CHAPTER 1
It wasn’t a great Abbey church but a simple monastery Oratory. The chant did not resonate within the stones of a cavernous edifice, but rather reverberated gently within the wooden panels of the small building. The arched hip roof of the barn-like structure seemed to gather the voices together and then offer them back to one another in unison.
“O Wisdom, O Living Word of God, you touch all of creation with your strong yet tender care. Come and show your people the way to live good and holy lives.”
Advent--the monastic community was already well into another new liturgical year--and soon Christmas would follow. The community loved the “O antiphons,” as they were called. One was sung each day in the octave prior to the Solemnity of Christmas—Christ made human in Jesus and in each person.
Evening Prayer, more commonly known as “Vespers,” was chanted together or prayed privately, when necessary, at each sundown. Before and after “Mary’s Canticle,” which was sung in gratitude for the graces of each day, a brief phrase or “antiphon” was chanted. During the eight days prior to Christmas every ancient antiphon always began with the word “O,” thus the name O antiphons.
Each O antiphon added a name for the Messiah after the O. On December seventeenth, the beginning of the octave, the Messiah was honored as Wisdom.
The monastic community of about five monks and nuns needed all the wisdom they could muster. The monastery numbered about five members because life happens—even in a monastery. People move in for a while to test their vocations—to see if they truly belong—and may move out again. Sometimes they are voted out. This is a painful process but usually the candidate eventually realizes that his or her dismissal is for the best.
Guests who come for retreat or for a simple day of prayer change the number too. Friends of the monastery sometimes visit or pray with the community, which adds to the ebb and flow. Life happens, and sometimes death happens, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Toward the end of Morning and Evening Prayer there is a series of petitions or intercessions, prayers for the various needs of the world. Those who celebrate the Liturgy of the Hours (the “Divine Office” or simply the “Office” in older parlance) are called by the Church to remember all the needs of God’s people in a special way at these times.
The Vesper liturgy allows for a pause wherein those celebrating this Office can offer spontaneous prayers for the sick, the dying, the needs of others. These are offered in a general way but people can add specific names to the intercessions if so led.
“For all the sick, especially for our Brother Benedict,” whispered Sister Scholastica in her soft but distinctly clear voice. Her salt and pepper hair tucked neatly under the band of her simple dark blue veil, Sister Scholastica measured “close to five feet on a good day” as she typically put it. The veil, gray tunic, and blue scapular which was worn over the tunic, were a mix of ancient and modern. The garb on the body of the monastics dated back to the Middle Ages; the modified veils of the nuns an expression of Church changes since Vatican Council II.
Sister Scholastica entered the monastery in her forties and had taken her solemn or perpetual vows only months before. She seemed so very happy. It must be admitted that one or two of her sisters and brothers in monastic life sometimes wondered about her background prior to entrance, but the nun was rather tight-lipped about that.
She had taken a Postulant (a candidate who has already made a one-month Observership and who returned to try out the life in earnest) under her wing last year and even this person, Anthony, didn’t get anything specific out of her.
Just as Clare, a woman on retreat for several weeks at the Salesian Monastery, was opening her mouth to pray for the needs of the poor, a bell frantically rang out in the distance. The only other bell in the complex of three buildings was in the main house. The Oratory was a separate building and there was a bell there to call the community to prayer but it was the house bell that was clanging.
Sister Jane de Chantal was Prioress, in charge of many things, especially when Abbot Francis was away. She calmly and quietly slipped out of the Oratory to check on the reason for the sounding of a bell which usually called people to meals or to community meetings (called “Chapter” because a chapter of the Rule was read at the beginning of the gathering). The others continued praying, a bit distracted but trying to remain faithful. Such is the stuff of monastic observance.
Usually cool and unshaken, Sister Jane returned hurriedly and whispered something into the Abbot’s ear. An Abbot or Abbess is the leader and symbol of unity in a monastic community. A Prior or Prioress assisted in the process.
Brother Francis, the Abbot, was just giving the final blessing at the end of Vespers. He left immediately rather than staying after the ceremony for a few moments of quiet prayer as was his normal custom. The others followed, perhaps more out of unmortified curiosity than in an effort to help if needed.
There was indeed an emergency. Brother Benedict was lying on the floor by the stove in the kitchen area of the monastery great room, just below the bell rope.
Sister Jane and Brother Francis could see that the little monk was breathing. He had wandered out of his room, just off the great room, which contained kitchen, dining area, and living room, and then stumbled. Brother Benedict had lost about fifty pounds during the recent months of his illness. His short gray beard, which used to give him a gnome-like appearance, now added to his elderly persona.
“Let’s check for broken bones before we move him,” mumbled Brother Francis, more to himself than to anyone in the now filling room. He gently prodded and poked the man who was his senior by about ten years in age, but much his junior in monastic life. Brother Benedict had been married and a father to one child prior to his entrance into the monastery about fifteen years ago. This was unusual but not impossible, especially after the changes ushered in by Vatican Council II.
“Everything accounted for?” quipped Sister Jane. She had a way of dealing with important matters without over-reacting.
Brother Francis nodded and then addressed Brother Benedict: “How are you feeling?”
“Just a little light headed but I’ll live.”
As if reading the Abbot’s mind, Sister Jane turned one of the small refectory benches which Brother Benedict had made on its side as Brother Francis lifted the monk’s legs and propped his feet up with the pine bench.
“That’ll get the blood back into that thick Irish brain of yours.”
Brother Benedict smiled. “You say the most consoling things, Abbot.”
Everyone in the room let out a collective sigh of relief. It looked as if the crisis was resolving—for the moment. When would the next one occur?
Five minutes passed.
Young and strong, Brother Matthew gently lifted Brother Benedict up upon the Abbot’s instruction. They slowly and carefully walked toward Brother Benedict’s room. The door was open and the light was on. His old wooden rocker, dark with age, had a copy of a Mrs. Pollifax mystery book on the floor next to it.
“I see you’re still into heavy theological tomes Brother,” joked Brother Matthew.
“Oh yes, Mrs. P. has a beautiful soul, not to mention her skills at solving mysteries. When I was a young boy and wondered about some spiritual matter I would ask the Sister of Mercy who came to town to teach us catechism on Sunday mornings in central Pennsylvania various questions. I’d ask about what happens when we die, for example. Usually Sister would tell me that ‘it’s a mystery.’ That gets old! So have I, come to think of it. Anyway, Mrs. P. has a way of helping me understand spiritual and earthly mysteries. But I think I’m soon to discover the mystery of what happens when we die very personally.”
Matthew, tall with short brown hair, was in his late twenties and did not have a lot of pastoral experience. He did, however, possess barrels of compassion and common sense. He tried not to interrupt the older monk’s flow of conversation, even though it made him personally uncomfortable.
“Please tell Brother Francis that I was just stretching my legs while you folks were at Vespers and got dizzy. No need for him to make a special visit. I have this little hand bell right here, plus a telephone, if I need anything more this evening. I’d like to take a little nap now.”
“Sure thing Brother. Sleep well.”
The same large bell that disturbed Vespers less than twenty minutes before rang out with three loud peals. It was time for the evening meal. Brother Matthew closed the door as Brother Benedict pulled the covers up close to his partially bald head.
The community had gathered in silence around a long oak table. After the food was blessed everyone sat down; someone turned on a DVD player. Some nights soft music played as they ate without speaking. Sometimes a spiritual talk boomed out of the boom box. Tonight was a spiritual talk night.
The topic was a commentary on the Salesian Spiritual Directory, a small guide for the inner attitudes suggested for the various activities of the monastic day, i.e., rising, meditation, Liturgy of the Hours, Eucharist, meals, recreation, silence times, etc. This five hundred year old manual was utilized as a spiritual tool by the various branches of the spiritual family of Saint Francis de Sales and Saint Jane de Chantal, the Salesian family.
The speaker was talking about the attitude a community member was encouraged to develop toward the sick, especially members of one’s own monastery. The members were encouraged to regard the sick person as someone through whom the community was given special graces. They were to do their best to provide for the needs of the ill monastic and reverence Christ in him or her, specifically the suffering Christ.
All of this was specifically mentioned in their rule of life before it had been updated; now it was simply implied more than directly written about. No one thought that such an attitude toward the sick was un-monastic or improper, but somehow it was to some degree left out of the “new” Rule.
Sister Jane stifled a laugh as she swallowed her peppered mashed potatoes. She was having a flashback to a comment Brother Benedict had made shortly after the revised Rule was handed out to the members. It was more streamlined and the book itself was thinner, having been purged of the barnacles that creep into a five hundred year old document over the years. “Maybe next time we can just publish it with perforated pages. That way we can just rip out what we don’t want as time goes by.”
The nun’s thoughts turned to her monastic brother’s illness. He was probably dying. No one wanted to say it out loud. They might even need to look into Brother Benedict’s placement in a nursing home. He was getting harder to care for and perhaps the incident this evening indicated that it was dangerous for him to continue living at the monastery. He, of course, would remain a member of the community unto death.
Her musings ended when the CD player was turned off and the community stood up to offer the final prayer of thanksgiving for the meal just received. Sister Jane couldn’t quite shake, however, a slight feeling of foreboding, especially with the Abbot about to embark on one of his journeys. She would be in charge and the burden felt heavy on her apprehensive shoulders—unusual for her.