Listening

One morning this week I took a short break and sat for a few minutes in a pleasant little back-porch cove. The porch is bordered on three sides by our soaring chapel, the three-story Ottilia Hall, and our high-roofed dining room. A series of covered walkways on the fourth side keeps the spot feeling somewhat removed and distant from the lawns that spread on the other side of the buildings. As I sat tucked away in this protected spot, imagine my surprise when a flotilla of cherry blossoms arrived on a gust of wind, settling on my lap, shoulders, and head, having been lofted, presumably, from the other side of three-story Ottilia. What a gift, and what an inward smile I had.

It was such a simple event, but it took sitting still for it to happen. Had I been strolling right along, the blossoms would have likely gusted right past my gaze, completely unnoticed, and I would have missed the gift.

We have in our Retreat Center office a small rocker that we simply call the Time-Out Chair. It’s a place to sit a spell, to take a brief break, to slow down for a moment, to pause… For “real” breaks, we leave the office, of course. But just the presence of the Time-Out Chair, and the occasional presence of someone sitting in it, helps remind us of the need to slow down, pause, rest, listen, and open ourselves to the voice of God.

Every day is a good day to sit silently with our Lord, but today, the Feast of the Annunciation, is an especially good day to take an extra ‘time-out’ to simply be in God’s presence, watching, waiting, attending, beholding… and listening for the voice of God to settle in our hearts like springtime blossoms on a gust of wind.

This past weekend, I turned on the TV searching for news from Japan. As I clicked through channels trying to find the news station, I passed game after game of basketball, including games on three sequential channels. In an odd juxtaposition, each of the three happened to have players shooting free throws at the moment I clicked through. Each player was at a slightly different point of release, making the overall effect like one slow-motion shot. The image of free throws lingered as I found the news channel and watched images of tragedy stream from Japan.

Although the sports we play are filled with uncertainty, they are not capricious. There is an orderly quality and an inherent regularity. There are rules. There are remedies. A foul is followed by a free throw. As I watched the news, I was thinking of those for whom there is no remedy, no one to blow a whistle and stop the action… those for whom the events of the past days have been anything but orderly, and nothing but capricious.

Collectively, the images from Japan are colossal in scale and mythic in scope. There are, of course, no adequate words - either to describe or respond, or even to pray. The words of the Psalms, though, have helped shape my prayer in recent days. These prayers of the ancient Hebrews express nearly every human emotion in their response to events that ranged from deep injustice to natural disaster to glorious triumph. The capriciousness of nature, and often of human behavior, is a recurring theme. A foul is not always followed by a free throw. Human remedies are not always forthcoming. And in the natural world, there is no whistle to blow to simply stop the action. Always, though, there is trust in God's presence, and ultimately God's justice, mercy, and power prevail over the forces of chaos.

During these days of destruction and chaos, our life at the monastery has been one of order and safety. We have read the papers, watched TV reports, checked on-line news, and prayed. But as our panes rattle with the restless wind and nearby banks overflow from soaking rain, we read, watch, and pray not as spectators, but as witnesses, as ones who stand with and for our suffering brothers and sisters. We also watch as ones who behold, who see the whole of life - with its warp and weft of joy and tragedy, order and chaos - through the window of eternity.

Here in Alabama on a Tuesday evening, I am reading of Wednesday's news in Japan. The geographical distance is great. The gap in experience is infinitely greater. But just as the prayers of the ancient Hebrews reach across continents and centuries to form the words of my own daily prayer, I will trust these same words to shape my prayers for all who suffer in the Land of the Rising Sun.

My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?
Why so far from my call for help,
from my cries of anguish?
My God, I call by day, but you do not answer,
By night, but I have not relief…

…Lord, do not stay far off;
My strength, come quickly to help me…From Ps 22

Suddenly...

Yesterday – suddenly, it seemed – we arrived on the shores of Lent. I had been watching the weeks of Ordinary Time pass by like buoys on the way to the harbor. I had ordered the Paschal Candle and readied the sacristy for the season. I had prepared ashes from last year’s palm. I had reflected on what to choose for my Lenten reading. But still, Lent seemed to arrive suddenly, as if I had not been paying attention at all.

Suddenly, it seemed, there were ashes on my forehead. Purple vestments at Mass. Breakfast in silence. Table reading at dinner. A meal of potato soup and a slice of bread. A Lenten exhortation from our Prioress. A blessing for my Lenten reading.

I worked yesterday as usual, but the atmosphere was quiet and subdued. In the afternoon, I walked down to the basement and saw a Sister sweeping, sweeping, as if clearing away ordinary hours and days to make a space for this sacred season. As I went about my errand, she finished sweeping and began to collect stray garden tools, arranging them carefully in a cart.

Here on the shores of Lent, it is time to sweep and clear, gather and arrange, to collect the stray bits that clutter the inner shoreline. Perhaps the arrival felt sudden, but it is now time to be still, to be timeless, to be slow, to let nothing be sudden, to expect anything. It is time to be like a wave coming ashore, both arriving and receding, both presence and absence, hands open in trust and folded in humble repose. It is time to be both empty and full, in single-hearted, attentive prayer.

From sinks to silence

This morning I was sorting through my computerized inventory of Ottilia Hall sinks and trying to complete the printing of “sinks for sale” signs for Saturday’s grand yard sale. The printer was humming, the phone ringing, the paper jamming, the ink cartridge expiring and all manner of things were hectic and noisy and going awry in the office. It was nearly time for Mass so I rushed upstairs to complete the final sacristy preparations. I strode up the steps, down the 2nd floor hallway, glanced quickly at the prayer board, and turned the knob on the chapel door.

The door opened onto a vast silence. About ten or so people were already gathered. Quietness permeated every molecule of air. Muted daylight filled the vaults and arches. No printers. No telephones. No rush. Just the breath of prayer and the Spirit of God resting together on the shores of silence. Even my reverent bow as I passed the altar seemed like too much noise within the canopy of quiet. I struck a match, lit a taper, and walked to light the candles – gently, so as not to disturb so serene a sea.

Here at Sacred Heart, we move somewhat seamlessly between our work and prayer. Regularly I transition from the Retreat Center office to the Divine Office, or as it happened today, from sinks to silence. Approaching our work with prayerful attention makes the transition from one form of prayer to another seem like second nature, as does the simple act of gathering for prayer. When the bell rings and we begin to make our way to chapel, we are already preparing our hearts to be united in prayer with one another and with the Church.

As monastics, and indeed, as Christians, we seek always to be at prayer – whether we are engaged in work, recreation, spiritual reading, communal prayer, or personal prayer. My hasty transition this morning – along with the more hectic than usual scenario in the office – resulted in a starker than usual transition between working at my desk and walking upstairs for Mass. And though I wish the office environment had been calmer, there was nevertheless a gift in the abrupt contrast. Spending as much time in the chapel as I do, I sometimes forget just how still it is, how silent the vaults, how rich the spectrum of light, how quiet a presence ten people can be… So what a gift it was this morning to turn the knob, open the door, and step gently onto the shores of silence.

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.'