September Archives
-
August 28, 2011
Yesterday afternoon, something you almost never hear – an anguished cry in the sanctuary of our monastic church; the cry of someone in pain. Poor Gilbert. Only moments before his voice broke the silence of the church, the votive candle symbolizing the presence of Christ in the reserved Blessed Sacrament, was seen serenely suspended twenty feet above the floor. The cord holding it is barely visible as it rises to the center of the peaked roof and then across to the south wall and down to a crank locked in place by a pin. This pin had not been properly inserted by the other sacristan so that, the moment Gilbert's hand touched it, it fell to the floor. A moment later, the crank was whirring; the cord whipping wildly up the wall and across the ceiling, the carriage with its votive candle plummeting through the air down to the tile floor. A terrible crash, the iron frame of the carriage tearing at the stone, glass shattering; hot wax splashed across the sanctuary. The flame extinguished – and the cry. As the gear attached to the crank caught two of Gilbert's fingers, a pain shot up his arm. In an instant, the sanctuary where Christ's sacrifice is made real again each morning, was the scene of another kind of "re-enactment" of His passion. Gilbert is a gentle soul. The incident really shook him up, and he talked about it for a day or two. The thing was regrettable and yet this painful moment was enveloped in the greater mystery celebrated each day in the sanctuary. Gilbert's cry marked a moment in time; a moment in which his cry was united to many other anguished cries which were silent till then; those of refugees, victims of human trafficking and war, those whose lives are shaped by abuse and neglect. In Gilbert's cry, the pain of the world at that moment was heard and taken up – or rather taken down, as that sanctuary candle fell to the floor and crashed with a kind of proclamation: "Christ's redemption is NOW." The stone rent, the glass shattered, the candle extinguished, it is shortly seen rising again, bright and serene, it's center illumined by a flame that seems brighter now having been extinguished, set in splendid triumph over a world of pain.
Father Raphael
-
August 25, 2011
Monday night, as the sun was setting, Fr. Edward and I sat down for our first class on the "Life of St. Antony". This is a class I do with "Observers": men who have just entered the monastery. Fr. Edward is a Jesuit and thinks maybe he's called to be a monk. Discerning this is what we were about as we settled into our seats in the warm ambiance of the Novitiate Scriptorium. He shared with me, at one point, how moved he was by Antony's decision to retire to an abandoned fortress at the edge of the desert where he lived alone for many years. Putting into words what he was feeling was difficult enough that he closed his eyes and after a moment said: "I experience that – I feel the attraction to that place of solitude . . . and I think what is drawing me is the possibility of discovering Truth." He went on to explain, it was the truth about himself that he was hungering for and which an intuition told him might be found in the enclosure of the monastery. Fr. Edward is not a kid. He is a mature man, with a wealth of education and life experience. I was a little taken back by these simple words which seemed almost a confession, not of sin, but of the most sacred and hidden desire of a good and thoughtful man in the evening of life, for an even a fuller experience of being human. This desire for truth, for final incontestable truth about self – I wonder if this is what ultimately makes us human. It might also be the source of a certain intrinsic human shyness. A desire this deep we are apt to speak of to no one but ourselves. I was momentarily awed at the realization Fr. Edward was speaking of this desire to me. As evening fell, and two men sat bent over a table, in a quiet room full of books, the depths of one man's longing and irreducible solitude found expression and was spoken in the hearing of another, grateful to God for the grace of the moment.
Father Raphael
-
August 22, 2011
"His name is poured out." These were the words accompanying me on my walk under the trees behind Brother Placid's garden this evening. We have enjoyed an unusual span of sunny weather all week long, the air sweet with things growing, alive with birds darting under the sun's admiring gaze. I walk under the trees with St. Bernard's voice resonating in my heart as he ruminates on one of his favorite lines from scripture: "His name is poured out", a poetic image of what cannot be imaged: the superabundance of love God unleashed on the world in the person of Jesus his Son. What does it mean for a "name" to be "poured". Can you pour a name? First the name has to be "liquefied". O.k. - how does that happen? Well, according to Bernard, a name is liquefied when the love communicated by it is so divinely powerful and so intense that it changes the name. The name of "God" is great. But when the Son, the second person of the Trinity is sent into the world; when God's superabundant love simply cannot be contained any longer, then God's name is liquefied and poured out in the person of Jesus who came into the world. When the name of God liquefies, it changes and becomes a new name, the name of Jesus: "God with us" or "Emmanuel". As I ruminate on these words, I descend the driveway and cross the street to Holy Family church, but never arrive there. At the foot of the driveway leading up to the church, I linger on the bridge overlooking Catfish Creek; my eye suddenly mesmerized by the movement of water, winding it's way through time to the end of the world and back to the beginning; from the deepest recesses of my soul and back to God from whose infinite heart it was first poured out.
Father Raphael
-
August 19, 2011
The family is here again. They have been making an annual retreat at New Melleray for years. The first time they came, the five kids following the parents to communion, looked like little ducks in a row, hands joined in prayer in front of them, poised and adorably self-conscious. The youngest is now about eleven and the family no longer walks in a neat row. If the children are self-conscious, it doesn't show. They appear relaxed – maybe a little distracted. One year, the oldest didn't show up for the retreat because of other commitments. This year, most of the "kids" are long and lean young adults. This, for me, is a form of contemplation; a prayer extended over years – I mean, watching this family grow and change. I've never actually met them, and don't even know their names. But I am very aware when they are here and intrigued by the changes evident in them each year they come back. They always set up a badminton net which used to be the site of boisterous fun enjoyed by the whole family. This year, returning to the monastery after work, I saw only the youngest waiting excitedly for her dad to lob the birdie over the net to her. Her older sister stood off to the side observing, and seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts. Early on, the children manifested a uniformity and coherence absorbed by a world that didn't extend much beyond the walls of their house. With time, their world got bigger; more varied influences began to work on them and change them. Maybe a certain distraction and restlessness shows itself now as each child has become that more interiorly complex creature called an adult. I notice the sixteen year old girl's more casual way of standing. The more serious demeanor of the oldest boy impresses me and makes me thoughtful. Is he o.k.? What has he seen and heard in the world since he was here last year? Did he fall in love? Has he had the distinctly adult experience of the rebellion of the body at certain moments? Is he making good friends? Has he been betrayed by a friend? Tomorrow, they will return home without any of us having had a conversation. I'll get on with my life and may not think of them that much until they show up again next year. Even so, somewhere inside me, I will carry each of them and cherish them as the family I will never have and the family which, no matter what happens or where they go, I will never be without.
Father Raphael
-
August 16, 2011
Yesterday, we celebrated the mystery of the Assumption of Mary's body into heaven after she died. At Vigils, as all the monks sat in the semi-darkness, Father Jonah read to us how it was generally known among the early Christians that something very mysterious happened to Mary's body after she died. One account says that, certain disciples of Jesus, inquiring about where she was buried, went to the tomb and found it empty. It's an enchanting story. What is the "assumption of Mary"? What exactly did God do? What happened to Mary after she died? When Pius XII officially declared Mary's bodily assumption into heaven as a dogma of the Catholic faith, in 1950, he was not content to consult the experience of the first Christians. He organized a consultation with all the Catholic faithful in the world at that time to discern if belief in Mary's assumption was widely held by Catholics. This struck me. What if the pope were to consult the Catholic faithful today and ask them, with regard to a revelation made known by a miracle centuries ago: "Is this a revelation you embrace with personal faith?" What if Catholics in the U.S. were asked this question today? We'd give the pope an answer. Would the answer we gave him be a true reflection of the ancient faith of the Catholic Church? Might some of us say: "Actually, miracles are quite alien to my own personal experience". Or: "Speaking for myself, my judgment concerning the responsible exercise of reason, makes me a bit hesitant to affirm a miracle." Or: "I can only speak for myself, and to be honest, my painful personal history with certain representatives of the Catholic church does not permit me to reflect on this question peacefully at this time." Or, finally: "You speak of "Catholicism" . . . are there not, in fact, in the U.S. today, many and various different "Catholicisms"? I wonder – could Catholics today answer the pope with one voice by which he would hear proclaimed the ancient and authentic faith of the Catholic church?
Father Raphael
-
August 13, 2011
Time to go to sleep – and I don't want to. An odd feeling of exhilaration has taken hold of me; an expectation that something wonderful is imminent, something I can't name. It's almost nine o'clock but I have the feeling this evening is blessed; a rare and splendid gift. I don't know why I feel this way. The silence and stillness of the monastery all around me seems to be concealing a marvelous secret. By 8:00 most of the monks have gone to bed. I'm wide awake and it feels like free time. The day and it's activities are over. The last prayer service has ended, the lights in church have been put out and there is nothing else I am required to do. Am I just exhilarated because the days' labors are finished and this moment is mine? I think that's it. I am free, and it has just sunk in that, at this moment, I am savoring the freedom a monk enjoys. I am free of the demands exacted by personal possessions. I am free of debts and the burdens of financial worries. I am free of ambitions that I can't realize. Thank God! I am free of regrets . . . at least right now. I am free of hurts from disappointing relationships, free to be grateful for the blessings of the day and to trust that tomorrow will bring more good gifts. I am free to be still and let the inexpressible fullness of this delicious moment break over me like a wave. For the moment, all is silence and gratitude. I should to go to bed, but I don't feel like it. A saying of St. Bonaventure is haunting me: "God is more present the more He gives." I want to look at that book. Suddenly, I'm slipping out the door of my cell and down the corridor and I don't even remember getting dressed. The library is dark when I arrive. The night outside sighs faintly behind a half dozen screen windows. I need to turn on a light. But I don't. I stand a moment in the dark, in the middle of a library that contains about ten thousand books. I discover the source of exhilaration that won't let me sleep: Jesus is there. Ten thousand books between whose covers is an unimaginable abundance of life and learning; ten thousand books a few steps from the place where I sleep. This is amazing. How can I have been so blessed? All these books are for me. Jesus is for me. I reach out to embrace Him and, a moment later, all life an learning is mine.
Father Raphael
-
August 10, 2011
After Compline, on the way to my cell, I pass Anselm and Giles together in the infirmary and, without being noticed, pause a moment to take in the scene: Anselm is seated, by a window framing a view that looks like a painting. Beyond is the neatly trimmed yard behind the cloister where swallowtails are wheeling and basking in the light of the setting sun. Extending into the distance is the long rosary walk shaded by the branches of tall trees that bow over a monk strolling past the bell tower. Directly in front of the window, Anselm sits, hands on his knees, head thrown back, the long two pointed beard jutting at a weird angle into the air like the arm of one of those corny statues of Saddam Hussein. Brother Giles is cradling Anselm's head in his hands and with silent concentration is administering eye drops, ever so patiently, ever so intently, ever so much exactly the way he did it last night, and the night before that and so many nights now for weeks and months. This is a moment of tenderness that chastity permits these two monks who never married and who have spent almost fifty years looking after one another in a hidden paradise, and who even now are thanking God silently in their hearts for the amazing grace of their vocation. I stop and stare. Why? Because tonight, I feel like the Catholic Church is dying. Ripped to shreds in a speech whose ferocity is unmatched by any words uttered by a head of state, Ireland's prime minister is quoted in the press: "The report exposes an attempt by the Holy See to frustrate an inquiry in a sovereign democratic republic as little as three years ago - excavates the dysfunction, disconnection, elitism and the narcissism that dominate the culture of the Vatican to this day. The rape and torture of children were downplayed or "managed" in order to uphold instead the primacy of the institution, it's power, standing, and reputation." Is this the end of the church? How can the church recover from this? You make Giles the nurse. That's how the church gets better again. It's absolutely true, and it's why I'm staring. I am certain that Giles is the nurse that will make the Catholic Church well again. I'm watching him do it. The insight has suddenly come to me because of a passage from a sermon by St. Bernard I read today which is in my breast pocket next to my heart: "The Catholic Church is the Bride of Christ. To her much has been forgiven, because she has loved much. So, when her rivals hurl recriminations at her, she turns them to her own advantage, becoming more gentle under correction, more patient under trial, which explains the ardor of her love, the wisdom of her decisions, the humility in her self-knowledge, the attractiveness of her modesty, why she is prompt to obey, why she is sincere and thoughtful in giving thanks."
Father Raphael
-
August 7, 2011
As he began the prayer, we all bowed our heads and prayed with him in our hearts. His designation as prayer leader had come unexpectedly and he was quite flustered, but after a moment, he began: "Thank you Lord for gathering us in this place to study and reflect upon the implementation of the new translation of the Roman Missal. Thank you for the presence of our key note speaker with us today and for his guidance as we engage the new opportunities and challenges this change represents for our celebration of the mass. Thank you for our wives. Thank you for the friendship we who are gathered here share with one another and for the grace to worship you and serve you through Christ our Lord . . . " I heard myself say: "Amen". This was the first time in my twenty five years as a monk that I said thank you to God for my wife. It was a little odd, standing there in the company of about fifty deacons of the Archdiocese of Dubuque, all with heads bowed praying to God; each with a woman praying at his side. The space beside me said "Hello!" And, I said to myself: "Yeah – o.k. I don't have a wife. He forgot there was a Trappist monk in the room. It's no big deal." I was standing in the community room of St. Gabriel's parish in Reinbeck Iowa at a meeting of deacons preparing for the implementation of the new translation of the Missal, having been asked by Dom Brendan, my abbot to attend the meeting by way of preparing our own community for the change. My arrival in full habit had been greeted with a little surprise, by the very friendly deacons and their wives. I thought the Prayer Leader's little "blooper" would only be a momentary distraction, and – here I am the next day, still thinking about it. It strikes me that, in the midst of all the controversy about the new Missal, I am neither exhilarated nor hostile. And I also can't seem to work myself up into either state of mind. Where is my militant conservative reaction in the face of progressives who condemn the new translation? Where is my militant progressive reaction to the heavy-handed authoritarianism of those dreadful bishops? I can't seem to summon any of these more virulent responses, though I am deeply affected when I encounter them in the people around me. When I am alone and think of the new missal, there is nothing but a certain quiet expectancy. It's how I used to feel on the first day of school just before meeting my new teacher for the year and, somehow, just assuming she was going to be a really good teacher. I look here and there for my battle gear to bring to the controversy about the new missal, and – well . . . it's a little like the missing wife; the space next to me at St. Gabriel's. I just keep returning to this quiet sense of expectancy. "It's o.k.", I tell myself, "I don't know why I am this way, but it's o.k."
Father Raphael
-
August 4, 2011
It's 3:25 in the morning and, I am praying in front of the Blessed Sacrament inside the high limestone walls of a darkened church that looks like it could have been built in the 12th century. A couple of dozen monks sit or stand in the shadows, not moving or making a sound. A single candle burns in the sanctuary. I am dressed in a white robe over lain by a black scapular, fastened at my waist with a leather belt. All this might appear to be a rather strange scene on the morning of August 4, in the year 2011 in the United States of America. And yet, standing here I am suddenly overcome by a profound intuition that my present unusual circumstances are a natural development of events unfolding long ago that led me here and I am right where I'm supposed to be. The house my mother grew up in could be a scary place because of the periodic melodramatic outbursts of Jose, my grandmother. So, when Grandpa proposed to mom that, if she wanted, she could leave the house early in the morning and he could drop her off at school on his way to work, she took him up on it. This meant she arrived at school more than an hour before classes began, and so she would go and sit in the blessed sacrament chapel where her spirit was refreshed by the silence and where the lights were dim and a single candle burned which helped her to quiet her anxious heart and gather her thoughts. She came to love this time in the morning spent in the little chapel. Standing here in church this morning, I am certain that my vocation as a monk and a priest was born in the heart of that thirteen year old girl sitting in the dim lit chapel. I know her, and I am sure I know what she was feeling on those morning's communicating with the Lord without words; her heart reposing in an attitude of complete trust; the world outside seeming to grow smaller and smaller until she felt she could hold it in the palm of her hand, raise it up to God, and offer it to him as a gift. It is like a fine thread, this instinct in me, to sit in silence before the Blessed Sacrament, and I can feel that fine thread passing through my heart connecting me with mom, and with Grandma too, and with the person whose name I don't know who wounded her and made her the frightened and anxious person she was. Aware of that thread pulled taut and passing through the center of my being, I feel a prayer rise up to God offered for a million times a million souls making their way toward him through this dim lit world. And I pray for mom because tomorrow is her birthday.
Father Raphael
-
August 1, 2011
There's a sun-dappled lane I wander along every morning after mass. "Thanksgiving Lane", you could call it. This morning I presided at mass. In the presence of thirty five of my brothers and a handful of our neighbors, I ministered as priest in the person of Christ to make present again to my brothers, the real and saving sacrifice of Jesus on the cross by which death is changed into life. I often feel it is only after the mass, taking this solitary walk, that the entire hallowed mystery breaks over me like a baptism. All in blissful silence and stillness as the gravel crackles under my shoes. There is the "Quarry Field" on my right – the sheen of the high grass waving beneath the new sun; it's fine strands glistening beyond the heavy foliage that shades my path. The path whispers to me; insinuates into my thoughts an idea that is strange and a little thrilling: I mean that my walk on this path could be a one way trip, a walk from which I would never return, and it would be o.k. because God is here as He was in the beginning and will be for all eternity for those who believe. With each step further away from the monastery and the highway in front of it, and the world beyond; with each step further out into the vast open fields, I am more forgetful of time and of woes; of sin and division and of all that makes this world seem like a curious phantom passing away. It occurs to me, as I come to the bend in the lane in front of Brother Dennis's metal shop, how different is this post-communion practice of mine from most priests. They would be standing at the back door of the church at this moment greeting and visiting with parishoners, making conversation, laughing, learning the latest news, reassuring, comforting. But I am also with them; with the priest and his flock, and with others too in far away places. I too am priest to those who never meet me or hear my voice. I am certain, at this moment, that we are all together here on Thanksgiving Lane making our way back to the Father who beckons us like the new sun that makes me squint as I come to the end of the lane. "May Almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us all to everlasting life." This is my prayer as I turn and make my way back toward the world, the noisy highway and New Melleray Abbey where my brothers live and God lives in them.
Father Raphael
|
