Chapter 11
A car appearing old enough to be driven by one of the first swamis ever initiated in the sacred land of India, and as large as a battleship, rolled up the monastery driveway and parked under the skeletal trees of early winter. A kindly benefactor—perhaps one who was trying to save on gas--had donated the vehicle to the Arsha Vidya Gurukulam in Saylorsburg, PA. The people in the area simply call the Gurukulam, which means the family of the guru in Sanskrit, “the ashram.” Ashram is a term for a Hindu monastery where lay devotees and swamis, Hindu monastics, gather in spiritual community, some living there and some living in their own homes.
The ashram is a wonderful and prayerful spot where people join together, many from India originally, gather to pray, to learn something of the Hindu scriptures, and to enjoy a sense of community. The ashram and the Salesian Monastery enjoyed a wonderful and deepening relationship. One of the swamis often visited and prayed with the community. Abbot Francis often visited the ashram, and even gave a talk about Jesus one Christmas eve to a temple full of receptive Hindu brothers and sisters.
A short man with orange robes, or kavi as the monastic robes are called, and just a whisper of a belly got out of the enormous car. Had he not been a vegetarian, the whisper might have been more of a shout! The visitor had a square piece of soft cream-colored woolen cloth folded into a triangular shape and wrapped around his shoulders and upper body. The swami made his way to the front door of the main building. The monastic community and friends had long ago realized that monasticism is one single cross-cultural call or archetypal experience, which has been shared by men and women for as long as humanity has existed.
The Christian expression of monasticism was much younger than the Hindu expression, only about two thousand years old and deeply rooted in Christ, but there was a real brotherhood / sisterhood among monastics of all traditions. One woman who came to the monastery to visit referred to this swami, as “Brother Swami.” In the sacred Sanskrit language he would be known as a Sannyasi, or renunciate. He rang the bell that hung by the door—a real doorbell, not an electronic one. Sister Jane de Chantal answered and welcomed him warmly, just as anyone would welcome a brother.
“Hello Sister; thank you for answering the door. It is not my intention to pry into the business of the monastery, but I have a feeling there’s some turbulence happening in the community,” he said in his usual simple and straightforward manner.
The nun simply nodded with a half-smile reflecting her lack of surprise at this message from the realm of the Spirit that was delivered in such an unassuming tone.
“I also have an inner sense as to what might be going on, so perhaps I might be of some help to the Sisters and Brothers. May I join you for meditation and Evening Prayer, Vespers, and then chat with the community after dinner?”
The Sister’s face brightened as she joined her hands palm to palm in front of her heart and bowed to the Light in her guest. The Hindu monastic made his way over to the oratory for some private meditation before Evening Prayer was to be celebrated. Before long, the other members of the community gathered, minus Brother Matthew and, of course, Abbot Francis.
The oratory was made of plain wood, varnished and simple on the inside, white and simple on the outside. Some Amish people made the barn-like structure, complete with hip roof, and it was then trucked from the Lancaster, Pennsylvania area to Brodheadsville. Two men who served as carpenter and electrician for the building of the new, and strikingly beautiful, local Presbyterian church did the electrical wiring and inner insulation and paneling for the monastic oratory. Life in the area was ecumenical indeed, with each person staying rooted deeply in his or her own tradition. Exposure to other traditions, and respect for what is different, seemed to be the key factor in such good spiritual relationships. Four choir stalls, the podiums behind which each monastic celebrated the Liturgy of the Hours, lined both sides of the room and faced the front where a small table-like altar and ambo, the liturgical lectern from which the Word of God is proclaimed, stood. The open book of the scriptures, on a pedestal on the back wall to the left of the altar manifested God’s presence, and a tabernacle in the form of a simple wooden box containing the Body and Blood of Christ under the appearance of bread, manifested God’s presence on the right pedestal.
After a period of quiet and the chanting of Psalms, listening to a reading from Scripture, intercessions for the needs of all God’s people, the common prayer was ended with a final oration and a blessing by the Prioress in the absence of the abbot. The celebrants slowly drifted over to the main house one by one in silence where a simple vegetarian meal was served. During the meal they listened to a talk by the long deceased but still quite famous Trappist monk, Thomas Merton. He was speaking to the novices of his community about the vow of stability. The vow of stability is often thought to mean that a monastic must live and die in one place, that is, the monastery where he or she first made vows. While this is typically the case, the deeper meaning is that the monk or nun vows to persevere in his or her vocation unto death. Such a vow is certainly a tall order in times like today when any permanent commitment is threatened by extinction on every side.
Monastic tradition holds that people need to do whatever their consciences, their concepts of God, and their value systems call them to in order to survive, and hopefully even to flourish. Thus, the community would try not to judge anyone harshly for his or her choices, especially if they turn out far differently from the original hopes and dreams the people involved initially had. The monastics presume in favor of the initial commitment and pray and work toward supporting it, but sometimes a marriage or monastic vocation does not survive. We move on in faith.
The members of the community viewed such events as more a reflection of the turmoil in the world, a turmoil that makes relationships so fragile at times. In spite of that, they still lived by the philosophy that each person is responsible for his or her own behavior.
After dinner the community members forgot their problems and chatted happily for a little while about the audiotape they had heard and the food they had eaten. Then housekeeping types of items for the smooth flow of community life were discussed. Everybody did the dishes; the swami knew just where to put the things he dried, having been through the routine many times before. After that, the community gathered for “Chapter”—the name given to a monastic community meeting. Swami was often invited because he enjoyed discussing spiritual topics with the community, and because the community was enriched by his presence as well. Tonight, however, something else was going on. Brother Matthew was missing and a young woman’s body was found on the back five acres, and their Hindu monastic brother had offered to help them.
Garbed in her gray tunic, blue scapular, and small blue veil, Sister Jane de Chantal began the business of the meeting in the midst of the others who were similarly habited, with one in the orange color of flame, by recapping recent events thus far:
“It is now 6 p.m. on Sunday evening. Brother Matthew (her voice quavered ever so slightly at this point) has not been seen since yesterday morning. The State Police seemed to take the disappearance rather lightly at first but are now quite concerned, as I know we all are. Hester Von Kiel, now in her ‘lite mode’ so to speak, has returned to her home after her visit here. We are good at welcoming others into our home; it is one of the many strong points of our community. Thank you for living out the teaching of Saint Benedict who asks us to welcome all guests as Christ in our midst. Hester and our many other guests often say how welcome they feel here. Forgive my digression, but I wanted to accent the positive. It is so easy to comment on the negative and miss opportunities to build one another up.
Anyway, our friend Hester, and perhaps even more so, Brother Matthew’s friend Hester, found a very important piece of evidence today during her private snooping. Brother Matthew’s well-worn copy of the Introduction to the Devout Life was discovered by her near a campfire site over at Beltzville Lake. Hester, gifted with a beautiful imagination and more than enough words to express it, compared pulling the book out from under a rock by the campsite to the water from the rock that sated the thirst of our Jewish mothers and fathers in the desert, and also as New Life rising from the tomb of Christ.
At any rate, we now know for certain that our Brother Matthew was there--and probably into the dark of evening--because it looks as if a fire had recently been lit in that fire pit. The police are investigating, Brother Matthew’s parents have been informed, and I have not yet called Abbot Francis, who as you know is on retreat, to tell him about recent events. I thought we might wait another day or so because I don’t want to disturb his retreat unless I have to. This is really a tough decision to make but there isn’t much he could do at this time anyway.” The nun seemed relieved to have finished her address to the little gathering, her confidence and volume seeming to wane as she neared the end of her words.
The energy in the room suggested that the others in the group might have some mixed feelings about her choice not to call their abbot, but they went along with the nun’s decision for the moment. The community was very open to discussion and tried to arrive at everything through consensus, and if anyone felt a real need to object, he or she would certainly have said it. Abbot Francis often quoted Saint Paul who urged the early Christians to: “Tell the truth in love.” No one was truly certain on just how to proceed anyway. “Conflicted” is what Abbot Francis would have diagnosed the community situation as.
“The young woman who was found on our property, buried in the shallow muddy grave we all witnessed early this morning, was none other, my dear ones, than Christi Simko.”
“Who is Christi Simko?” Brother Benedict humphed, still struggling with the earlier decision not to call the abbot yet.
“Do you remember when Brother Matthew first came to us, Brother?” asked the nun. She was getting some of her confidence back, but it seemed to waver in and out like a station on an old radio. “Our novice had been engaged, and left the apparently lovely girl he was betrothed to because he felt so strongly that God was calling him here to our monastery.”
“Yes I do, Sister. It seems like such a long time ago. Brother Matthew has grown so much, inwardly, spiritually, and in community since then. I remember well the screams from his nightmares waking me up from time to time,” responded the monk, gentling his tone as the words came out.
“Well everyone, Christi Simko is the very woman Brother Matthew was engaged to marry!”
The mood of the group turned tentative and cautious. Everyone was lost in his or her own thoughts. Finally the swami spoke up. “I have a few thoughts about these events which I would like to offer,” he said with respect, humility, and firmness. “As you know, sometimes I’m rather intuitive, but I always ask people to check out the information I offer them before acting on anything I may say. You know—if someone is taking medication, to continue with it until they visit their Eastern or Western doctor again, or to do whatever is prudent and appropriate in order for them to confirm my intuitive information, or to dismiss my thoughts as they see fit. You folks might call some of that process “praying for confirmation.”
The others had been down this fascinating road with the swami several times before, and also with Abbot Francis, so they simply nodded in indication of their understanding.
“Well, my inner sense tells me that Brother Matthew is alive and well--and not far from here either. It appears to others who are detaining him that he is being held against his will but really isn’t. Forgive me please; I don’t even know what that means. I certainly do not expect you to grasp it either.
Concerning the death of the young woman, my inner sense tells me that it was not a premeditated murder or done out of anger. I don’t understand that either. These thoughts were somewhat vague when I drove over here earlier this evening. What was clear to me is that the community is going through a difficult time. My time of meditation in the oratory before Evening Prayer brought great clarity to my thoughts. Being in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament, as you wonderful folks call the consecrated bread in the oratory tabernacle, and immersed in the spiritual energy of this place, was very helpful in gaining clarity.”
Sister Scholastica was still “the new nun on the block” and her personality was also mildly introverted, so she thought a great deal and spoke infrequently, but when she did her words went right to the heart of the matter. Abbot Francis often says that introverts think to talk and extroverts talk to think. “We need Detective Gold and Dr. Fleur here as soon as possible.” The others looked at her cautiously, knowing that she was right. They were not conflicted at all on that matter!
The prioress, Sister Jane de Chantal, responded to Sister Scholastica’s crisp statement for the rest of the group: “Detective Gold’s ex-wife is on the brink of death and he is in New York dealing with many personal and material matters at this time. As you may know, he never wanted to divorce his ex-wife but she divorced him because of her illness. I’m sure that there was more to it than that, especially never having heard Mrs. Gold’s side of the story. That is as much as I know of that part of the story, Sister.
“Dr. Chantal Fleur, graduate school classmate and internship partner of Abbot Francis has been trying to be supportive to Detective Gold during this trying time. Detective Gold and Dr. Fleur appear to have strong feelings for one another but are struggling to deal with the issues that life has handed to each of them individually with as much balance as possible. She sometimes takes the bus over to Chinatown, New York and meets him for dinner or a show to take his mind off things for a while. I don’t see how we could ask either of them to help our community during this time of need in the lives of each one of us.”
Sister Scholastica was puzzling out the two different specialties of Dr. Fleur and Abbot Francis. Both were clinical psychologists, licensed by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Dr. Fleur, however, was primarily a forensic psychologist, while Abbot Francis was a behavioral medicine specialist, along with being a Chinese medicine doctor. Then the new kid in her forties remembered. The two classmates and friends had parted ways for some time during residencies in their respective sub-specialties.
After avoiding the real issue at hand, namely that it would be almost impossible and perhaps even grossly uncharitable to seek out the services of the pair that had been so helpful in previous trying circumstances, Sister Scholastic sighed and slumped a fraction, depicting the mood of the entire group who felt like “sheep without a shepherd.”
“Dearest fellow monastics, may I conclude our gathering this evening by reciting an ancient Hindu Peace Invocation?” queried the swami. The response was a resounding “Yes, please do.”
First chanted in Sanskrit, then translated into English, the swami prayed for and with the group of fellow monastics:
“May people be happy. May all who govern righteously rule the earth. Let there be welfare for animals and people of wisdom at all times. May all people be happy.
“May it rain at the proper time. May the earth produce grain. May this country be free from famine. May people of contemplation be fearless.
“May all be happy. May all be healthy. May all enjoy prosperity. May none suffer.
“Lead me, by giving me the knowledge, from the unreal or what appears to be real to the truly real; from the darkness of ignorance to the light of knowledge; and from death to the immortality of limitlessness liberation.
“Om peace, peace, peace.”
All departed to the oratory for the celebration of Night Prayer, the liturgical completion of the day, after which the Grand Silence would begin again until after breakfast.