CHAPTER 8
“Just once, how I’d like to see the headline say, not much to print today, can’t find nothing bad to say.” Brother Francis hummed along with the music unashamedly. Anne Murray, in this song and in his opinion, has put the Gospel which really means “Good News,” to music. She captured the heart of that message in the words of her song. The monk prayed for a time when there would be only Good News. For now he lived in faith and worked toward that goal as peacefully as possible.
The foil wrapper from another piece of Dove chocolate was sticking out of his blue vinyl binder that held his loose-leaf Mandarin lessons. He smiled as he recalled the words of advice printed on the inside of the wrapper: “Laugh uncontrollably…it clears the mind.”
It was about ten years earlier. He was taking a week long workshop on intuition at the Kripalu Center in Lenox Massachusetts. It was for him, part vacation, part retreat, and part continuing education. About mid-week the leaders of the workshop said that they would be leading the group in a “rebirthing experience.” The monk psychologist had heard of the process. It was popular in the seventies and eighties and the gist of it involved hyperventilating to the point of experiencing psychological phenomena beyond the usual. People often had strong emotional reactions. Sometimes it was a catharsis and at other times vivid memories were relived.
The Abbot was not particularly interested in the process but teamed up with a young woman with whom he would swap roles, first as a coach encouraging his team mate to breathe deeply while lying comfortably under a blanket in a room with about ten other teams of two. The woman experienced a time of fascination in looking back at her past and seemed to gain some insight as to how to decide on future plans. They switched roles.
Thank God for the Vatican II Council. This is not a particularly monastic experience but we are supposed to relate to the world while maintaining our counter-cultural values. Guess I’m doing both right about now.
The coaches knelt or sat beside their partners and encouraged the blanketed clients to breathe very deeply and relax. The two workshops leaders wandered slowly through the participants keeping an eye out for extreme psychological reactions which might need to be contained or managed in some way.
The Abbot tried to give himself to the experience. Gina was a nice young lady and he felt comfortable with her as his coach. He began to hallucinate from the deep breathing, and gave into what he knew was a simple transitory experience from which he could call himself back at any time. He saw a man floating above him and Brother Francis started talking out loud, describing him more to himself than to anyone else.
“You look familiar. Those arms, I’ve seen them before. I recognize that tee shirt. It’s mine! Most of my clothing has an ad for something on it and I have that tan National Qigong Association tee, complete with frayed collar. Oh my gosh, you’re me!”
“That’s right, I’m you. Who did you expect, Tina Turner? Anyway, I’m just giving you a glance at what others see and feel when they interact with you.”
“You mean I have that kind of humor—Tina Turner indeed. She is great for her age I must admit.”
“Listen Brother, so are you!”
Then the floating image disappeared and something more wondrous happened. Brother Francis felt the light touch of a young woman’s hands at the dan tian region of his body, his lower abdomen.
“Who are you? You can’t be Gina because she is kneeling Japanese style right next to me with her hand resting on her lap. One of our instructors? No, your qi doesn’t feel like hers.”
His mouth dropped open in awe and he whispered: “You’re my mother.”
“That’s right Francis. I birthed you once and I’m birthing you again, and I’ve always been with you.”
The monk took profound comfort from that point on in the brief but overpowering visit with the woman who died when he was two years old. He met his mother that day for the first time in his human memory.
“No, no, don’t leave me” cried the Royal Canadian mounted police officer under the blanket next to the monk. The man was close to seven feet tall and had the deportment of the profession he served in, complete with square jaw. You could almost picture the Smokey the Bear hat on his head and leather strap under his chin.
The morning was coming to a close so the session was gently ended. Brother Francis thought about the Tina Turner remark, which must have sprung from some aspect of his projected unconscious, and he began to laugh. He laughed on and off for the rest of the day!
After lunch the group held a debriefing session and the Mountie laughingly thanked the monk for his humor during his own time of tragedy. The group loved the juxtaposition of comedy and tragedy. An actor participating in the workshop said it reminded him of the laughing and crying masks which symbolize the theater.
“Snack box sir?” asked the flight attendant. The monk came out of his reverie and declined. Five dollars worth of empty calories was not a healthy choice, especially when flying. Besides, he had a few more Dove chocolates left. Was chocolate healthy this week? He’d better read the newspaper. The Doctor of Natural Medicine felt a mild annoyance mix in with his humorous thoughts.
There was so much junk science floating around, even from “reputable” organizations. Many studies are so poorly designed that they really are useless. The tragedy is that the media popularizes the distorted results and confuses everyone. The cholesterol myth, in his experience, was a perfect example of this. There’s no real science to back up the claims that statins help people live longer or healthier lives, or that millions of folks need to be on these medications, yet most people think that there is.
He shifted his mental gears and relaxed. An old movie called “Ground Hog Day” began playing. It was about a man who kept waking up to the same snowy day in a small town in Pennsylvania over and over again—until he improved his mental attitude.
Movies on planes were like sleeping potions to the monk. He drifted in and out of sleep and had his own personal Ground Hog Day experience, except that times and places jumbled together as they wished.
Leone was talking with him at this point in his twilight sleep. What a career she had in those days! She seemed sincere enough—but those skills she had trained in and used in strange places! Would it work?
Later, a mix of snow and rain was falling. He was on his way to meet with the Bishop of Scranton. Much to his surprise, he didn’t get lost on the drive there so he had some extra time. He used it by spending a little time in meditation in the Cathedral of the diocese which was across the street from the Bishop’s office. He opened a beautifully printed booklet from the Abbey of the Genesee, a Trappist monastery of monks in upstate New York. His eyes landed on a quote from Isaiah the prophet promising that the snow and rain sent from above would not return there without bearing fruit.
With that he left the cavernous church and was welcomed by the Bishop to transfer from his pubic vows in a large order to private vows as a Salesian monk. The entire process would take three years but the Bishop’s approval was the lynchpin which facilitated everything.
The years which followed were a mixture of snow and rain—and sunshine too. It was hard to learn the skills of balancing a checkbook and keeping a house in repair. The surprise was in the escalation and expansion of his ministry. He became a Salesian monk who was deeply involved with Jesus and all the people of the earth—from East to West—attending as best he could to the body, mind and spirit of each person sent to him by God.
The scene switched back to Leone. Her longing was great, but so was her fear at times. Could she learn to do all through love and nothing through fear? Was she being totally honest?
He lay on the floor, cowl up over his head as the Litany of the Saints was being sung. He had made his vows twenty-five years earlier and now was celebrating his silver jubilee and renewing his vows as a monk of the Salesian family, not part of his original order but a more autonomous monastic. He relied more and more on God and less and less on what others said or thought. Major superiors, spiritual directors, canon lawyers, and bishops were all involved in the transition.
A new Bishop is appointed and the Church is being rocked with scandals. The monk still has his vows but is now even more on his own. The new Bishop doesn’t want to be affiliated with anyone or any organization beyond what is absolutely necessary, which includes the Salesian Monastery and Abbot Francis. He had longed for a simple and primitive monastic life for years, a life like the early monks had. Now he had it. Be careful what you pray for…