Last week we held our second library volunteers retreat here at the Monastery. It was wonderful. The first was in November and attracted eight volunteers. This one brought three people back from the first retreat plus nine more, for a total of twelve.
I was a little concerned that we wouldn't have enough jobs for everyone, but I needn't have worried.
Holy Cross's library is located on the ground floor of the new monastery building, where it occupies most of the space. It is, next to the Chapel and the Refectory, the biggest area in the monastery. I would say that we have perhaps 15,000 books. The collection is an organic one, as most monastery libraries are that do or did not also serve as school, college or seminary libraries. That is, it has grown in response to the needs and interests of the community over the years. Our library is strong in areas you would expect, in older Anglo-Catholic materials, spirituality, and in religious biography. The older generations loved reading lives of holy people -- Fr. Huntington recommended it in his Rule. The scripture section is not huge but serviceable. The section on the religious life has some interesting strengths, particularly in materials on Anglican religious life. And there are some surprises. For example, in the 70's many of the brethren were involved in addiction ministries, so we have a fair collection of books on that subject. And quite a lot of liturgical materials, dating from Bonnell Spencer's days.
The collection uses the Dewey Decimal system. But not exactly, of course. One of the older fathers, now gone to glory, John Baldwin, tweaked it to fit his ideas. Actually, wrenched is a better word than tweaked. Whole sections were reassigned, including the religious life. When we made plans about the Library a couple of years ago, it was decided to get a computerized system which would allow more or less automatic data retrieval and cataloging. But it was clear that the work involved in switching over to the Library of Congress system was so great that, given the fact that we can't hire staff, it might never get done. So we have retained the Dewey system, and are gradually changing our special categories back to the normal ones. This means a lot of recataloging will be going one for quite a while. It also means that we will have the old card catalog and the new computer system (a creature named ResourceMate) side by side for years to come, if not forever.
One of the projects I started when I become Librarian last October was to move all the books published in 1900 or before into a protected area, which, if not climate controlled exactly, at least has a de-humidifier. We had already moved the Patrologia Latina and its Greek companion set there. There is a surprising number of books from 1900 and before, and looking at that collection gives one a snapshot of the Community's interests at that point, just before we moved from Westminster, MD, to our then-new Henry Vaughn-designed Monastery in West Park. Lots of the sorts of books you would expect from Anglo-Catholic monk types, but some interesting outliers as well. The room needs some new shelving, which will probably cost several thousands of dollars. For the time being it is a hodge-podge of smaller shelves, not quite enough to house them all as they should be.
The volunteers were wonderful. A couple of them started work on the old book room, reading the shelves against the cards, which had been carefully removed by volunteers from the first retreat. We had missed a fair number in our first pass through the shelves as it turned out. Several worked on the oversize books, opening up new shelf space for additions. The growing cd collection needed to be put in order, uncatalogued for the moment. One of the men is a church sexton and was able to clean the enclosed skylights which had grown filthy over the years, letting in more light. His wife is a computer wiz, and started cataloging existing books into the computerized system. She made some good progress. One of the volunteers straightened up the Guest House library and then added about 35 books to it from the proven duplicates in the library office. Three continued reading the shelves against the shelf listing, discovering books that had "walked". An interesting finding was that a whole section of books on Vietnam had disappeared. My guess is that a previous regime decided to de-accession them and had forgotten to take the cards out of that section of the file.
And one brave soul began something close to my heart. She started to check bibliographies of monastic history to see what we might have, and more importantly, what we might not have. Most of our acquisitions come from two sources: gifts of collections by people who are downsizing their libraries, or after death, and books that the brethren have acquired and which filter down the stairs in due course. But we have not had much deliberate acquisition over the years, mostly because we have such a small budget. The first step in improving the collection is to find out what we need.
I have two great dreams for the library. The first is to begin systematically building up our collection in areas important to us, especially in scripture and monastic studies. Since many of the books we will want to fill out the collection are out of print, the best way is to identify the ones we want and then start looking for them, purchasing what we can find and afford (donations anyone?) and beginning a regular list of desired volumes on the website that people might donate. The second dream is to begin welcoming writers and scholars to use the library. It is a small collection and probably never will be a scholarly destination for the holdings. And we don't want the books to circulate outside the monastery. But our library is a very congenial environment for study, reflection and writing. The Community, which has not been intensely focused on the library over the years (for many members, it is just there, as it were), has begun to wake up to the ministry possibilities our collections may hold.
It gives me enormous satisfaction to watch the collection improve. And as it does, it is even more satisfying to watch the brethren and others take a renewed interest in reading and study.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
St. John’s Abbey, Collegeville
I spent most of the week after Easter at the Conference for Benedictine formation directors, held at St. John’s Abbey in Collegeville, MN.
The trip there was only mildly arduous, involving an overnight stay in New York City with one of my oldest friends in OHC, Fr. Carl Sword. Carl has been a psychotherapist practicing in NYC for many years, and like me, for many years a monk not in residence. I was up and out early on Tuesday morning and took the airport shuttle bus from outside Grand Central Terminal to La Guardia. The Northwest (becoming Delta) flight to Minneapolis was uneventful. At the gate for the connecting flight to St. Cloud I found Fr. Aelred Glidden, the Prior and Novice Master from St. Gregory’s in Three Rivers, MI, and Fr. Joel Rippinger, our conference leader. Fr. Joel is a well-known Benedictine scholar whose specialty is the history of the monastic movement in North America. He is the author of the standard history of American Benedictine communities, and is a monk of Marmion Abbey in Aurora, IL. The flight to St. Cloud lasts about 11 minutes, shorter than its attendant preparation and debarkation procedures. The flight steward was humorous throughout in the best self-deprecating Lake Woebegone, MN, fashion. Jokes about the flight to and from Minneapolis and the St. Cloud airport are de rigueur at St. John’s.
We were met by Br. Paul Richards, the Novice Master at St. John’s. Last summer, Br. Paul finished a 20-some year stint as director of the boys’ choir associated with St. John’s schools, and took up his new work at the same time I did. I sat up front in the van and had the opportunity to talk with him at length. He took us the scenic way. I had never been in Minnesota before, but it looked a lot like I remember the area around Lansing from my Michigan State days – flat to low rolling countryside, patches of woods and occasional wet areas. The campus of St. John’s is very large, encompassing farmlands and St. John’s University. The monastery is only a small part of it, forming a bridge between the Church and the University buildings.
The Church is enormous, looming over everything. Designed by Marcel Breuer and built in the 1950's, it is resolutely mid-20th century modern, representing I suppose an ecclesiastical version of brutalism in its style. The famous front is dominated by the campanile wall. I had seen pictures of it, but had no idea of it as a functioning building nor of its relation to its surroundings. After four days of worship in it I found it a liturgical success, both for the Daily Office and for the Eucharist.
The Community at St. John’s could not have been warmer in its welcome. My entire time there was punctuated by kind greetings and the small conversations between monks which indicate good will and benevolent interest, from the retired monks to the newest members and even to the Abbot, who sat down next to me at lunch on Friday. Abbot John Klassen is a listener, and obviously both a kind and a firm father of the community. He, like our Presiding Bishop, is a scientist by training. The atmosphere of the monastery and community was one of respectful, mutual and loving patriarchy in the best Benedictine sense.
We were housed in the monastery, some in the older section, others (including me) in the newer Breuer wing connecting to the Church. These newer rooms are functional, laid out like simple motel rooms: an entrance area with closet on one side and bathroom on the other, then a fair sized room with a big window and sliding door with view of the lake which the monastery property encompasses.
The daily worship schedule begins with morning prayer at 7, then noon prayers, Eucharist at 5, and evening prayer at 7. We were busy in the evenings, but my impression is that Compline is voluntary and private. They generally wear habits but no big fuss is made if some of the monks come in civvies. They use their own books -- well-printed and loose leaf, a seven or eight binder set -- for the daily office, as one would expect at this great liturgical center. The psalms are the Grail translation, the music is to modern modes – two or more simple melodies in a set, much as our Camaldolese friends do, and which Holy Cross uses in Santa Barbara and Grahamstown. The St. John’s usage is distributed with artful variety and care between the two sides of choir and one, sometimes two, cantors, which they call soloists. The organ backs up the melody. The singing is well-modulated and in the somewhat indistinct acoustical environment of the Breuer church it blends well and sounds good. I am not a huge fan of this setting for the Office, but at St. John’s it works and I enjoyed it. I found myself looking forward to the next time of prayer.
The other participants included Aelred and Paul as well as the three-man formation team from St. Meinrad’s, in southern Indiana, and individual “formators” (as the Roman Catholic world now designates those who usher in the new monkly generation) from St. Gregory's Abbey in Shawnee, OK; New Subiaco in Subiaco, AR; from Blue Cloud Abbey in Marvin, SD; from Holy Trinity in St. David, AZ; from Christ the King in Schuyler, NE; and from St. Benedict's in Oxford, MI. It was quite a jolly group.
The conference itself was wonderful. On the first day Fr. Rippinger led us through some strategies for teaching the Rule of St. Benedict, and on the second day ways to approach teaching our individual monastic community history. I found it very useful.
One of the blessings of our time at St. John’s was the funeral of Br. William Borgerding. He was a classic monastic character. His uncle had been a monk there as well, a missionary among the Native Americans who formed part of the monastery’s original ministry in Minnesota. Br. Willie was in charge of cattle until they gave that up, and then was monastic night watchman for both the monastery and the university. He was both loved and legendary among the students, and when the student pub opened, they voted to name it after him – Brother Willie’s Pub. I imagine that his legends include reasons for his name being appropriate to a pub. It was a privilege to share the rites surrounding his burial, which included the reception of the body and vigil on Wednesday evening, and the office of the dead, funeral and burial on Thursday. The monastic community, including all of us attending the conference, processed chanting in double file, leading a large gathering of family and friends, to the cemetery overlooking the lake, where Br. Willie was laid to rest, the latest in lines of hundreds all buried in their new order of precedence, that of their entrance into the Larger Life of the Risen Christ.
The trip there was only mildly arduous, involving an overnight stay in New York City with one of my oldest friends in OHC, Fr. Carl Sword. Carl has been a psychotherapist practicing in NYC for many years, and like me, for many years a monk not in residence. I was up and out early on Tuesday morning and took the airport shuttle bus from outside Grand Central Terminal to La Guardia. The Northwest (becoming Delta) flight to Minneapolis was uneventful. At the gate for the connecting flight to St. Cloud I found Fr. Aelred Glidden, the Prior and Novice Master from St. Gregory’s in Three Rivers, MI, and Fr. Joel Rippinger, our conference leader. Fr. Joel is a well-known Benedictine scholar whose specialty is the history of the monastic movement in North America. He is the author of the standard history of American Benedictine communities, and is a monk of Marmion Abbey in Aurora, IL. The flight to St. Cloud lasts about 11 minutes, shorter than its attendant preparation and debarkation procedures. The flight steward was humorous throughout in the best self-deprecating Lake Woebegone, MN, fashion. Jokes about the flight to and from Minneapolis and the St. Cloud airport are de rigueur at St. John’s.
We were met by Br. Paul Richards, the Novice Master at St. John’s. Last summer, Br. Paul finished a 20-some year stint as director of the boys’ choir associated with St. John’s schools, and took up his new work at the same time I did. I sat up front in the van and had the opportunity to talk with him at length. He took us the scenic way. I had never been in Minnesota before, but it looked a lot like I remember the area around Lansing from my Michigan State days – flat to low rolling countryside, patches of woods and occasional wet areas. The campus of St. John’s is very large, encompassing farmlands and St. John’s University. The monastery is only a small part of it, forming a bridge between the Church and the University buildings.
The Church is enormous, looming over everything. Designed by Marcel Breuer and built in the 1950's, it is resolutely mid-20th century modern, representing I suppose an ecclesiastical version of brutalism in its style. The famous front is dominated by the campanile wall. I had seen pictures of it, but had no idea of it as a functioning building nor of its relation to its surroundings. After four days of worship in it I found it a liturgical success, both for the Daily Office and for the Eucharist.
The Community at St. John’s could not have been warmer in its welcome. My entire time there was punctuated by kind greetings and the small conversations between monks which indicate good will and benevolent interest, from the retired monks to the newest members and even to the Abbot, who sat down next to me at lunch on Friday. Abbot John Klassen is a listener, and obviously both a kind and a firm father of the community. He, like our Presiding Bishop, is a scientist by training. The atmosphere of the monastery and community was one of respectful, mutual and loving patriarchy in the best Benedictine sense.
We were housed in the monastery, some in the older section, others (including me) in the newer Breuer wing connecting to the Church. These newer rooms are functional, laid out like simple motel rooms: an entrance area with closet on one side and bathroom on the other, then a fair sized room with a big window and sliding door with view of the lake which the monastery property encompasses.
The daily worship schedule begins with morning prayer at 7, then noon prayers, Eucharist at 5, and evening prayer at 7. We were busy in the evenings, but my impression is that Compline is voluntary and private. They generally wear habits but no big fuss is made if some of the monks come in civvies. They use their own books -- well-printed and loose leaf, a seven or eight binder set -- for the daily office, as one would expect at this great liturgical center. The psalms are the Grail translation, the music is to modern modes – two or more simple melodies in a set, much as our Camaldolese friends do, and which Holy Cross uses in Santa Barbara and Grahamstown. The St. John’s usage is distributed with artful variety and care between the two sides of choir and one, sometimes two, cantors, which they call soloists. The organ backs up the melody. The singing is well-modulated and in the somewhat indistinct acoustical environment of the Breuer church it blends well and sounds good. I am not a huge fan of this setting for the Office, but at St. John’s it works and I enjoyed it. I found myself looking forward to the next time of prayer.
The other participants included Aelred and Paul as well as the three-man formation team from St. Meinrad’s, in southern Indiana, and individual “formators” (as the Roman Catholic world now designates those who usher in the new monkly generation) from St. Gregory's Abbey in Shawnee, OK; New Subiaco in Subiaco, AR; from Blue Cloud Abbey in Marvin, SD; from Holy Trinity in St. David, AZ; from Christ the King in Schuyler, NE; and from St. Benedict's in Oxford, MI. It was quite a jolly group.
The conference itself was wonderful. On the first day Fr. Rippinger led us through some strategies for teaching the Rule of St. Benedict, and on the second day ways to approach teaching our individual monastic community history. I found it very useful.
One of the blessings of our time at St. John’s was the funeral of Br. William Borgerding. He was a classic monastic character. His uncle had been a monk there as well, a missionary among the Native Americans who formed part of the monastery’s original ministry in Minnesota. Br. Willie was in charge of cattle until they gave that up, and then was monastic night watchman for both the monastery and the university. He was both loved and legendary among the students, and when the student pub opened, they voted to name it after him – Brother Willie’s Pub. I imagine that his legends include reasons for his name being appropriate to a pub. It was a privilege to share the rites surrounding his burial, which included the reception of the body and vigil on Wednesday evening, and the office of the dead, funeral and burial on Thursday. The monastic community, including all of us attending the conference, processed chanting in double file, leading a large gathering of family and friends, to the cemetery overlooking the lake, where Br. Willie was laid to rest, the latest in lines of hundreds all buried in their new order of precedence, that of their entrance into the Larger Life of the Risen Christ.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Family Tidings
My Aunt Mary, known to the world as Mary Catherine McCoy McKay, died on Monday. I learned about it on Wednesday from her son, my cousin Bruce McKay. She was 101. Aunt Mary (if you just called her Mary, you might hear a word or two from her!) was the second girl in a family of five children: Emily, Gauin, Orlo, Mary and Duncan, who was my father. They grew up in a fairly large but by no means pretentious house in Smethport, PA, in McKean County, northwestern PA. My grandfather, Guy Huenerfeldt McCoy, worked in the bank and later in the drug store owned by my grandmother, Edna Dunbar McCoy. Aunt Mary became a nurse, and a part of her training was in New York City (grandfather had studied pharmacy at Columbia). She spent part of her practical training in East Harlem, which was my home for seven years. She married Alexander McKay, who became an architect, and after World War II Alex was posted to Germany, where they lived for some time. They returned to Pennsylvania, then lived near Rochester, NY, where Uncle Alex designed tract houses. After he died, Aunt Mary moved to Silver Spring to live near Bruce and his wife Suzie and their children.
Aunt Mary turned 100 on January 1, 2008, and practically the whole family was there. I saw cousins I hadn't seen in 40 years. I decided there must be something to genetics after all. I got out of my car, dressed in khakis, turtleneck and a wool sport coat. Across the way was my cousin Guy, a retired physician who lives near Albany, dressed in khakis, turtleneck and a wool sport coat. Bruce opened the door to us, dressed in khakis, turtleneck and a wool sport coat. So it is genetic!
She had all her marbles that day, and it was glorious. She was a keen genealogist, and several of the younger folk have taken her interest to heart. One cousin by marriage had prepared a really fascinating account of the family. I had known that we were related collaterally, through the Dunbars (my grandmother's paternal line) to Henry David Thoreau. But the great discovery was that in the 1600's we had a pirate, and not just a run of the mill pirate, either, but one who left his wife and family in Denmark (I think) and landed in North Africa, converted to Islam, and became the ruler of a small city state in coastal North Africa. I think we're descended through the Danish line. He changed his profession once he went south and apparently made his living by capturing people in Iceland and selling them in North Africa. So, we have a pirate king. I have always loved that song from Pirates of Penzance, and now I know why.
She was also a keen Christian and Episcopalian (except when she got mad at one of the Sunday School teachers and moved the family to the Methodist Church for a while). The McCoy family attended St. Luke's, Smethport PA, where an uncle, William Van Dyke, was the rector. He was a huge influence on my father's vocation to the priesthood. He also had been a novice for a time in the Order of the Holy Cross.
This fall Aunt Mary began to suffer psychological disorientation, probably due to brain function changes. She had to have more intensive care. A few weeks ago she fell out of bed and broke some ribs, and began to decline.
She was a wonderful human being, full of life and love and always with that McCoy edge that I think is also genetic. We all have it. Her funeral will be at Grace Church, Silver Spring MD on Wed., April 22, at 11 am.
In the course of spreading the news about Aunt Mary I learned that my brother Duncan has entered politics and won his first race. He was elected to the City Council of Boulder City, NV, in the first election by more than 50% of the votes, which allowed him to avoid a runoff.
Dunc has been a professional librarian all his working life, specializing in directing city libraries in Kansas (I forget where), Colorado (Rifle), Wyoming (Laramie) and Nevada (Boulder City). He retired last year. He says that his wife encouraged him to get out of the house and find something useful to do, so he did. He has always been a schmoozer, and hides a keen intelligence behind a facade of western good old boy-ness. I am very proud of him.
Aunt Mary turned 100 on January 1, 2008, and practically the whole family was there. I saw cousins I hadn't seen in 40 years. I decided there must be something to genetics after all. I got out of my car, dressed in khakis, turtleneck and a wool sport coat. Across the way was my cousin Guy, a retired physician who lives near Albany, dressed in khakis, turtleneck and a wool sport coat. Bruce opened the door to us, dressed in khakis, turtleneck and a wool sport coat. So it is genetic!
She had all her marbles that day, and it was glorious. She was a keen genealogist, and several of the younger folk have taken her interest to heart. One cousin by marriage had prepared a really fascinating account of the family. I had known that we were related collaterally, through the Dunbars (my grandmother's paternal line) to Henry David Thoreau. But the great discovery was that in the 1600's we had a pirate, and not just a run of the mill pirate, either, but one who left his wife and family in Denmark (I think) and landed in North Africa, converted to Islam, and became the ruler of a small city state in coastal North Africa. I think we're descended through the Danish line. He changed his profession once he went south and apparently made his living by capturing people in Iceland and selling them in North Africa. So, we have a pirate king. I have always loved that song from Pirates of Penzance, and now I know why.
She was also a keen Christian and Episcopalian (except when she got mad at one of the Sunday School teachers and moved the family to the Methodist Church for a while). The McCoy family attended St. Luke's, Smethport PA, where an uncle, William Van Dyke, was the rector. He was a huge influence on my father's vocation to the priesthood. He also had been a novice for a time in the Order of the Holy Cross.
This fall Aunt Mary began to suffer psychological disorientation, probably due to brain function changes. She had to have more intensive care. A few weeks ago she fell out of bed and broke some ribs, and began to decline.
She was a wonderful human being, full of life and love and always with that McCoy edge that I think is also genetic. We all have it. Her funeral will be at Grace Church, Silver Spring MD on Wed., April 22, at 11 am.
In the course of spreading the news about Aunt Mary I learned that my brother Duncan has entered politics and won his first race. He was elected to the City Council of Boulder City, NV, in the first election by more than 50% of the votes, which allowed him to avoid a runoff.
Dunc has been a professional librarian all his working life, specializing in directing city libraries in Kansas (I forget where), Colorado (Rifle), Wyoming (Laramie) and Nevada (Boulder City). He retired last year. He says that his wife encouraged him to get out of the house and find something useful to do, so he did. He has always been a schmoozer, and hides a keen intelligence behind a facade of western good old boy-ness. I am very proud of him.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Texts in Context
In the course of teaching Bible and early monasticism over the years I have become aware, as I suppose is inevitable, that modern readers come to these texts with our own presuppositions. This is not exactly news. But it is also not always obvious to us when we are reading. We aren't usually conscious of the biases of our own culture until we have something to compare it to.
The first thing to know about an ancient text is that it was not written in our language. English as we speak and read it only emerged between 1500 and 1600. And for quite a long time after that, there are enough differences between our form of English and theirs to require fairly heavy notation. In fact, our language is always changing. Something written 50 years ago can already seem linguistically and culturally dated.
For many people this does not seem to be a problem, though. Just get it translated. And so we do, and we can read Homer, Virgil, Dante, Chaucer in our own language. Except then we soon discover that the text we are reading doesn't make much sense. Not because the words aren't clear, but because what they are saying isn't part of our world. Translating the words is just the first step.
In fact, with any text older than approximately this morning we need to do historical and cultural translation as well. When we read things from our own past, or see an old film or hear an old song or look at an old photograph, we do this automatically, remembering the date it was produced and adjusting our focus accordingly. We can do this because we have the tools to understand the context in which what we are reading or hearing or seeing was produced, because we lived in that context and can remember it. If we were alive and conscious when it was produced we can retrieve the context. In doing so, we automatically make what might be called a hermeneutic shift, imagining ourselves back into the original context and then comparing it to what we might make of it in the present moment.
This is the essential process for confronting anything from the past. And since we are used to that process in things within our own range of experience and memory, we apply the same process to things from before our time. But unfortunately, we don't always have the tools we need to interpret the past. Translation is only the beginning, and it is often problematic itself, as anyone who has compared vastly different translations of the same text will know. A translation is always dependent on the cultural presuppositions of the translator, and translators sometimes have agendas. Think of translations of the Bible which serve different theological and denominational interests.
I have long thought that the best way to study anything from the past, including the Bible, is to read it with a double focus: What did it mean to its author and his original audience? and, What does it seem to mean to us today? Then the task is to move beyond our (always at least partly) uninstructed contemporary perceptions of what we are reading to ask a second level question: What would be an analagous meaning in our own terms?
But to tell a group of students or a Bible reading fellowship that they can't really understand the text or artifact they are considering until they understand its original context is not very helpful unless they have some access to that culture, that context. And unfortunately, most of the time the answer is to point them to the library, where, if they apply themselves, they will soon discover themselves mired in the almost trackless forests of academe. The minute you think you have a grip on some important cultural fact that allows you to go back to your text and approach it with a new and better instructed confidence, along comes another scholar ambitious for fortune and fame, or at least tenure, and knocks that down.
What to do, short of discouraging people from reading intelligently at all? Well, one might provide some tools for reconstructing context.
Some years ago I discovered an approach that I have found consistently illuminating. An old friend, Phina Borgeson, years ago, recommended the work of a cultural anthropologist named Bruce Malina to me. I went looking and eventually discovered his major work, The New Testament World: Insights from Cultural Anthropology. Originally written in 1979, and now in its third edition, Malina outlines major cultural categories that are different from ours. I have to say that this book completely changed the way I have read older texts, and not just the ones from the New Testament period. This alternative cultural understanding opened my eyes to the possibility of the double focus, the hermeneutic shift, not simply as a theoretical possibility but actually.
Malina uses major categories of cultural anthropology and compares those of the New Testament period with our own: Honor as the primary cultural value instead of material and professional success; the absolute importance of locating oneself in one's in-group for identity instead of achieving one's own autonomy; finding one's psychological identity in what others think of you instead of cultivating your own interior self (the dyadic personality); the idea that the wealth of the world is a fixed quantity (limited good) and all that flows from that in terms of fixed status hierarchies instead of our assumptions of social mobility; and so much more.
With these categories the stories of Scripture take on new life. The Prodigal Son moves from a touching drama of family forgiveness to a confrontation about the nature of God: in the values system of Jesus' time, a father who allowed a son to behave as the younger son did was endangering the family's future (by halving its resources, which were not likely to recover) and inviting public shame by the violation of the family's honor (the direct insult of the son to the family demanded a severe and public punitive reaction from the father). What the people listening to that story would hear in the extravagant welcome of the son home would not warm their hearts, but chill them to the bone. If this father is a stand-in for God, then God is violating every norm of civilized behavior, is in fact undermining the very fabric of human life as they understood it. The parable should be called the Prodigal, that is, Criminally Irresponsible, Father. And of course, Jesus is telling the story to make the point that God's love for us transcends the assumptions of our culture which would bind and constrict a human father's love and condemn a wayward son for life instead of reincorporating him into the family.
And then, more importantly for us, how does this story challenge us? We can be smug and tell ourselves, Well, thanks to your teaching, Jesus, we don't live in those presuppositions anymore, and so we're home free on that one. Our fathers can welcome their sons home without the tiresome cultural baggage of the past. But that would be a false reading, I think. In place of adopting the specific cultural shift Jesus seems to be recommending to his culture as our own and then basking in our superior understandings, I think we should ask ourselves, What process of cultural criticism would be analagous to us? What fundamental presuppositions of our culture would come under judgment if God acted so recklessly in our terms? That might set us back as much as it doubtless set Jesus' hearers back. The message for us both would seem to be, God really is not interested in validating our deepest cultural assumptions when they would stand in the way of redemptive love.
I have found Malina's book so profound that I have introduced it to almost every class I have taught both in Bible and early monastic texts. It gives some actual, helpful categories to place our encounter with ancient texts in context. It gives us a way to analyze ancient texts and the compare them to our own situation. It helps our reading move away from cultural solipsism. I heartily recommend it.
The first thing to know about an ancient text is that it was not written in our language. English as we speak and read it only emerged between 1500 and 1600. And for quite a long time after that, there are enough differences between our form of English and theirs to require fairly heavy notation. In fact, our language is always changing. Something written 50 years ago can already seem linguistically and culturally dated.
For many people this does not seem to be a problem, though. Just get it translated. And so we do, and we can read Homer, Virgil, Dante, Chaucer in our own language. Except then we soon discover that the text we are reading doesn't make much sense. Not because the words aren't clear, but because what they are saying isn't part of our world. Translating the words is just the first step.
In fact, with any text older than approximately this morning we need to do historical and cultural translation as well. When we read things from our own past, or see an old film or hear an old song or look at an old photograph, we do this automatically, remembering the date it was produced and adjusting our focus accordingly. We can do this because we have the tools to understand the context in which what we are reading or hearing or seeing was produced, because we lived in that context and can remember it. If we were alive and conscious when it was produced we can retrieve the context. In doing so, we automatically make what might be called a hermeneutic shift, imagining ourselves back into the original context and then comparing it to what we might make of it in the present moment.
This is the essential process for confronting anything from the past. And since we are used to that process in things within our own range of experience and memory, we apply the same process to things from before our time. But unfortunately, we don't always have the tools we need to interpret the past. Translation is only the beginning, and it is often problematic itself, as anyone who has compared vastly different translations of the same text will know. A translation is always dependent on the cultural presuppositions of the translator, and translators sometimes have agendas. Think of translations of the Bible which serve different theological and denominational interests.
I have long thought that the best way to study anything from the past, including the Bible, is to read it with a double focus: What did it mean to its author and his original audience? and, What does it seem to mean to us today? Then the task is to move beyond our (always at least partly) uninstructed contemporary perceptions of what we are reading to ask a second level question: What would be an analagous meaning in our own terms?
But to tell a group of students or a Bible reading fellowship that they can't really understand the text or artifact they are considering until they understand its original context is not very helpful unless they have some access to that culture, that context. And unfortunately, most of the time the answer is to point them to the library, where, if they apply themselves, they will soon discover themselves mired in the almost trackless forests of academe. The minute you think you have a grip on some important cultural fact that allows you to go back to your text and approach it with a new and better instructed confidence, along comes another scholar ambitious for fortune and fame, or at least tenure, and knocks that down.
What to do, short of discouraging people from reading intelligently at all? Well, one might provide some tools for reconstructing context.
Some years ago I discovered an approach that I have found consistently illuminating. An old friend, Phina Borgeson, years ago, recommended the work of a cultural anthropologist named Bruce Malina to me. I went looking and eventually discovered his major work, The New Testament World: Insights from Cultural Anthropology. Originally written in 1979, and now in its third edition, Malina outlines major cultural categories that are different from ours. I have to say that this book completely changed the way I have read older texts, and not just the ones from the New Testament period. This alternative cultural understanding opened my eyes to the possibility of the double focus, the hermeneutic shift, not simply as a theoretical possibility but actually.
Malina uses major categories of cultural anthropology and compares those of the New Testament period with our own: Honor as the primary cultural value instead of material and professional success; the absolute importance of locating oneself in one's in-group for identity instead of achieving one's own autonomy; finding one's psychological identity in what others think of you instead of cultivating your own interior self (the dyadic personality); the idea that the wealth of the world is a fixed quantity (limited good) and all that flows from that in terms of fixed status hierarchies instead of our assumptions of social mobility; and so much more.
With these categories the stories of Scripture take on new life. The Prodigal Son moves from a touching drama of family forgiveness to a confrontation about the nature of God: in the values system of Jesus' time, a father who allowed a son to behave as the younger son did was endangering the family's future (by halving its resources, which were not likely to recover) and inviting public shame by the violation of the family's honor (the direct insult of the son to the family demanded a severe and public punitive reaction from the father). What the people listening to that story would hear in the extravagant welcome of the son home would not warm their hearts, but chill them to the bone. If this father is a stand-in for God, then God is violating every norm of civilized behavior, is in fact undermining the very fabric of human life as they understood it. The parable should be called the Prodigal, that is, Criminally Irresponsible, Father. And of course, Jesus is telling the story to make the point that God's love for us transcends the assumptions of our culture which would bind and constrict a human father's love and condemn a wayward son for life instead of reincorporating him into the family.
And then, more importantly for us, how does this story challenge us? We can be smug and tell ourselves, Well, thanks to your teaching, Jesus, we don't live in those presuppositions anymore, and so we're home free on that one. Our fathers can welcome their sons home without the tiresome cultural baggage of the past. But that would be a false reading, I think. In place of adopting the specific cultural shift Jesus seems to be recommending to his culture as our own and then basking in our superior understandings, I think we should ask ourselves, What process of cultural criticism would be analagous to us? What fundamental presuppositions of our culture would come under judgment if God acted so recklessly in our terms? That might set us back as much as it doubtless set Jesus' hearers back. The message for us both would seem to be, God really is not interested in validating our deepest cultural assumptions when they would stand in the way of redemptive love.
I have found Malina's book so profound that I have introduced it to almost every class I have taught both in Bible and early monastic texts. It gives some actual, helpful categories to place our encounter with ancient texts in context. It gives us a way to analyze ancient texts and the compare them to our own situation. It helps our reading move away from cultural solipsism. I heartily recommend it.
Friday, March 20, 2009
In Praise of F. Homes Dudden
I have been re-reading the classic study of Gregory the Great by Frederick Homes Dudden. Few major studies of anything remain standards for long, usually having an undisputed reign of 10-20 years before another bright and enterprising scholar's book elbows it to the side of the shelf. But Homes Dudden's work has remained supreme since its first appearance in 1905. 104 years is not a bad run, and despite great strides in scholarship since, there is no effective challenger yet. Which is all the more impressive as Gregory is the towering figure of his age, the subject of a century's harvest of specialist studies by armies of brilliant scholars.
The study is classic late Victorian. Two thick volumes with multiple indices, comprising three sections: Gregory before he became Pope, Gregory as Pope, and his thought and writings. The book marches at a stately but unimpeded forward pace, chronological in the same way that the Thames flows to the sea -- not in rushing torrents, but steadily, and as it approaches the tidal points, with an occasional backward glance. And like the Thames, it is wide and has many tributaries. Along the way one learns a great deal about Constantinople and its church and imperial politics, about the collapse of Italy in the wake of Justinian's reconquest, about the city of Rome in its pre-Gregorian decline and in its time of collapse, the educational curriculum of the day, the Three Chapters controversy (certainly one of the most intricately confusing episodes in the history of heresy), and quite a lot about the Lombards. And not coincidentally, about the monastic project in the mid and late sixth century. This is your solid, traditional life-and-times narrative.
When I read it first, in graduate school more than 35 years ago, I was put off by the author's use of the first person and his amusing and more than occasionally sarcastic evaluations. But after much study along the way I realize that behind these apparently solipsistic forays lies an immense learning. He's almost always right. If you want to profit from reading the best of old style British history, complete with untranslated Latin and Greek footnotes and the undiluted Oxonian quadrangular attitude, this is the book for you.
I had always thought of Homes Dudden as a middle aged or elderly don who had spent his entire life reading up the sources, chasing down the footnotes, getting all the references right, reading all the secondary literature, including the interminable Germans, and then quietly setting pen to paper in the half-light of the Bodleian Library or over a second or third glass of sherry in lodgings after an agreeable first sherry in the Fellows' Common Room. A lifetime of comfortable academic plodding crowned by The Great Book.
So what a surprise was in store when curiosity led me to the internet for further information. Homes Dudden is a somewhat elusive target, but I tracked him down, and he wasn't what I thought at all. Or rather, the book wasn't what I thought it was in relation to its author.
He was born in 1874 and died in 1957. That puts the publication of the Gregory more or less at age 31. Thirty one! This staggeringly learned book, still on the top of the pile after a century, the work of a man in his mid to late twenties! Because everything I said about it is true. All the references are right, all the research has been done, and what is more, on the whole his judgments are mature and have stood the test of time. 31.
He studied at Bath College and Pembroke College, Oxford, was ordained in the C of E, was lecturer in theology and chaplain of Lincoln College, Oxford at the age of 24, was Vicar of Holy Trinity, Sloane Square, and in 1918 became Master of Pembroke College, a position he held until his death some 39 years later. He held many offices, including Vice Chancellor, at Oxford, greatly increased the endowment of his college, was a colleague of J.R.R. Tolkien. He published at least six volumes of sermons, several in the important genre of consolation over the devastation of the First World War. In 1935 he published a second two volume life and times, this one about Saint Ambrose. The Ambrose is still respectfully referred to if not as dominant as the Gregory. And then in 1955, two years before his death, a third two volume behemoth, this time about Henry Fielding. And from 1929 to 1952 he was Chaplain to Kings George V and VI.
So, if I had a glass of sherry as I write this, I would lift it to you, Dr. Homes Dudden. Your great work endures. Thank you.
The study is classic late Victorian. Two thick volumes with multiple indices, comprising three sections: Gregory before he became Pope, Gregory as Pope, and his thought and writings. The book marches at a stately but unimpeded forward pace, chronological in the same way that the Thames flows to the sea -- not in rushing torrents, but steadily, and as it approaches the tidal points, with an occasional backward glance. And like the Thames, it is wide and has many tributaries. Along the way one learns a great deal about Constantinople and its church and imperial politics, about the collapse of Italy in the wake of Justinian's reconquest, about the city of Rome in its pre-Gregorian decline and in its time of collapse, the educational curriculum of the day, the Three Chapters controversy (certainly one of the most intricately confusing episodes in the history of heresy), and quite a lot about the Lombards. And not coincidentally, about the monastic project in the mid and late sixth century. This is your solid, traditional life-and-times narrative.
When I read it first, in graduate school more than 35 years ago, I was put off by the author's use of the first person and his amusing and more than occasionally sarcastic evaluations. But after much study along the way I realize that behind these apparently solipsistic forays lies an immense learning. He's almost always right. If you want to profit from reading the best of old style British history, complete with untranslated Latin and Greek footnotes and the undiluted Oxonian quadrangular attitude, this is the book for you.
I had always thought of Homes Dudden as a middle aged or elderly don who had spent his entire life reading up the sources, chasing down the footnotes, getting all the references right, reading all the secondary literature, including the interminable Germans, and then quietly setting pen to paper in the half-light of the Bodleian Library or over a second or third glass of sherry in lodgings after an agreeable first sherry in the Fellows' Common Room. A lifetime of comfortable academic plodding crowned by The Great Book.
So what a surprise was in store when curiosity led me to the internet for further information. Homes Dudden is a somewhat elusive target, but I tracked him down, and he wasn't what I thought at all. Or rather, the book wasn't what I thought it was in relation to its author.
He was born in 1874 and died in 1957. That puts the publication of the Gregory more or less at age 31. Thirty one! This staggeringly learned book, still on the top of the pile after a century, the work of a man in his mid to late twenties! Because everything I said about it is true. All the references are right, all the research has been done, and what is more, on the whole his judgments are mature and have stood the test of time. 31.
He studied at Bath College and Pembroke College, Oxford, was ordained in the C of E, was lecturer in theology and chaplain of Lincoln College, Oxford at the age of 24, was Vicar of Holy Trinity, Sloane Square, and in 1918 became Master of Pembroke College, a position he held until his death some 39 years later. He held many offices, including Vice Chancellor, at Oxford, greatly increased the endowment of his college, was a colleague of J.R.R. Tolkien. He published at least six volumes of sermons, several in the important genre of consolation over the devastation of the First World War. In 1935 he published a second two volume life and times, this one about Saint Ambrose. The Ambrose is still respectfully referred to if not as dominant as the Gregory. And then in 1955, two years before his death, a third two volume behemoth, this time about Henry Fielding. And from 1929 to 1952 he was Chaplain to Kings George V and VI.
So, if I had a glass of sherry as I write this, I would lift it to you, Dr. Homes Dudden. Your great work endures. Thank you.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
A New Novice
"What do you seek?"
"The mercy of God and of the Order."
With these simple words Charles asked Robert -- or in more formal terms, a Postulant who had been approved formally and publicly petitioned the Superior of the Order -- to be admitted as a Novice.
It's a pretty impressive service. We approved it for use many years ago, but I had not seen it before. The elements are the request and response, reading of portions of the Rules, asking then if he is ready to enter the monastic life, asking those assembled if they will uphold him, the blessing of the habit, a hymn while he and the Novice Master (me) go to the sacristy and put it on him, then a blessing. There is a moment of drama at the end -- the new novice comes back into the Church with his hood up, walking in through the guest court. At the blessing the NM lowers his hood. Then the NM leads him to each of the brethren in turn and the Peace is exchanged. Br. Randy took some wonderful pictures that you can find here.
There's a lot tied up in such a moment, but chiefly Charles's own life leading to that point and the hopes of the Community for him. Charles is a deeply serious person with a clear commitment to give this a good strong try. The Community wants him to succeed.
Each one of us in OHC, indeed, every monk at some point, has gone through this rite, with the essentials the same even if the words are a little different. When I was clothed, in March of 1974, I believe at least 3 of the original class of 10 had dropped out, so there were 7 of us. We weren't formally Benedictine at that point, though we were talking about it even then. The habit was different -- a white tunic with a black girdle knotted on the side and hanging to about eight inches from the floor, a hoodless scapular and a pellice -- a strange garment, a sort of short cape with no opening at the front that came not quite to the waist, a triangular point in the back, and the hood. The Benedictine habit is much simpler. I really don't remember what went through my mind at that point. For me the big moment was becoming a postulant six months before, on Sept. 5, 1973, and that is the day I count as my entrance into monastic life, even if it is not the official date, because it is the day I started to live the monastic life.
I was moved by the readings from the Rules. From Benedict, the beginning of the Prologue (Bede read) and the next to last chapter, 72, The Good Zeal of Monks, which is an almost lyrical prose meditation on community (Ronald). From Fr. Huntington, excerpts on Obedience (Scott), Poverty (which I read), and Study (Randy). For each of them Charles faced the reader and it was clear that we were inviting him to join the monastic project, but only if he understood well enough what he was getting into. I was struck by these moments, left wondering at the solemnity of these declarations and of Charles's eagerness to join us.
I sometimes think there aren't many people who want to join the monastic project, who want to undertake obedience, poverty, study, to join themselves to a sort of monastic militia, the image Benedict uses in the Prologue. But they do keep coming. We have an aspirant coming for a two week visit on Monday.
What sort of men became Holy Cross Benedictines? Well, there are the obvious qualifications: male, between 25 and 50 more or less, in good physical and psychological health, free of family and other relational obligations, out of debt, a practicing Anglican or in communion with us, finished with your education to your satisfaction (i.e., if you want to go to seminary and get ordained, it would be better to do that first!). Those are the objective qualifiers. The subjective ones are more nebulous. The three most important are: wanting to be united with God through Jesus Christ; wanting to be a monk in some realistic way (do you love prayer, silence, the Scriptures, praying the Daily Office, good honest and sometimes hard work, obeying someone else when you don't especially want to, etc?); and able to live constructively in community with others, which has a LOT of subheadings.
OHC wants new members. We are thrilled when a likely type shows up (nowadays usually after finding out about us on the internet) and begins to form a relationship with the community, which is the usual way vocations proceed. But we have been blessed with a lot of shared experience as a community. We've seen a lot of men come and go, and some of them have stayed, but not all, and that's ok. What we know is that God is leading every one of us in ways we don't always understand, so every journey is a worthwhile journey, even if it does not lead to the monastery.
But I certainly hope and pray that some journeys do lead here. Being a monk is not for everyone, but it is for some people, and perhaps for more people than realize it now. It is a good thing to be, a good thing to do with your life. I am so glad for Charles. And I know that the Holy Spirit is working on some others, perhaps not a few, working in their hearts, planting the spark that can burst into flame when the moment is right.
Seeking the mercy of God is a good place to start.
"The mercy of God and of the Order."
With these simple words Charles asked Robert -- or in more formal terms, a Postulant who had been approved formally and publicly petitioned the Superior of the Order -- to be admitted as a Novice.
It's a pretty impressive service. We approved it for use many years ago, but I had not seen it before. The elements are the request and response, reading of portions of the Rules, asking then if he is ready to enter the monastic life, asking those assembled if they will uphold him, the blessing of the habit, a hymn while he and the Novice Master (me) go to the sacristy and put it on him, then a blessing. There is a moment of drama at the end -- the new novice comes back into the Church with his hood up, walking in through the guest court. At the blessing the NM lowers his hood. Then the NM leads him to each of the brethren in turn and the Peace is exchanged. Br. Randy took some wonderful pictures that you can find here.
There's a lot tied up in such a moment, but chiefly Charles's own life leading to that point and the hopes of the Community for him. Charles is a deeply serious person with a clear commitment to give this a good strong try. The Community wants him to succeed.
Each one of us in OHC, indeed, every monk at some point, has gone through this rite, with the essentials the same even if the words are a little different. When I was clothed, in March of 1974, I believe at least 3 of the original class of 10 had dropped out, so there were 7 of us. We weren't formally Benedictine at that point, though we were talking about it even then. The habit was different -- a white tunic with a black girdle knotted on the side and hanging to about eight inches from the floor, a hoodless scapular and a pellice -- a strange garment, a sort of short cape with no opening at the front that came not quite to the waist, a triangular point in the back, and the hood. The Benedictine habit is much simpler. I really don't remember what went through my mind at that point. For me the big moment was becoming a postulant six months before, on Sept. 5, 1973, and that is the day I count as my entrance into monastic life, even if it is not the official date, because it is the day I started to live the monastic life.
I was moved by the readings from the Rules. From Benedict, the beginning of the Prologue (Bede read) and the next to last chapter, 72, The Good Zeal of Monks, which is an almost lyrical prose meditation on community (Ronald). From Fr. Huntington, excerpts on Obedience (Scott), Poverty (which I read), and Study (Randy). For each of them Charles faced the reader and it was clear that we were inviting him to join the monastic project, but only if he understood well enough what he was getting into. I was struck by these moments, left wondering at the solemnity of these declarations and of Charles's eagerness to join us.
I sometimes think there aren't many people who want to join the monastic project, who want to undertake obedience, poverty, study, to join themselves to a sort of monastic militia, the image Benedict uses in the Prologue. But they do keep coming. We have an aspirant coming for a two week visit on Monday.
What sort of men became Holy Cross Benedictines? Well, there are the obvious qualifications: male, between 25 and 50 more or less, in good physical and psychological health, free of family and other relational obligations, out of debt, a practicing Anglican or in communion with us, finished with your education to your satisfaction (i.e., if you want to go to seminary and get ordained, it would be better to do that first!). Those are the objective qualifiers. The subjective ones are more nebulous. The three most important are: wanting to be united with God through Jesus Christ; wanting to be a monk in some realistic way (do you love prayer, silence, the Scriptures, praying the Daily Office, good honest and sometimes hard work, obeying someone else when you don't especially want to, etc?); and able to live constructively in community with others, which has a LOT of subheadings.
OHC wants new members. We are thrilled when a likely type shows up (nowadays usually after finding out about us on the internet) and begins to form a relationship with the community, which is the usual way vocations proceed. But we have been blessed with a lot of shared experience as a community. We've seen a lot of men come and go, and some of them have stayed, but not all, and that's ok. What we know is that God is leading every one of us in ways we don't always understand, so every journey is a worthwhile journey, even if it does not lead to the monastery.
But I certainly hope and pray that some journeys do lead here. Being a monk is not for everyone, but it is for some people, and perhaps for more people than realize it now. It is a good thing to be, a good thing to do with your life. I am so glad for Charles. And I know that the Holy Spirit is working on some others, perhaps not a few, working in their hearts, planting the spark that can burst into flame when the moment is right.
Seeking the mercy of God is a good place to start.
Friday, March 6, 2009
A Schedule Change
At the monastery we make most major decisions after discussion, and we try as much as possible to withhold making decisions until a genuine consensus has been reached. So sometimes discussions can go on for a long time, weeks, months, sometimes years. And, of course, once having reached a decision, it may after a time seem not the right one. Humility is a communal as well as a personal virtue. Sometimes something the community has decided doesn't work as well as we thought it would. So the humble thing is to acknowledge that and change it.
One of the seemingly eternal discussions is about our daily schedule. When to pray, when to eat, when to work, how much time to allow for personal prayer and study, whether to label (read: coerce) study and prayer times or let the brethren work out their own rhythms. In the time since I returned to the monastery the continual conversational theme of this perennial topic has been that we don't have enough time, that between five times a day in Chapel, the whole food service aspect of our large guest house ministry, necessary community meetings and activities, and the other work each of us has every day, we hardly have enough time to turn around, let alone the necessary time for significant prayer and study. And the thing is, it was often true.
Our schedule was:
7:00 Matins
7:30 Breakfast
8:30 Eucharist
9:15 Chapter
12:00 Diurnum
12:30 Dinner
5:00 Vespers
6:00 Supper
7:30-7:40 Corporate Meditation
7:40 Compline
As you can imagine, the Matins to Eucharist segment sometimes requires quite a dash to get all the breakfast dishes done and the refectory set up for dinner before the Eucharist. The Refectorian even had to leave chapel before Matins was over to get everything set out for breakfast. Similarly in the Vespers to Compline segment.
So after many months of low level discussion, we had a meeting and talked explicity about the schedule. In fact, we had done so much preparation in prior private and public discussions, that a decision we all thought would require lots of time and energy and probably some personal tradeoffs, was reached in just a few minutes. We decided to experiment with something different in Lent. We have made a couple of seemingly small changes: Breakfast is at 7:45; the Eucharist is at 9:00 am instead of 8:30; the Corporate Meditation has been moved to Diurnum; and Compline is an hour later, at 8:30 pm.
What a difference! Now the refectorian doesn't have to sneak out after the second reading at Matins to set up breakfast. There's plenty of time now to get the dishes done, the refectory cleaned up and the tables set, even when we have a lot of guests. And there's time now in the evening to have an evening session with a retreat group and end with Compline. And, since it's later, our day now really does end with Compline, as it should. Most of us have commented to each other after just a little more than a week what a difference it has made.
It has made my life surprisingly better, physically and spiritually. I am refectorian this week (the job rotates weekly), which means setting up for all the meals, making sure that the serving pantry is stocked with all the food and supplies we need from the kitchen and storerooms, turning on the dishwasher, keeping the coffee flowing, and so forth. I was dreading it. With this change, it seems to work with a lot less stress. The extra half hour in the morning has meant that I don't have to dash from food service to Eucharist (as appropriate as that might seem symbolically) but have some time to calm down, brush my teeth, get my head together better. Which is especially nice if I am presiding.
The evening change is even better. Now there is at least an hour, at most two hours, depending on whether I'm on supper dishes, before Compline. Considering that most mornings I wake up before 5:00 and so have an hour or more of study and prayer time then, with the ample evening time I now feel like a rich man! Time for prayer and study suddenly abounds.
And our retreat ministry ministry is positively changed too. This week a delightful group of people from Christ Church, St. Michael's, MD, was with us, and I was leading them. Our two evening sessions had ample time and the evening ended with Compline, as it should. The old schedule more or less forced us to have a session after Compline, ending at 9:00 pm, which defeats the purpose of that office. But now the flow is right.
And something even more wonderful has happened. When we had our meditation time before Compline, I could never concentrate. I ended up reading because I just couldn't be quiet interiorly. But now with that moved to Diurnum, I find I can. Something I thought I had lost altogether, the ability to sit quietly and meditate with a group of people, is returning. I realize now that I was so tired, physically and mentally, by the evening, that I simply couldn't do it. But at noon I have the energy and strength. So a whole new dimension to my prayer life is beginning to return.
Sometimes change is good.
One of the seemingly eternal discussions is about our daily schedule. When to pray, when to eat, when to work, how much time to allow for personal prayer and study, whether to label (read: coerce) study and prayer times or let the brethren work out their own rhythms. In the time since I returned to the monastery the continual conversational theme of this perennial topic has been that we don't have enough time, that between five times a day in Chapel, the whole food service aspect of our large guest house ministry, necessary community meetings and activities, and the other work each of us has every day, we hardly have enough time to turn around, let alone the necessary time for significant prayer and study. And the thing is, it was often true.
Our schedule was:
7:00 Matins
7:30 Breakfast
8:30 Eucharist
9:15 Chapter
12:00 Diurnum
12:30 Dinner
5:00 Vespers
6:00 Supper
7:30-7:40 Corporate Meditation
7:40 Compline
As you can imagine, the Matins to Eucharist segment sometimes requires quite a dash to get all the breakfast dishes done and the refectory set up for dinner before the Eucharist. The Refectorian even had to leave chapel before Matins was over to get everything set out for breakfast. Similarly in the Vespers to Compline segment.
So after many months of low level discussion, we had a meeting and talked explicity about the schedule. In fact, we had done so much preparation in prior private and public discussions, that a decision we all thought would require lots of time and energy and probably some personal tradeoffs, was reached in just a few minutes. We decided to experiment with something different in Lent. We have made a couple of seemingly small changes: Breakfast is at 7:45; the Eucharist is at 9:00 am instead of 8:30; the Corporate Meditation has been moved to Diurnum; and Compline is an hour later, at 8:30 pm.
What a difference! Now the refectorian doesn't have to sneak out after the second reading at Matins to set up breakfast. There's plenty of time now to get the dishes done, the refectory cleaned up and the tables set, even when we have a lot of guests. And there's time now in the evening to have an evening session with a retreat group and end with Compline. And, since it's later, our day now really does end with Compline, as it should. Most of us have commented to each other after just a little more than a week what a difference it has made.
It has made my life surprisingly better, physically and spiritually. I am refectorian this week (the job rotates weekly), which means setting up for all the meals, making sure that the serving pantry is stocked with all the food and supplies we need from the kitchen and storerooms, turning on the dishwasher, keeping the coffee flowing, and so forth. I was dreading it. With this change, it seems to work with a lot less stress. The extra half hour in the morning has meant that I don't have to dash from food service to Eucharist (as appropriate as that might seem symbolically) but have some time to calm down, brush my teeth, get my head together better. Which is especially nice if I am presiding.
The evening change is even better. Now there is at least an hour, at most two hours, depending on whether I'm on supper dishes, before Compline. Considering that most mornings I wake up before 5:00 and so have an hour or more of study and prayer time then, with the ample evening time I now feel like a rich man! Time for prayer and study suddenly abounds.
And our retreat ministry ministry is positively changed too. This week a delightful group of people from Christ Church, St. Michael's, MD, was with us, and I was leading them. Our two evening sessions had ample time and the evening ended with Compline, as it should. The old schedule more or less forced us to have a session after Compline, ending at 9:00 pm, which defeats the purpose of that office. But now the flow is right.
And something even more wonderful has happened. When we had our meditation time before Compline, I could never concentrate. I ended up reading because I just couldn't be quiet interiorly. But now with that moved to Diurnum, I find I can. Something I thought I had lost altogether, the ability to sit quietly and meditate with a group of people, is returning. I realize now that I was so tired, physically and mentally, by the evening, that I simply couldn't do it. But at noon I have the energy and strength. So a whole new dimension to my prayer life is beginning to return.
Sometimes change is good.
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