As it is in heaven...

As simple and unplanned and unadorned as it was, our quiet ‘liturgy of the hallway’ last night felt, for me at least, about as close as one can get to the idea of our earthly liturgy as a foretaste of the heavenly liturgy.

It was about 3:00 am. Already our town’s tornado sirens had shrieked their warning several times, and for hours angry lightning had been shouting in the sky. On radar images, each new line of storms looked like yet another fiery arrow hurled across the Southland. Some of us had been up, and then back to bed, and then up again checking the latest updates. Finally the news reported a “rotation” headed toward downtown Cullman. It was time to awaken everyone and move to the safety of the 1st floor hallway.

The word passed through the monastery, Sisters quietly awakening other Sisters, and we made our way to the 1st floor in a procession as solemn as that of any solemn liturgy and a silence as grand as any Grand Silence of the night. Simultaneously sleepy and wakeful, groggy and alert, we sat along both sides of the hallway as if we were two sides of a choir. Once gathered, no instructions or organization was needed. Our Prioress simply began a prayer, and all followed naturally in recitation, our quiet, grave voices flowing through somber lips.

As I gazed up and down the row opposite me, my own voice in quiet recitation, it was a beautiful and touching sight - each Sister like a bead on a rosary, each Sister a prayer, each Sister a luminous mystery in a stormy night, each Sister occupied, or maybe pre-occupied, with thought, with prayer, with wordless waiting even as her words formed a timeless path through time.

As liturgy goes, in its quiet and unadorned simplicity and in the tension of waiting out a storm, it could hardly pass for heavenly – just a group of sleepy people gathered for protection from danger and reciting some prayers together. But in its genuine faith, its sure devotion, its spontaneous and natural turn to common prayer, and its utter trust, it did one of the things that liturgy does - it joins us to something beyond ourselves. A practical gathering for safety was more that that - it was an assembly of God’s people, the Body of Christ, offering prayer and praise and intercession, and asking that “thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” It lifted our earthbound efforts heavenward even as we prayed for the heavenly to be here on earth.

It seemed to me that the very spontaneity, the naturalness of our prayer, was part of its kinship with the liturgy of heaven. It was natural. Its what we do. We pray. We praise. We trust. We intercede. We adore. Like the saints in heaven. In that sense, our 3:00 am ‘liturgy of the hallway,’ in its simple and unadorned and quiet way, felt to me like a small foretaste of the heavenly liturgy…praising God’s name on earth, as it is in heaven.



Postscript: We were fine and safe from any damage here at the monastery. And while we were joined together in common prayer, I'm sure each Sister also held in her heart her own prayers and concerns and hopes. I’m sure many were thinking, like I was, of those in Tennessee who have lost so much in the fires, and those in danger elsewhere in the South last night, and all people everywhere who are in search of safety. We continue to hold in prayer those who have experienced so much loss in these recent days.

Hope whisperers

I am afraid of fire. Maybe it goes back to the time when I was five or six and my family and I, along with all our neighbors, were standing outside in our bathrobes in the middle of the night watching a nearby structure burn to the ground. Whatever the reason, I am skittish around fire and flame. So when I entered the monastery and was assigned to the sacristy, I found myself feeling some fear as day after day I worked with matches, lighters, candles, and wicks. Yes, I was afraid. And yet there was the necessity of my assigned work.

Somehow, over the years, at the intersection of fear and necessity, I developed a way with candles. Somehow I learned how to coax recalcitrant candles and how to tame ones that had become a bit overwrought. I don’t know how I do it or how I know what to do. I just take a candle and work with it. And somehow, the candle responds. Some in the monastery have called me “the candle whisperer.”

It happened again tonight. Two Sisters tried unsuccessfully to coax a shy candle into flame. I went up, looked at it, and stirred a bit in the wax. I tried again to light it, the wick caught, and the candle began burning steadily. “What did you do?” I was asked. “I don’t know,” I replied. Because somehow, at the intersection of fear and necessity, I had become a candle whisperer, and one can’t explain these things.

Today, many are afraid. No matter where in the world they are, perhaps they feel as if structures are burning down around them. Perhaps structures are burning down around them. They are unsure whether to hope, or how much to hope, or whether to let their hope snuff itself out like a wick that has collapsed in a puddle of wax, or whether to fan their hope into a steady flame that can light their way forward.

And yet, in the midst of fear and uncertain hope, there is still the necessity to keep working. No matter where in the world we are, there is the necessity to do one’s daily tasks with as much integrity, joy, compassion, and skill as one can bring to bear on the work God has called us to do, to walk with fidelity the path God has laid before us.

Perhaps somehow, at the intersection of fear and fidelity, a flame of hope can be lit. Perhaps by acknowledging fear, leaning into necessity, and being anchored in prayer, we can nurture hope both in ourselves and in others. Perhaps we can become hope whisperers – coaxing collapsing hope, trimming false hope, stirring a bit to let the spark catch the wick, and, with a steady flame and steadfast fidelity, light the path ahead.

Hunger

A hungry person does not inquire as to the recipe of the soup, nor does the thirsty person question the molecular composition of the water that slakes thirst. Rather the hungry know their hunger, the thirsty know their thirst. They gratefully receive what is offered – soup, bread, water, the sustenance of life...

Currently I am, and have been for a while, working toward a theology degree. My second, in fact. But my hunger is not for theology. It is for God. However study and information and ideas and analysis can sometimes cause one to forget one’s hunger. One begins asking about ingredients, and recipes, and things of the mind rather than the real spiritual hunger that leads us to God, and that draws us together around a hearth in a community of those who hunger.

The ingredients of the soup, the composition of the water can be a refuge for those who have forgotten their hunger, who no longer feel their thirst. Then the “recipes” – whether Christological, Eucharistic, Biblical, or other – can become recipes for criticism and comparison.

They can also distract us from our true hunger, and thus our true poverty. And yet our own emptiness is the birthplace of true knowledge, of true compassion, of true community.

I hope that in addition to sitting at the living room hearth with a book in hand, that I always sit even longer at the kitchen hearth - aware of my emptiness, receiving God's fullness, and sharing God's bounty with others - understanding that the 'recipe' is one I will never understand. Because true grace, true gift, is beyond understanding. My limited understanding, my words, cannot capture or contain the height and breadth of the Eternal Word. Nor can the understanding or words of the person next to me at the hearth. Our shared spiritual hunger brings us together to the hearth of blessing. May other, lesser, hungers not pull us apart.

"Three": the answer to two age-old questions…

If you were wondering how many monastery employees it takes to change a light bulb, well the answer is three. That is if the light is oh, say, 70 feet in the air and weighs oh, say, 70 pounds, and is oh, say, in need of more than just a bulb change but actually needs a bit of rewiring, re-coaxing, and reminding how to shine, and oh, say, needs to be completed by Vespers. Oh and by the way requires three levels of scaffolding to reach.

And if you are wondering how many Sisters it takes to herd a cat it is oh, say, three. That is if Kitty B, an outdoor cat, makes a mad dash through an open door after supper into Ottilia Hall and is miraculously confined in a parlor by a closed door before she has access to all three floors of Ottilia, the dining room, and so many other connected areas that we might not find her until tomorrow.

This was just what happened after supper tonight (which followed the well-lit Vespers). Three Sisters gathered in the parlor to try to catch, coax, entice, or otherwise lead Kitty B into the waiting arms of her most favorite of all her favorite Sisters. But she was resistant to coaxing, as cats will be.

Eventually the three Sisters, with the help of 13 coherent and 1 incoherent text messages along the way, were able herd Kitty B untouched out the back door of Ottilia Hall. Imagine a pass rush of three linebackers against one scrambling quarterback who eventually gets run out of bounds. It was kind of like that.

So if you are wondering about the answer to these age-old questions of ‘how many…’, the answer is three, at least for today and tonight here at the monastery where the lights shine brightly, the cat runs free, and good humor prevails.



Postscript - Yes, I will take responsibility for having let Kitty B in! Sister Emilie and I spent a good long stretch after supper sitting on the back porch of Ottilia, just talking together and watching the sky grow dark until it felt like time to come in. Well, Kitty B came in too. Argh!

While visiting on the porch Sister Emilie and I watched Sisters Treva, Regina, and Jane return from a post-dinner walk, Sister Tonette and later Sister Mary Adrian head down to the wood-working and pottery studio, Sister Eileen start out on a walk, Sister Magdalena come out and feed Kitty B, and Sister Bernadette take a stroll down to the pond for some quiet moments of water-side solitude. We watched the light go on, and then off, in the sacristy, and then on, and then off, in the dish room as various Sisters tended to evening duties.

It was a lovely, quiet evening of monastic life unfolding in the best way possible - together.

Data cable

When I needed a data cable earlier this evening, I knew just where to go – to the shelves next to a shower. Probably in no other setting would this make any kind of sense. But in a monastery the time frame is one of generations, and the use of rooms and furnishings unfolds and refolds over decades. The gradual juxtaposition of seemingly incongruous objects makes a strange kind of sense here.

When I first entered the monastery (11 years ago yesterday), I was told that the laundry soap was in the mail room. I accepted this strange fact with equanimity. But then I learned that the bananas were kept in the laundry room, along with the pecans and our old computers. At this, the other eyebrow got raised.

There were also some seeming misnomers in monastery place names – the cookie room that contained no cookies (shucks!)…the flower room with no flowers, but that did have a closet full of seasonal decorations…the Blue Room in which nothing was blue except the chair fabric…the pealing porch that was, O silly me, actually the peeling porch for peeling vegetables, not the place for handbell practice…the kitchen carts that were called “sparkies” although no one currently living had any clue why...and, well, you get the picture.

After a while, I got the hang of what was where and the place names soon shifted from odd to endearing. I learned about Sr. Mary Ann, a baker, and the shelves that she used to fill with cookies…about the Schaffer sisters and the flower arrangements they created in the deep sinks of what became known as the flower room, and which still contained of much of our dining room decor...about the temperature and humidity in the laundry that was perfect for bananas at certain times of the year...and, well, you get the picture. I learned that this was a life lived in generations, over decades that fold and refold over themselves forming a kind of spiritual strata of work and prayer in a kind of spiritual geology of place, and of home. As the stability that is a hallmark of Benedictine life forms us as individuals and as a community, we, too, form the place. We form it into a monastic home in which our desire for God can flourish.

With our big renovation project of a few years ago, some of our endearing place names got lost in the shuffle. But we still have some, and when I went to the shelves next to a shower to get a data cable, I couldn’t help but smile with gratitude over the new strata continually forming as decades of work and prayer fold and unfold and refold in this endearing and enduring place that is our monastic home.

A loaves and fishes kind of day

For three of us in our monastic community, the Visitation is our Feast Day. You might think that a feast divided by three would diminish the cumulative individual ‘feast-ness’ of the day. But somehow, with three of us, the feast-ness multiplies exponentially such that the festivity quotient is far higher than it would have been with just one single individual celebrating her solitary feast.

It is really kind of a marvel. One divided by three becomes one multiplied by three and then “pressed down, shaken together, running over…” (cf. Lk 6:38)...three multiplied exponentially to the nth power by the shared joy of sisterly camaraderie.

It brings to mind loaves and fishes, blossoming deserts, and the kind of fecundity that comes from the capacity to share, to make room for the other, to let go of what you have and let it become more than it is.

Land of Next / Land of Now

Perhaps, if you are anything like me, you have some moments in which you are absent from the present because you are present to what is absent, already handling the next thing on your agenda instead of dwelling in the one precious amazing moment that is here right now before you. You have stepped out of the Land of Now and straight on into the Land of Next even as the present moment is tugging at your sleeve for some attention.

It happened to me again (for at least the gagillionth time) during Lauds this morning. I happened to be the one whose turn it was to lead our closing prayers. But as I got to the oh-so-familiar, no-notes-needed closing lines, I could not find the words because my mind had already moved on. I had left the Land of Now. I was in the Land of Next. A prompt from a Sister was required to bring me back to the present moment and the present words.

Today, the Feast of the Visitation of the Virgin Mary, is a good time to remember to be present to the precious and amazing moment that is the present moment. Somewhere, somehow, God is in this moment, a visitation from on High over which we can leap with joy, or which we can leap straight over with distraction, or ambition, or frustration, or anticipation, or whatever beckons us away from the place and time and person and task or no-task which is before us.

Whatever comes next will come soon enough. But for now, I pray I can be present to the Dawn from on High that shines upon me in this very moment.

The Visitation

This morning’s Benedictus antiphon: This is the day the Lord has made. Let us be glad and rejoice in it!

The Lord gives us this day, and we rejoice. But isn’t there also a sense in which God gives us to this day? Does the day rejoice in our presence in it? Does the day say something like, “This is the person the Lord has made. Let us be glad and rejoice in this one created by the Lord!”?

The Lord made this day. The Lord made each of us. May our words and deeds, our silence and prayer, give the day cause to rejoice, just as the gift of the day leads us to rejoice. May we be a blessing to the day as the day is a blessing to us. May it be like a Visitation, like an embrace, two of God’s creations – this day and us – rejoicing in each other, and together giving glory to our Creator.

This is us

Tonight I stepped outside for the simplest of errands - to take a bit of cardboard to our recycle bin.

Along the way I found a prayer book left in a windowsill by a Sister who I knew would soon miss it. I stepped into the kitchen and called her floor. “Oh, my,” she said. I got the book back to her.

I then stepped into a guest area to turn off some lights after the last-departing guest. I picked up the key left behind along with the note of gratitude left on the desk.

With the guest area empty, I experimented a bit with nightlights. Which type shines best in a darkened night-time hall?

I then stepped around to the back of Ottilia Hall – our home – and saw across the building a bank of lights like a sky of stars…a building awake and asleep with the inhalation and exhalation of a life lived at work and at rest, at prayer and at play.

I know who lives in every room. One of the rooms is mine. The lights are darkened there now, but will soon be on, wakeful, and then at rest.

This is us. Awake, asleep. At work, at rest. Fully and joyfully alive with the inhalation and exhalation of a life lived to give glory to God through the simplest of gestures and the grandest of efforts and the most earnest fidelity in a most serious and sacred of intention.

This is us. A community brought together through the call of God, each sister a light plucked from the night sky and placed here to be a light in the darkness, to shine like a guide in a darkened night-time hall.

I finally made it to the recycle bin with my bit of cardboard, but not before having wandered through a hallway where I found a book, the kitchen where I made a call, a guest area where I picked up a key and adjusted some lights, and then the backyard, where my heart filled with gratitude for the community that we are, in our simplicity and our complexity, our inhalation and exhalation of effort and rest, the rhythms of prayer and work, of solitude and community...

This is us, living this monastic life. With fidelity. With joy.

Balm of Gilead

There is a thorny scrub tree that grows in the Middle East called the Commiphora. When a Commiphora tree is pierced with a gash that reaches all the way through the bark, the tree bleeds. It bleeds an aromatic resin that we call myrrh.

Frankincense is obtained in much the same way. A Boswellia tree is wounded, and it bleeds a fragrant resin that is referred to as ‘frankincense tears.’

Gold is brought forth from the broken earth, and with backbreaking labor. And thus the three gifts presented to the newborn babe in Bethlehem each came from a wound to a tree, or a gash in the earth. They came from a tear (to rhyme with bear). They came with tears (to rhyme with beers).

In bringing these particular gifts to the Christ Child – God incarnate – it is as if the wise ones were not merely offering a gift. They were also telling a story. They were saying, “This is what it is like to be human.” Being human glitters and glistens. And being human is painful. It is glorious. And there are tears and tears.

As with gold, frankincense, and myrrh – glimmering, aromatic, precious offerings – gifts can come forth from our wounds. A sweet aroma wafts in through the broken window. Shattered shards form a beautiful mosaic. Golden nuggets glisten within the underground seams of daily toil.

The shattered pieces of our lives can gleam because the transfiguring work of Christ lends beauty to even our failures and frailties. On the Feast of Epiphany, as I bring to Jesus my finest gifts, I want to also gather the shattered fragments of my life, because these, too, are gifts to bring. Like the gifts of old, the finest gifts are often born from tears and tears. Because that is what it is like to be human. And that is what it is like to have our brokenness transfigured in Christ, like a small, thorny tree, wounded, that bleeds a Balm of Gilead.

And so like the wise ones of old, I open my treasures and offer to the newborn babe my gifts of gold, of frankincense, of myrrh. And I offer the gift of myself, my humanity – with its shimmering glory, its tears and tears – offering it to the transfiguring work of Christ. I offer myself in the hope that in the thorny tree and rocky soil there will be a glimmer of gold, a fragrant aroma, the possibility of transfiguration because I see, like an epiphany, the presence of God in our midst, who sanctifies what it means to be human, who transfigures my tears and my tears.

In offering ourselves – fragments and all – our transfigured selves can become a continual offering, a pleasing fragrance, a Balm of Gilead in a thorny, broken world.