Wow, we were storming heaven tonight. Tonight, we did Vespers, followed by Benediction, and the two Benediction hymns really soared — the monks singing like Russian Cossacks. Maybe the half hour of adoration before Vespers charges the batteries of the monks. We sit before the Blessed Sacrament for thirty minutes, legs tucked under us, our hands buried in the ample folds of our cowls, the wind gently buffeting the tall windows, maybe the distant hum of an airplane passing over head — that's all. At moments, the stillness is uncanny, I mean, you don't hear a sandal sliding on a stone tile. Silence, experienced alone is one thing, but when twenty five monks do it together, it's electric. Maybe something about the supremely simple act of adoration concentrates the power of the human soul which, after thirty minutes, begs expression . . . or release. Anyway, Vespers starts, the cantor intones the hymn and . . . vaaaarroooom. The voices come out of us like a Peterbilt eighteen-wheeler with an "EZ Pass" through a toll booth. I don't say all monastic choirs are like this. Some choirs sing like birds, some like cats. At New Melleray Abbey, we sing like farmers. Bro. Kevin has been lead cantor for about forty years, which may be some kind of world record. We are not, as a community, musically sophisticated. The monks sing on pitch and with gusto, and we're together because we've been singing the same hymns and antiphons for decades. Kevin almost never misses a prayer service. His voice is strong and he articulates crisply the sacred words we are chanting. He seems to relish, really relish the rendering of the concluding consonant of a line, the "s" or the "t", as a signal to the rest of the community that keeps us together. His pace is as steady as a Swiss watch. Maybe that's the key. If a cantor is moody and erratic, the surplus of male celibate energy in a monastic choir can work against itself, the way a washing machine drum out of balance can make the whole machine start to quake and walk across the floor — it can get ugly. A cantor who abuses his role by arbitrarily altering intervals or tempo stirs resentment, and can turn a monastic choir into a battle ground. Tonight, it all came together, and when that happens, a monastic choir becomes something more than the sum of its parts. "We are made for this!" That's the thought I had tonight, singing with my brothers. "God created us for just this. Lord, it's good to be here!"

Father Raphael