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

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...