Downtown Monks
Page 7
“I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far to leave me,” she continues quietly as the electronic organ begins playing a hushed, pulsing background. The choir of ten women and four men in gray robes with blue yoked collars stands in two rows in the center of the sanctuary. They take a small step to the left, pause, step to the right, hesitate, and step back to the left again in time with the music.
Her hands are now spread open in front of her, palms up, as she pours out her troubles to the Lord. An elderly woman softly encourages her from the second pew, “Go ahead, now! That’s all right!” As the soloist sings on with eyes closed and head tilted slightly back, others help her out with gentle words, “Yes, you just tell it!” “All right, then!” Others are whispering to themselves, “Jesus!” “Yes, Lord! Thank you, Lord!”
For the African-American community, “church” is very much about feelings. Emotion, far from being incidental to worship, is what allows your soul to be touched by God and moved by the Spirit.
You might expect that the Rule of Benedict, written by a sober sixth-century Roman, would be mistrustful of emotions and advise monks to avoid them. Surprisingly, however, the Rule is filled with emotional language, and expects the monk to feel things deeply. The monastic life is a search that demands constant energy and commitment. If it is not a passionate response to God’s passionate call, then it is nothing.
“I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far just to leave me!” Now the choir joins in, repeating with her,
“I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far, I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far, I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far.…”
Benedict wants the newcomer to be enthusiastic about the monastic journey: “The concern must be whether the novice truly seeks God and whether he shows eagerness for the work of God, for obedience, and for trials.” The Prologue to the Rule pulses with a sense of urgency, with images of running, while the final chapter speaks to those who are “hastening on to the perfection of monastic life” and “hastening toward your heavenly home.”
A monk is to be “swift” in obeying, wanting to “arrive speedily” at the high summit of humility, to “hasten” at the sound of the bell to arrive before the others at the work of God.
“I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far; I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far …” With each repetition the phrase has gotten a little louder, so that now the little church is starting to throb with the shout: “I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far.…”
A singer in her thirties taps a tambourine against her leg. She looks very ordinary, like the rest of the choir members—they are probably nurses, secretaries, bus drivers, and accountants. As they throw themselves into the gospel song, though, and their voices flood the low-ceilinged room, these very ordinary people are being transformed. The emotional intensity of their song is overpowering. I join the rhythmic clapping.
We are worshipping in a way that was born out of the African-Americans’ experiences of slavery and suffering, of constant struggle and liberation. It speaks to the soul at the deepest emotional level. This is the kind of Sunday service that gives you the spiritual energy and strength to make it through the coming week.
Benedict expects the monastic to be passionate, a great lover of the other members of the community, of the superior, of Christ, and of God. He or she needs to be just as enthusiastic about fasting, avoiding vices, and overcoming temptations. The passion may be quiet, even reserved; the fire can be deep inside. But it must be there. Monastic men and women for centuries have passionately offered their talents and their energies, like the singers in front of me here, in praise of God. The great contributions of monasticism—from manuscript illumination, sacred music, and enamel work to architectural and agricultural innovations—are hardly the products of casual moonlighting done just to kill time. They are all the fruits of a passionate love of the Creator and creation. No matter what your work is, it will throb with divine energy if you do it wholeheartedly for the love of God.
“I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far, I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far, I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far.…”
People in the congregation begin standing up one by one in their places and clapping. Some lift their hands over their heads. I stand up, too, swaying and clapping, letting the music soak down deep inside me.
Listening to the choir praising God with such energy and feeling I ask myself, “Aren’t all Christians supposed to bring some sort of fervor to their prayer?” Benedict talks about tears and compunction as a normal part of personal prayer, yet we often approach it with a certain casualness, emotional distance, and even distraction.
“I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far, I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far, I just can’t believe he’s brought me this far.…”
The choir is now holding the last note and the soloist is singing out a triumphant octave above everyone else. The congregation is applauding until our hands start to hurt. Finally the singers draw out the last phrase one final time …
“… just … to … leave … me!”
Everyone in the place—the choir, the minister, the congregation—we’re all on our feet, applauding. The young woman steps slowly back to her place, drained.
The applause subsides, and we sit down. There are a few muttered exclamations of “Yes, Jesus!” and “Thank you, Lord!” as we wait quietly for the reading from scripture to begin. A silent prayer forms in my heart: Lord, Give me this conviction, this passion. Make my life a song sung with this kind of abandon. Amen.
SCRIPTURAL REFLECTION
As he was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus said to him, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the commandments: ‘You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; You shall not defraud; Honor your father and mother.’ ” He said to him, “Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.” Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions. (Mark 10:17–22)
In the gospel Christ is constantly challenging you, too, to follow him wholeheartedly and generously. Are there areas of your life that you are enthused and passionate about? If you were to respond to Christ more wholeheartedly, what changes might you have to make in your life?
WISDOM OF THE DESERT
“Abbot Lot came to Abbot Joseph and said: ‘Father, according as I am able, I keep my little rule, and my little fast, my prayer, my meditation and contemplative silence; and according as I am able I strive to cleanse my heart of thoughts: now what more should I do?’ The elder rose up in reply and stretched out his hands to heaven, and his fingers became like ten lamps of fire. He said: ‘Why not be changed totally into fire?’” (Thomas Merton, The Wisdom of the Desert [New York: New Directions, 1970], 50.)
HUMILITY: ICE MAN
The door that swings out onto the sidewalk jolts open and the icy wind shoves an old man into the empty waiting room of the food pantry. He’s stooped over with the weight of seventy-some weary years.
“Good morning, sir!” I greet him, as I slide the bolt to lock the door behind him. “You just made it. We’re closing up!” I get a rude shock when I shake his hand: it’s like a piece of ice. “Gosh! Your hand is cold!” I say, “Where have you been?” I’ve never felt someone’s skin that cold before.
“Walked all the way from Irvington Center. That’s why I’m late.” That’s four miles in the freezing wind, I say to myself.
“Well, it’s closing time,” I warn, “and they tell me that we’ve run out of food.” A shadow of panic passes over his face but is gone as quickly as i
t came. I try to soften the blow by adding cheerfully, “But let’s see if Sister can find something for you.” As he shuffles beside me across the red tiles of the waiting room, he carries himself with calm dignity.
The thought flashes through my mind that this old gentleman is completely dependent on others. Everything he has he receives from either the welfare system, a religious charity, or maybe an occasional friend or neighbor. As we get to the office door I call out,
“Sr. Magdalene? You still here?”
“Yes? Who’s that? Fr. Albert?” A voice comes from the back room.
“Yes, sister. There’s a gentleman who just arrived as I was locking the door. Do you think you can find something to give him?” By this time Sr. Mag has come out of the back room to see for herself. Despite what her gray hair and her mature years might suggest, she’s a fountain of boundless energy, especially when it comes to “her” poor people.
“Well, good morning. My, you look cold!” she says in a soothing voice. She turns to me, “Thanks, Fr. Albert. I’ll see what we can do.” Turning back to the visitor she asks, “What’s your name?” The two of them head into the office and I go back out into the waiting room.
I start thinking that in one way the monks of Newark Abbey have something in common with this poor gentleman: we depend for our survival, the way he does, on gifts from other people. Over the years God has kept sending us generous helpers—individuals, corporations, and foundations—so we can pay our bills and serve people through our apostolate. We know that we will always be in a position of financial dependence on others.
This kind of dependency should have a familiar ring to it for a community of Benedictines. For St. Benedict, the central monastic virtue is humility, recognizing and facing the reality of our situation before the Almighty. The truth is that everything is a gift from the Lord. There is no reason, then, to get puffed up about our talents, virtues, or accomplishments—in fact, they ought to make us feel humble in the face of God’s goodness to us. The gifts that people keep showering on our monastery give us plenty of cause for humility.
“Have a good day, now,” Sr. Magdalene is saying goodbye to our visitor.
“Thank you, Sister,” he says, shaking her hand, “Thank you. God bless you.”
The gentleman is standing in front of me holding a large yellow plastic shopping bag full of groceries that Sr. Mag has conjured up from somewhere. She always manages to come up with something for a needy person.
“Well,” I say as I walk him over toward the door, “I see that you got some groceries after all. That’s wonderful!” He stops, turns to look me in the eye, and says simply, “Ain’t God good!” He shakes his head, as if trying to figure out why the Lord would want to be so kind to him. “Yessir. God sure is good!” Then he turns and continues toward the door.
Here’s a man, I think, with no illusions. Tired and half frozen from his long walk, he looks at a bag of canned goods and sees a truth that many people never grasp in their entire life: everything is a gift. He has a great spiritual head start on me, at least: he is completely convinced that he depends on God and not on his own efforts, while I’m still struggling with the illusion that I’m in control. I plan and organize and work hard; I use my talents and energy to get things done and then enjoy taking the credit for all of it. This poor old man with the cold hands, though, is giving me a pointed lesson in humility this morning: All of my seeming self-sufficiency is an illusion. Like him, like our monastic community, I’m totally dependent on God for everything!
We’re at the door. I unlock it and am almost afraid to send him out into the blustery cold again. Sensing my reluctance, he reassures me,
“I’ll be all right now. Sister gave me a dollar for the bus. I’ll be home in no time. Thank you!” I unlock the door for him and push it open a crack. The icy wind rushes in, grabbing at my ankles and whipping my habit, twisting it around my knees. He turns and, from underneath the shopping bag, awkwardly offers me his hand. It’s still a block of ice.
“Thank you, sir!” he says, “God bless you. And you have a good day.”
“God bless you, too,” I answer, “and safe home!” The heavy metal door blows closed behind him with a thud. I slide the bolt again, marveling at this old fellow. As I turn to cross the waiting room, I smile, imagining my talents and abilities as so many canned goods filling up a big yellow shopping bag. They’ve been handed to me by the Lord out of sheer love. When someone says to me, “That was a good lecture tonight,” or “Your French class was great today!” the old man with the icy hands will be standing beside me. We’ll each be holding our bag of groceries. I’ll look down at the gifts overflowing in my arms, and answer, “Yes! Ain’t God good?”
And the old man will nod and agree, “Yessir, God sure is good!”
SCRIPTURAL REFLECTION
Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good. To one is given through the Spirit the utterance of wisdom, and to another the utterance of knowledge according to the same Spirit, to another faith by the same Spirit, to another gifts of healing by the one Spirit, to another the working of miracles, to another prophecy, to another the discernment of spirits, to another various kinds of tongues, to another the interpretation of tongues. All these are activated by one and the same Spirit, who allots to each one individually just as the Spirit chooses. (1 Corinthians 12:4–11)
Paul assures us that each of us has been given certain gifts. List some of the gifts you believe God has given to you, and then take time to consider each of them one by one. Ask yourself if this is a gift you use a lot. Do you enjoy having it? How does this gift make you feel? Who knows that you have this gift? Do you ever thank God for it?
Think of a way you might use one of the less-used gifts you listed above.
Compliment someone on a gift of his or hers that you enjoy.
WISDOM OF SAINT BASIL
“What words can fitly treat of the gifts of God? So many are they in number as even to defy enumeration; so great and marvelous are they that a single one of them claims for the Giver all our Gratitude.” (Monica Wagner C.S.C. Trans., Saint Basil: The Long Rules 1 [Boston, St Paul Editions, 1950], 22.)
“Our voices spill beyond the circle of yellow light around the choir stalls.” (Page 88)
4.
SEARCHING
IN PRAYER
WAITING WITH THE CITY: VIGILS
O God, hear my cry!
Listen to my prayer!
From the end of the earth I call:
My heart is faint.
I tug the hood of my choir robe down to my eyebrows to ward off the icy draft from the windows overhead, and join my brothers in the first psalm of Tuesday morning Vigils. Praying in the seat right next to me, our senior monk, Fr. Emilian, doesn’t seem to notice the cold at all. Our voices spill beyond the circle of yellow light around the choir stalls to echo in the shadows at the far end of the church. At 6:15 on this winter morning, I shiver and hunker down into my hard wooden seat.
The first Christians would spend all night in praying psalms and listening to readings, watching and waiting for the Lord who was to come and deliver them. Monastic communities continue this tradition of keeping watch by celebrating the hour of Vigils in the early hours of the morning. The monks on the other side of the choir take up the next stanza,
On the rock too high for me to reach
Set me on high,
O you who have been my refuge,
My tower …
The horrendous blare of an air horn obliterates the final verses of the psalm as a fire engine roars up the William Street hill right beside the church. We are on the corner of two busy streets, so we often pray to the impromptu accompaniment of a siren, a rap song from some car radio, or the rumble of a truck stopped for the light. These sounds
from the street remind us that keeping vigil, longing and waiting for God, is a universal experience, not just a monastic one. Whether they realize it or not, the rest of the people of our city, who carry more than their share of burdens, are looking for the Lord’s coming, too. They are hoping for deliverance as much as we are—probably more. Some of them seek it in prayer and in doing good, but others, tired of waiting, look for it in money, material things, sexual excess, drugs, or alcohol. In any case, the whole city is here at Vigils this morning. There is a short pause at the end of the psalm. Then the next one, Psalm 106, begins,
Alleluia!
O give thanks to the Lord for he is good;
For his love endures forever.
Who can tell the Lord’s mighty deeds?
Who can recount all his praise?
The psalms are the heart of the Liturgy of the Hours. Praying them draws us into a deeper level of reality, and we become part of the ongoing saga of salvation history. In Psalm 106 we’re celebrating God’s faithful presence in the events of Israel’s history, but we are also experiencing that same saving love at work today in our city, our monastery, and our own lives. In this sacred dimension, our everyday existence takes on infinite meaning as part of God’s unfolding, mysterious, loving plan.
Come to me, Lord, with your help
That I may see the joy of your chosen ones
And may rejoice in the gladness of your nation
And share the glory of your people.
God’s love, the psalms tell us, is coursing through the city and giving it life. We can see it easily enough, say, in the bravery of the firefighters, in the hands of the doctors and nurses at University Hospital, in the hidden prayer of the cloistered Dominican nuns on Thirteenth Avenue, in Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity and their soup kitchen up on Sussex Avenue, and in the quiet heroism of single parents and weary grandmothers struggling to raise little children. They are all praying with us this morning.