Friends and Neighbors

Over these past months, Ottilia Hall has been gradually transformed from a building filled with Sisters, guests, furniture, books, and vitality to a building filled mostly with memories and possibility. The last offices moved last week, and only a few stray items and the switchboard remain. Until renovation begins in the spring, we are using the halls mainly as routes to somewhere else.

Now that the first floor – the only floor open to the public – has been cleared, guests are beginning to see the emptiness that we have been experiencing upstairs for a while now. Many have walked slowly through the vacated 1st floor rooms, empty for the first time since 1903.

I have accompanied a few of these guests through parts of Ottilia. Some had tears in their eyes. Like the Sisters, they express joy and anticipation over the much-needed renovations that will enable continued life in Ottilia. But seeing empty rooms has been hard for many.

As I’ve accompanied visitors, their reactions have reminded me just how much our work and ministries mean to our guests, be they family, friends, oblates, retreatants, or neighbors. Their comments have not been about architectural features or structural elements. Rather their speech has been peppered with remembrances of particular conversations, or times of prayer, or classes they took with a Sister. The comments have seemed like far more than a simple walk down memory lane. The specific events and people seem, instead, to be a prism through which shines the real memory – the remembrance of God.

Our monastery is a place where people come to seek God, and it is a place where God is found. It is a community of hospitality where people receive a welcome in the name of Christ. It is a spiritual harbor where people have been challenged and have grown; have been taught, and have learned. In so many ways and over so many years, countless individuals have encountered God here. I think this is reflected in the depth of the reactions to empty rooms that that remain filled with memories of spiritual significance.

Times, places, and people that carry particular spiritual weight serve as touchstones. We tend to remember well the 'who, what, when and where' of our spiritual growth and deepening faith. It is humbling and heartening to realize the extent to which this community and this monastery we call home has served as a touchstone of faith for so many.

Like all forms of religious life, the monastic charism is in service to the People of God. Yes, the monos of monastic means 'alone,' or 'single-hearted,' and monastic observance requires a certain measure of 'apartness' such as our cloistered areas provide us. Yet we are not separate. We are deeply embedded in the heart of the Church. Our liturgical prayer is with and for the Church. Our varied ministries are with and for the People of God. Our internal life of monastic community serves as witness to the Gospel and beacon of the peace of Christ.

These recent conversations while strolling the halls with friends and neighbors have reminded me of what renovating our buildings is all about. It’s about continuing our sacred tradition of prayer, hospitality, ministry…of being a touchstone of faith, a beacon of peace, and a prism through which Christ can shine - to friend, neighbor, and stranger alike.

Stability

Our monastic household has been in seemingly constant motion for months now as we’ve prepared Ottilia Hall for its upcoming renovation. The activity has been especially marked in the past few weeks as the final bedrooms and offices have been cleared and the last preparations made for our upcoming yard sale.

Yet the motion has not been constant. The spinning wheels do come to a halt. In the midst of transition, some things remain fixed in their constancy. A bell sounds, and we rise to intone the first notes of the Divine Office. Candles are lit, our chaplain enters, and Mass begins. A blessing is said, and together we share our meal at the common table. After dinner, another bell, and the first lines of Compline are intoned. We are the same people, the same Sisters, engaged in the same monastic routines and all of our usual ministries. Retreatants arrive and depart. Our Sisters who teach leave for school. The usual prayer and work of the monastery goes on.

Offices are in transition. Those who have moved may still be unsettled. The rattle of wagon wheels has become as normal as bells. Familiar equipment is in unfamiliar spots. Yet despite all the transition and change, the stability that is the hallmark the monastic rhythm is ever-present, ever-central, always calling us to park the wagons, put down the boxes, and turn to God in prayer.

Walking a mile...

Down in the barn this past Thursday – precariously poised with one foot on a ladder, the other on a rickety table, a hammer in my right hand, and a nail in the left – the old advertising line about walking “a mile for a Camel” came to mind. We have three ‘camels’ here at Sacred Heart, and we will do nearly anything for them, not only walk a mile, but even stretch well into the outer edges of gravity in a perilous reach to place a nail into a beam.

The three Sisters to whom the 'camel' appellation has been mysteriously applied are Sister Mary Vincent, Sister Mary Adrian, and Sister Mary. Nearly two years ago, these three were asked to organize the process of clearing out Ottilia Hall and other areas of the monastery in preparation for renovation. No one really knows how the ‘clearing out committee’ became the ‘camels,’ but once applied, the name stuck. Perhaps it is because they are carrying the monastery and everything in it on their backs as we all traverse the desert of transition. But whatever the reason, references to the 'clearing out committee' have long ceased. It is simply 'the camels.' And we would all walk more than a mile for them.

Their work over the past two years has involved not only organizing the disposition and/or relocation of furniture, pianos, monastery archives, the monastic library, and the accumulated household goods of 107 years, but more importantly, coordinating the temporary moves of all the Sisters who live and work in Ottilia. The ‘camels’ have labored tirelessly to manage this process in a way that is thoughtful, methodical, deeply respectful of our heritage, and infinitely hopeful for our future. They have coordinated and consulted ceaselessly with individual Sisters and with our our community Administrators.

In addition to the moves, the camels have taken us through a major yard sale and an auction. A second yard sale is just a couple of weeks away, and their recent labors have focused on this event. It was for the camels that I climbed the ladder last week as I helped them prepare the barn (shown above) for the sale.

All of their efforts, whether handling a 25-cent yard sale item or an irreplaceable archival document, have been entirely in keeping with St. Benedict’s instruction to care for “all utensils and goods of the monastery as sacred vessels of the altar, aware that nothing is to be neglected (RB 31:10-11).” They have cared well for us, their Sisters, in the process, and we are all grateful. They have walked many miles for us over the past two years, treading ceaselessly through the halls and rooms of the monastery, planning a disposition for every item. We’d all gladly walk a few miles for them – and even stretch to the outer limits of gravity up in the rafters of a barn.


Postscript: See our Community News web page for more information about the yard sale, and a photo of the 'camels.'

Breaking / Rejoicing

The refrains of two very different songs have come often to mind over the past few months as we have made preparations for the renovation of our beloved Ottilia Hall and improvements to our Retreat Center. One refrain is a single line from a pop song – “breaking up is hard to do.” The other is a line from the Psalm response, “Let us go rejoicing.”

Yes, I know it seems strange for a line from a pop song to run alongside a Psalm, even when applying the pop line to a completely different context. Nevertheless, these two phrases have been steady internal refrains as I have watched our Sisters and staff pack, lift, move, toss, tote, and do the immensely hard work of ‘breaking up’ a hundred-year-old, three-and-a-half story household and temporarily shoe-horn ourselves into every other nook and cranny of the monastery. It has been hard to do, and we have done it rejoicing.

Preparing for renovation has meant not only the hard manual labor of dismantling and moving a major portion of the interior of our monastic environment, it has also meant the disruption of familiar routines, alterations to customary patterns and routes, the transformation of areas associated with treasured community memories – and of course the many other challenges that come with transition and change. And yet, we have gone rejoicing.

One reason we go rejoicing is that the decision to proceed with renovation was made prayerfully and together through a lengthy period of community discernment - all in keeping with Chapter 3 of St. Benedict’s Rule. With our Prioress and monastic Council leading the way, we each participated in one way or another as over several years we moved carefully and methodically from reflection to decision to preparation to implementation, with each phase rooted in prayer and mutual discernment.

Another reason we go rejoicing is that this is the house of the Lord. To use the words of St. Benedict, the monastery is “a school of the Lord’s service.” It is a place dedicated to seeking God in and through community. This is God’s house, and so we dismantle, pack, and move with joy, knowing that we dwell within the household of the Lord.

Over the past weeks, Sister after Sister has packed up and departed Ottilia Hall in a carefully planned sequence of moves. The first transitions happened well before Christmas, and the pace has slowly picked up steam with each passing week. This past Thursday, on the Feast of St. Scholastica, the final two of us departed Ottilia for our transitional quarters. Only a few offices remain, and these will be moved by the end of the month. Then renovation will begin.

While the work of ‘breaking’ has been hard, and an occasional wistful reminiscence can be heard, the overall spirit has been one of tremendous joy and great anticipation.

Yes, we are learning that the ‘breaking up’ of dismantling, packing, and moving is very hard to do, and yet we go rejoicing.

I rejoiced when they said to me, “Let us go to the house of the Lord.” (Ps. 122:1)



Postscipt: The furniture from the now-empty guest parlor on the first floor of Ottilia (shown at top) has found a temporary home at the east end of the monastic dining room. Also shown above is the new home of our treasured Sacred Heart statue. This statue, which has greeted generations of Sisters and guests as they entered Ottilia Hall, now anchors the northwest corner of the dining room. A few more photos from the move can be viewed on our photo gallery web page.

Regular readers of Benedictine Update, our community newsletter, will be familiar with the progress of our master planning over the past few years. Those unfamiliar with our planning process may wish to read some of our previous Benedictine Updates that may be accessed through our Community News page. Once renovation work begins, regular posts will be available on our website. Please keep us in prayer as we proceed with this exciting time in the life of our monastic community!

Soundtrack

When I pressed the “hold” button following the last post, I didn’t realize it would be so long before I posted again. Otherwise, I would have turned on some “while you are waiting” background music to cover for the busy blog operator. If I had, here’s the soundtrack you would have heard…

…the thoughtful, insightful tones of group discussion at a conference for Benedictine Sisters ages 55 and under in Atchison, KS

…a hundred-person silence as we listened with deep attention to our presenters, allowing their words to resonate in our hearts

…a hundred voices resounding in praise at our closing Eucharistic Celebration

…joyous conversation and impromptu song during the social gathering on our final evening

…the mechanical tones of changing gears – takeoff, landing, and airport transitions

…the rattle of rolling wagons and carts…the ‘thunk’ of boxes being moved and stacked…voices of instruction and direction…all sounds of a community in motion as we make our final moves out of Ottilia Hall in preparation for renovation.

Our temporary move out of Ottilia has been underway for some time now, but these last weeks have been “all hands on deck” as we clear out the last rooms and offices. The sights and sounds of transition have been ever present. Yet through it all – whether conferencing in Atchison or clearing out Ottilia – the soundtrack is ever animated and anchored by the ceaselessly recurring...

…bells that call us to prayer…the D-minor chord that calls forth our chant…the ancient texts of the Psalter that rise like incense from our voices...our intercessions that we lift to God…all of it forming the ceaseless soundtrack of a monastic community at prayer.

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.