Grounded

“Passengers, as we begin our descent into…”

Those were the words of the flight attendant before she paused, clearly unable to remember the city in which we were about to land. After a very long moment, she finally said “Chicago,” the connecting point in my journey yesterday to Mount St. Scholastica Monastery in Atchison, KS.

The peripatetic work of a flight attendant probably doesn’t lend itself to readily knowing where you are, so I can understand her hesitation. Nevertheless her pause struck me, and all the more so because of the book I happened to have in my hand as she spoke. I was reading about a community of U.S. Benedictine monks, how they planted themselves in an unlikely spot over a century ago, and stayed. And stayed. And stayed. And they are still there.

Stability is one of the uniquely Benedictine vows. It is the opposite of a peripatetic life, and in fact St. Benedict warns us in his Rule about “gyrovagues,” those wandering monks who never settle down, never committing themselves to a Rule and an Abbot – or even a place.

We Benedictines vow our stability to a community, a community situated in a specific locale. We plant ourselves, and we stay put. Being rooted for a lifetime gives us a strong sense of place, of habitas. We know where we are, and who we are.

Stability for a lifetime within a single community offers the monastic a setting in which to pursue that other uniquely Benedictine profession promise: conversion of life, or heart. Yet it also has the effect of ‘grounding’ us in a literal way. We land in a locale, and we stay put. We come to know intimately the rhythms of not only the liturgical seasons, but of the seasons of nature, of the world God created. Over the years, we come to know at close range the ground on which we walk, on which we live. We know where we are.

The meeting I am attending in Kansas is a conference for Benedictine Sisters ages 55 and under from all across North America. We will converge on Atchison from Oregon, New Jersey, North Dakota, Virginia, Colorado, and many other states. For each of us, our true home is in God, and God is present everywhere. But as Benedictines, our habitas is in a particular community in a particular place. When our conference concludes, we will each return to the community, and to the place, to which God has called us, and we will know where we have landed.

Chapter and verse; now and forever

The other day, I walked through the monastery dining room with a garden hoe propped against my shoulder. I passed another Sister who smiled at the incongruity. “Looks like there's a story,” she said as we crossed paths. “There’s always a story,” was my smiling reply. And indeed, there is always a story.

In recent days, historical narratives from 1st Samuel have served as our Old Testament reading during Lauds. Each morning, a portion of a chapter is read, with the continuous narrative rhythm broken only for Sunday’s and Feasts. As the reader, I picked up the narrative yesterday morning where I had left off the previous day. The passage I read was dense with detail and replete with references to characters and events from previous days. As often happens on the weekends, a retreat group had joined us for Lauds. As I read, I imagined how difficult it must be for the retreatants to follow and understand the complex narrative, lacking the context of the previous readings. But for the rest of us, the gradual unfolding of a continuous narrative gave us the benefit of context, making a complex reading more readily absorbed.

Sometimes, as with yesterday’s reading, the narratives around us, including that of our own life, seem to lack context, or don’t easily make sense. We have experiences and encounters for which we don’t always understand the framework. The characters may be unfamiliar, or the references obscure. Everything seems incongruous, like a Sister walking through a monastery dining room with a hoe propped against her shoulder. We just can’t make sense of it.

The seasons and cycles of the liturgical year help give us perspective when our own personal narrative seems fractured or incongruous. The liturgical cycle draws us deeply into the life of Christ, not as mere spectators, observers or listeners, but as participants.

We encounter Christ in Word and Sacrament, and in times and seasons. We can see the seasons of our own life in light of the seasons of the life of Christ. In our own times of watchful waiting, we recognize Advent and trust in the coming of our Savior. In our own times of desolation, we recognize the Lord Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, and know that He is with us in our pain. In our own times of resurrection, we see the abundance of God’s salvific love and power.

As Christians, when we experience life in incongruous fragments - like that of a single chapter isolated from the whole, or like the inexplicable presence of a garden hoe in a dining room - we know there is a deeper unity which our human vision does not allow us to see, but that can be perceived with the eyes of faith. Through faith we know that what may appear to be disconnected fragments are part of a larger story, just as we understand the resurrection in light of the crucifixion, and the Incarnation in light of the Eternal Word.

While singing the opening hymn during Vespers last night, I happened to look up from the hymnal just as we came to the phrase, “You are the way.” My eyes happened to land on one of the Stations of the Cross. That particular Station was part of Jesus’ way, but was not the whole way. It was one episode of a larger narrative. And because it was His way, it is part of my way - my story - as well.

Indeed, there is always a story. Let us be grateful for the seasons and cycles of the liturgical year that unfold for us the narrative of God’s love. And through the liturgical unfolding of the mystery of our faith, let us be drawn ever more deeply into the life of Christ. Let us see the fragments – the episodes, chapters, and verses - of the individual lives we are living now, in light of the life of Christ, and in the light of eternity.

Birthday blog

Living the Tradition is one year old today. Just to see where we began, I clicked on the blog archives at left and read the first post from a year ago. I was startled to find a metaphoric reference to sweeping the sidewalk because I am typing this with semi-numb fingers, having just finished clearing snow and ice from the Retreat Center entrance in preparation for arriving guests. And yes, I had a broom in my hand.

Just as we ready the monastery for the reception of guests, I hope that this Benedictine blog provides a welcoming and reflective web space for our on-line guests. To quote the first entry, I hope the blog is “both home and journey – a place of welcome… and a point of departure as we explore and reflect upon the passing landscape of our monastic life.”

I happen to be the one who sits at a computer and composes this blog, but this blog is not ‘mine’ in any sense of the word. I live in the midst of a community of wonderful Sisters who daily support, challenge, and inspire me with their fidelity to our Faith and our Benedictine charism. This blog is simply the reflections and observations of one Sister among many, and I am grateful to them for allowing me to share some of our life with you.

As we begin a new year of LTT, we invite you to continue to journey with our community as day by day, with faith, hope and love, we continue to live the tradition.

To quote once again from the very first post: "The sidewalk is swept. The road is waiting. Welcome."



Postscript: In addition to their spiritual support and encouragement, Sisters have contributed to LTT in other ways as well. Sister Tonette came up with the title one evening as we sat around talking in the 3rd Ottilia community room. Also, I occasionally incorporate photographs taken by either Sister Therese or Sister Regina (such as the snow-covered angel in the previous post, which was taken by Sister Therese.) And Sisters have generously allowed me to reference their activities, special occasions, etc. Like pretty much everything else around here, this blog is a community effort!

Shoveling snow in the warm, sunny South

Here's how the shoveling of snow typically goes here in the sunny South: First, you make a cup of hot chocolate. Then, you find a cozy chair. Finally, you wait in climate-controlled comfort as morning sunshine melts the half inch or so of snow that fell during the night. It's all a fairly painless endeavor, no heavy lifting required, and the snow disappears as if by magic.

Imagine my surprise, then, when Sunday evening's snow didn't disappear on Monday morning. Sustained low temperatures, cloudy skies, sporadic sleet, and a several-inch layer of snow meant that melting was in some far-distant future. On Monday, Sr. Bernadette and I took a hoe and a broom and cleared one short path along an oft-used outdoor passageway. But by Tuesday morning it was clear that actual shoveling was required. Sr. Therese went out to the barn, located our one and only snow shovel, and spent the morning clearing sidewalks. After lunch, I took over, shoveling snow for the first time in my life.

I learned a few things about snow shoveling yesterday, mainly that snow weighs a lot more than it looks, that it should be pushed rather than lifted and tossed, and that ice compressed by tire tracks is more easily loosened with the grain instead of against it. I also learned there is no magic involved. It is hard work. And cold.

In Monday evening’s post I wrote blissfully about the beauty of the snowy pasture in the twilight. But even as I stood on the crest of the hill Monday evening, snuggled deeply into my coat, hat and gloves, I was thinking of those for whom the snow is a source of suffering, not joy. Then on Tuesday, the simultaneous presence of both beauty and suffering became not just an abstraction, but a visceral reality as I shoveled heavy, ice-encrusted snow in the deepening afternoon cold on grounds that nevertheless still bore the weathered beauty of windswept porcelain.

A few days ago, I heard a radio program in which a photographer was interviewed. In describing a collection of photographs, the photographer used the phrase “terribly beautiful.” While she used the phrase to indicate immense beauty, the phrase struck me as conveying well the reality that beauty often contains some measure of suffering, or is in some way “terrible.” At the time, I reflected on the phrase in terms of the Paschal Mystery, of death which leads to life, of a seed which must be buried and broken in order for new life to emerge, and of the juxtaposition of beauty and suffering in the natural world.

As I scraped and shoveled snow yesterday in the cold, cloudy South, a late afternoon burst of sunlight lit up the shining whitescape around me. The phrase returned to mind. I was both happy and miserable. The afternoon shone, and was clouded. It was grey, and it sparkled. It was “terribly beautiful.”

The world is full of beauty, and there are times we can enjoy it from the comfort of a cozy chair with a warm drink in hand. But often with beauty comes hard work, or pain, or suffering of some sort. And sometimes what is beautiful for one is a source of suffering for another.

Beauty does not come and go like magic, but is a gift of God to be received with gratitude, trust, and sometimes even endurance. And occasionally some heavy lifting, even here in the warm, sunny South.




Postscript: Our prayers during these winter days have been full of remembrances of and petitions for those suffering from the cold, especially those who lack adequate shelter. Let us together keep in prayer those who suffer.

Special delivery

The falling of snow (!) last night sent me outside several times today – wool socks on, hiking boots laced, and ears well muffled – to see the beautiful white stuff that here in Alabama we see mainly in pictures. Tonight, in the early evening, I took one more trip out to the pasture. On the ground, a few inches of ice-glazed snow crunched underfoot. Above, the evening sky kept trying to shake off its faded white veneer of daylight but the reflection of snow kept it glowing with a kind of luminous twilight that shone like windswept porcelain.

I stood motionless for long minutes at the crest of the pasture, watching the tree line, listening to the evening, beginning to shiver, and slowly letting myself be enclosed by the cold white nightscape. The pale, ashen chill held me as if I were sealed within an envelope of white, like a letter to be delivered to a winter evening. Yet the real delivery, and a special delivery at that, was the rare gift of a snowy, snowy landscape here in the deep, deep South.

Postscript: Photos below are from our "back yard." Photos from the "front yard" of the monastery can be seen on our Community News web page.

Coming off the bench

In the midst of bowl season, it seems fitting to employ a sports metaphor to note that several Sisters are coming off the bench this week to cover my various assignments so that I can spend a few days visiting my family early in this new year. Sister Kathleen Christa is taking care of lights in the chapel. Sisters Regina and Lynn Marie are taking my dishwashing turns. Sister Therese is being both her hands and mine in the Retreat Center. Sister Sara Aiden and Sister Emilie are covering the full workload in the sacristy. And on and on…

We do this sort of thing all the time, constantly coming off the bench and checking into the game either to give someone a rest, pitch in during a particularly busy time, or simply to help out another Sister if it appears she could use a hand. But even as we come off the bench, we keep right on covering our regular positions. It’s as if the half back lines up in the regular position behind the quarterback, but is fully prepared to run a deep route down the sideline if the call comes, and perhaps even stay in the game on defense.

The very nature of monastic life means that the work and prayer of the community and the rhythm of liturgy roll right along, whether or not an individual Sister is present. Unlike a business that closes up shop at the end of the day, or a family that cancels newspaper delivery while on vacation, the monastic rhythm keeps going, and we monastics move easily and naturally between being first string in our usual positions to warming the bench for other roles, always ready to run right into the huddle when the call comes for a substitution.

But when it comes to prayer, there are no bench warmers. When a Sister is away, she does not leave the playing field, even if she is not present in her choir stall. We each travel with versions of the Liturgy of the Hours that keep us praying with the community, and indeed, with the entire Church, when we are away from the monastery. Likewise, in accord with the Rule of St. Benedict, the community at home incorporates those absent into their prayer, routinely remembering “our absent Sisters” with a special commendation at the close of each liturgical hour.

When it comes to the work of the monastery, each of us stays prepared to come off the bench to serve wherever and whenever we are needed. But when it comes to prayer, whether present in our usual choir stall or away on a journey, each of us is always on the field.

Postscript- To read a previous Living the Tradition "football post", you can check out the February archives at left and scroll to John Donne and the Super Bowle.

Things visible and things unseen

An on-line version of a museum exhibit entitled The Inner Beauty of Flowers (link below) has recently captured my attention. The exhibit features photographic images of flowers taken not using standard photography, but with x-rays. I've returned to the site several times, in part to admire the beauty and delicacy of the images, and in part to reflect on the nature of vision.

A standard photograph relies on reflected light to reveal the color, shape and definition of an object. In contrast, a radiographic image is produced when light is transmitted through an object, penetrating its surface and revealing something of its inner structure.

As this year draws to a close, I've been thinking about x-ray vision, trying to perceive the inner beauty of the year, trying to look beyond the outer surface of events, places, and people in order to see that which is within. Perhaps what seemed to be a difficult situation held hidden grace. Perhaps an unseen hand was supporting me when outwardly I felt myself to be falling. Perhaps a seed lay buried within a task that seemed meaningless or futile, its fruit still to flower and unfold.

The year has been constantly abloom with perceptible grace and beauty of every kind, but these x-ray images challenge me to not stop there. Events or situations that, like a flower, carry beauty on the surface also hold a deeper beauty. With the eyes of faith we can look within and see the delicacy of a petal-like moment of grace, the sturdy coat that protects a waiting seed, the strong stems and roots that support fragile growth, and the tender sweep of God’s hand that upholds us throughout the year.

Scripture helps us see this inner beauty, especially the Psalms, those ancient prayers that penetrate so deeply into the visceral depths of human joy, lament, gratitude and pain. The annual liturgical cycle grounds our year in the life of Christ, the imprint of His life held deeply within each of us. Silence also fosters our capacity to perceive the heart of the matter. And always, the Light of Christ illuminates our days, months and years.

On the last days of the current year and the first days of the coming year, our scripture readings during Vespers come from the Letter to the Colossians. The first chapter contains a beautiful passage that speaks of Christ:

He is the image of the invisible God,
the firstborn of all creation;
for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created,
things visible and invisible,…
all things have been created through him and for him.
He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.

As we step from one year to the next, reflecting back and looking forward, let us also look deeply, illuminated by the Light of Christ, and perceive the inner beauty of this year of grace.



Postscript: The Inner Beauty of Flowers was exhibited this past summer and fall at the Botanical Gardens of Smith College in Northampton, MA. From the link, click on "X-Ray Images." Thanks goes to Sister Kathleen Christa, who is originally from that area of Massachusetts, for sharing with me these beautiful and unique images.