In the monastery it's Advent, but out there, it's Christmas, the time of year when newspaper journalists tend to swoop down for a closer look at the monks and our unusual way of life. Does super-secular America feel a touch of apprehension as the mysterious night approaches? Is that why, every December, the newspaper journalists show up? By the time they arrive, we're expecting them. One of the monks cries: "In-coming!", and we all dive into our fox-holes. Very few monks I know want to talk to a reporter. I sure don't. They are, typically, a little ill-at-ease with us — haven't been to the monastery in a year — and are not entirely sure why they are here. The monks who have no experience with the media, are supposed to "act natural" and it is hoped, by this awkward encounter a "story" will be produced. What's the story? Is it simply the oddness of the monks? Is it that we earn our livelihood by making wooden caskets? But "Trappist Caskets Inc." is not a Christmas story. Are we just revisiting each year the truth that monks are the original "fools for Christ"? Well — whatever. When the reporters turn up, I keep my head low and I'm usually safe. Usually. Last night a shell hit the abbey that no fox hole could protect me from. One of America's favorite places to hear really weird stories is the "Headlines" feature on Jay Leno's "Tonight Show". If you're going to give Trappist Caskets a try as a Christmas story, this is the venue. Well, it happened. Last night, two hours after my brothers and I had gone to bed, the "Tonight Show" commences with the day's "Headlines" and Jay Leno starts going through the placards. Number six, number seven, number eight — and then us. He holds up placard number nine displaying an advertisement for "Trappist Caskets" that features — oh my . . . Santa Claus sitting in a simple wooden casket drawn across the sky by two rows of flying reindeer. With the audience beginning to snicker, Leno looks at the camera, and with a smile spreading across his famous jaw, bellows: "Sorry kids — no presents this year. Santa's dead!" The audience erupts. The brothers of New Melleray Abbey have just been introduced to a national television audience for the first time in our one hundred and fifty year history. Then he's on to placard number ten. What happened? Turns out, a man who sells our caskets in Pennsylvania thought he had a cute idea for an ad which he ran in a local paper without our knowledge. Though guilty of nothing more than bad taste, he called us this morning, shaken and deeply contrite, stammering: "Good Lord! I never dreamed it would end up on the Tonight Show!" No one here worries that any great harm was done. The work we do at Trappist Caskets is deeply appreciated by people; it is a ministry — simple, prayerful, dignified, and a corporeal work of mercy besides. Nobody can touch that. But, sitting in my cell as darkness falls, I ask myself: who was America laughing at? Who was the butt of the joke? Was it Santa Claus? Was it my brothers and I? Or was it death? Maybe Jay Leno makes the money he does because he can get us to laugh at death. Well, God bless him. If there's a Christmas party where people are laughing at death, Jesus must be at the party. That's good enough for me. The reputation of the monks isn't the most important thing. It's Jesus' reputation that matters, and that his Father who raised him from the dead be glorified. But why, I ask Jesus sitting in the dark, why must life take all these hairpin turns and surprising twists? Why must the direction we take toward you follow so many comical and grotesque paths of indirection? The silence in my cell feels oppressive. The darkness, for a moment, is palpable and I imagine I see the figure of a man with his back to me. The day's events have taken a greater toll on me than I realized. The truth is, I'm feeling a little shaky. "Excuse me sir . . . is Jesus at this party?" The dark figure turns round and it's Jesus looking a little silly wearing a red cap: "Man - it's my party!" Yes of course — pardon me Jesus.

Father Raphael