowhere or everywhere but into God.

It seems that the liturgy itself is a kind of seatbelt that holds us safe as we journey in blind faith and with uncertain steps into the unfathomable love of God. The liturgy of the Church, the fluid yet disciplined singing of chant, the texts and subtexts that have resounded though the centuries…all of these serve as vessels of prayer that both convey and contain, that support and sustain, that free us even as they restrain us as we sit on simple wooden seats and pray...morning and night, day after day, month after month, year after year.

I still don’t know what to make of my occasional impulse to fasten my seatbelt. So when it happens, as it did again the other day, I just inwardly smile, letting the liturgy hold me as I sing and chant and pray, sitting safely in my simple wooden seat.



Postscript: Each Sister has her own routine choir stall, assigned to her by the Prioress, with her books for Lauds, Vespers, and Feast Days stored there. Many Sisters also keep a volume of spiritual reading and/or a Misselette and/or a rosary stored in their stall. I have never seen any seatbelts!

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