O Key of David

December 19:
O Clavis David, et sceptrum domus Israel; qui aperis, et nemo claudit; claudis, et nemo aperit: veni, et educ vinctum de domo carceris, sedentem in tenebris, et umbra mortis.
O Key of David, and Scepter of the house of Israel,you open and no one can close, and you close and no one can open: come and bring the prisoners out of the prison, those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death.

The symbols in this antiphon are both symbols of power: the key and the scepter. The key is about access, freedom and restriction. The scepter is about the royal monopoly on force, in other words, on sovereignty. They are both aspects of the Expected One, whose reign will liberate and regulate the world with justice.

The antiphon hews closely to texts from Isaiah. The first is Isaiah 22:22: “I will place on his shoulder the key of the house of David; he shall open, and no one shall shut; he shall shut, and no one shall open.” The Latin makes the resemblance clear: Et dabo clavem domus David super humerum eius: et aperiet, et nor erit qui claudat; et claudet, et non erit qui aperiat.

No medieval Christian could approach this figure of the Key, with its power of opening and closing, without thinking of the power of the keys to the kingdom given to Peter and his successors, which can bind and loose in heaven what is bound and loosed on earth. And so this passage makes an oblique reference to the entrusting of such vast authority to a servant of the Lord. The key in Isaiah is entrusted to Eliakim son of Hilkiah, who will become the new steward in the palace of King Hezekiah, replacing the dishonest steward Shebna. Eliakim will have the authority that goes with his office and will discharge it honestly. What he opens none can close, and what he closes none can open. Peter is such a steward, as are his successors, or so one hopes. Is this a (very) oblique criticism of some of the occupants of the Chair of Peter, Shebnas from whom the keys will be taken and given to new Eliakims? An interesting question. One does not usually look for the critical eye in an antiphon, but perhaps it is here.

The prisoners in the dungeon, whom the antiphon asks to be liberated, are from Isaiah 42. This passage is from the first Servant Song in Isaiah. The Lord says, “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations.” “I have given you as a covenant to the people, a light to the nations,
to open the eyes that are blind, to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness:” Ut aperires oculos caecorum, et educeres de conclusione vinctum. This Servant is the mild and righteous ruler, who is not turbulent or violent: “He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice.”

The key and the liberation of the prisoners have clear sources. But what about the scepter? As our poet seems quite secure in the prophetic environment of Isaiah, let’s look there. There is only one use of sceptrum in the Vulgate translation of Isaiah, in 9:4: “For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian.” Iugum enim oneris , et virgam humeri eius, et sceptrum exactoris eius superasti, sicut in die Madian. Not only a scepter, but a virga, reminiscent of the Radix Iesse! And who are these people who are being liberated? The rest of the passage (Isaiah 9:1-7) will tell us. They are none other than “The people who walked in darkness” who “have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness-- on them light has shined.” The same as the light deprived people in prison. And who is the One who will take up this scepter wrongly wielded and make it right? "For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His authority shall grow continually, and there shall be endless peace for the throne of David and his kingdom. He will establish and uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time onward and forevermore. The zeal of the LORD of hosts will do this.”

This antiphon is about power, about how power is used rightly by a sovereign and by his ministers. And what are the marks of authentic power from God? Eliakim is to be “as a father to the inhabitants of Jerusalem.” And the new sovereign is to be born with the attributes of wisdom by which he will exercise his mighty office.

I can’t help but think of two great pieces of music as I ponder this magnificent meditation on power and its potential to liberate and establish righteous justice. The first is obvious, perhaps: Handel’s magnificent chorus “For unto us a child is born” from Messiah. Who cannot be moved by this beautifully happy celebration of the child to come, of whom it is sung, “and the government will be upon his shoulders”?

The second is perhaps not so obvious, but it brings chills to my spine every time I hear it. It is the opening of the prison in the finale of the first act of Beethoven’s opera Fidelio. At the pleading of Leonore (herself a savior figure) Rocco, the honest jailer, opens the doors and the prisoners tentatively move toward the light and fresh air which they have been denied in their darkened prison:

O welche Lust! In freier Luft
den Atem leicht zu heben!
Nur hier, nur hier ist Leben.

And then more softly, in perfect choral harmony, words that express so movingly the emotion of every prisoner who has ever been given a taste of what a free life might be:

O Himmel! Rettung! Welch’ ein Glück!
O Freiheit! Freiheit!

Every time I hear this second chorus I not only get chills in my spine, but I weep. This is to me the most perfect musical expression of what the Clavis David promises: the righteous scepter, the legitimate power of a seemingly weak savior (a child in Isaiah) which empowers the honest, faithful steward to turn the key which opens the lock to bring us out of the darkness. And not only out of darkness, but out of the ultimate darkness, out of the shadow of death, that last and most Davidic of all references, from his own 23rd psalm, the psalm of David’s own deliverance.

O Root of Jesse

December 18:
O Radix Jesse, qui stas in signum populorum, super quem continebunt reges os suum, quem Gentes deprecabuntur: veni ad liberandum nos, jam noli tardare.
O Root of Jesse, you stand for an ensign of the people, before you kings will shut their mouths, and for you the Gentiles will seek: come and deliver us, and do not tarry.

Most of us know the Radix Jesse in the form of the Jesse Tree, a popular theme in medieval art, perhaps most famously in the exquisite window of Chartres Cathedral. It pictures Jesus as the fruit of the great lineage of the family of King David, beginning with David's father, Jesse.

The antiphon straightforwardly develops quotes from Isaiah 11, the famous chapter which predicts the coming of the righteous king: "A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. " In Latin the first verse is a clear source: Et egredietur virga de radice Iesse, et flos de radice eius ascendit. As is verse 10: In die illa radix Iesse, qui stat in signum populaorum, ipsum gentes deprecabuntur, et erit sepulchrum eius gloriosum. "On that day the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples; the nations shall inquire of him, and his dwelling shall be glorious." The antiphon seems almost complete as a deft reworking of these two verses.

And between Isaiah's verses come two of the most sublime descriptions of the coming rule of the Expected One in all literature: "The spirit of the LORD shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the LORD." Which is what we have desired of rulers since the beginning of time. And then, the Peaceable Kingdom: "The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder's den. They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD as the waters cover the sea." The scripturally saturated heart will not fail to notice these qualities of the one to rise from the Root of Jesse. They are the eternal hope of Israel in the covenant with the House of David, and lie at the base (one might say, the root) of the understanding of the Messiah.

But what about the kings shutting their mouths? Where does that come from? There is a dramatic situation behind the antiphon which is not precisely equivalent to the Isaiah passage. It is a conflict which the one to come will resolve, the conflict with noisy kings and their instruments of force.

As I was meditating on this today, what came to me was Psalm 2, parts of which clearly foreshadow (certainly in the medieval mind, the Psalms predate Isaiah) the messianic predictions of Isaiah:

1 Why are the nations in an uproar? *
Why do the peoples mutter empty threats?
2 Why do the kings of the earth rise up in revolt, and the princes plot together, *
against the LORD and against his Anointed?
3 "Let us break their yoke," they say; *
"let us cast off their bonds from us."
4 He whose throne is in heaven is laughing; *
the Lord has them in derision.
5 Then he speaks to them in his wrath, *
and his rage fills them with terror.
6 "I myself have set my king *
upon my holy hill of Zion."
7 Let me announce the decree of the LORD: *
he said to me, "You are my Son; this day have I begotten you.
8 Ask of me, and I will give you the nations for your inheritance *
and the ends of the earth for your possession.
9 You shall crush them with an iron rod *
and shatter them like a piece of pottery."
10 And now, you kings, be wise; *
be warned, you rulers of the earth.
11 Submit to the LORD with fear, *
and with trembling bow before him;
12 Lest he be angry and you perish; *
for his wrath is quickly kindled.

The rod in verse 9 is a virga, but is it the rod of Isaiah, or is it a different rod, a rod of iron, all business and war? Even more apposite is verse 7: Dominus dixit ad me: Filius meus es tu: Ego hodie genui te. Christians cannot read this verse without understanding that it prefigures the Incarnation, which is the point of the Root of Jesse after all.

The surprise? Perhaps it is in the way in which the kings are made to shut their mouths and the nations come seeking Him. That central section of Isaiah is present to the instructed scriptural consciousness by implication. Not in the rod of iron, the virga ferrea of the psalm, but the virga which confers genetic legitimacy on the Just Ruler who is to come. His weapons are not the iron of war but the Gifts of the Spirit of the Lord. His reign is not simply one of earthly peace, the absence of armed conflict, but the great Shalom which will restore the paradisal condition. Matthew's genealogy of Christ goes back to Abraham, but Luke's all the way to the radix, the first father of us all, Adam, "son of God". The One To Come is not simply another competent ruler and war chieftain. He is the one whose legitimate Messianic descent will restore the hopes of us all, which is why politicians will finally shut up and peoples come running to find him. As should we. And please hurry: Jam noli tardare!

O Adonai

December 17:
O Adonai, et Dux domus Israel, qui Moysi in igne flammæ rubi apparuisti, et ei in Sina legem dedisti: veni ad redimendum nos in brachio extento.
O Adonai, and leader of the house of Israel, you appeared in the bush to Moses in a flame of fire, and gave him the law on Sinai: come and redeem us with an outstretched arm!

In the second Great O antiphon we become aware that this series will pursue a short course in what German theologians call Heilsgechichte -- the history of salvation. If the first is a meditation on creation and the common aspirations of spiritually alive people, whether pagan or not, the second places us squarely in the beginning of Israel's encounter with God. The antiphon references five aspects of God in relation to Moses and to the people of Israel.

The first is the name of God. Adonai is the Jewish euphemism for the tetragrammaton -- the four letter name of God revealed to Moses on Sinai. It is Hebrew for Lords, plural to emphasize the ultimacy of God, and is read in place of the tetragrammaton wherever it appears in the Hebrew scriptures. The Vulgate -- the Latin Bible universally read in the medieval Western Church -- generally renders Dominus for the tetragrammaton. In only two places does it use Adonai -- at the self-revelation of God to Moses in Exodus 6:3, and, interestingly, in Judith's song of triumph, Judith 16:16, in which she celebrates the strength of God in overcoming Holofernes.

The second is the title dux. Our word "duke" evolved from it, but in the fourth century, when Jerome made his translation, it would refer to a war leader, a general leading troops. It was not an honorific or a hereditary title at that point, but a function of the necessary business of fighting. It was still that in the early middle ages -- the medieval dux was a familiar figure, not perhaps always welcome, but you hoped he would be there when trouble came. God is here honored not simply as "leader", which is a little weak, but as the war leader of the house of Israel. This would seem to refer not so much to the escape from Egypt but perhaps to the wandering in the desert, certainly to the conquest of the Promised Land.

Third is the apparition to Moses in the burning bush. And fourth, the giving of the Law at Sinai. Both need little comment, except to note their equivalence as explanations of what God did in the "Moses event".

The fifth requires some unpacking, however. "Come and redeem us with an outstretched arm." The outstretched arm is a reference to God's gift of victory to his people occurring in this exact phrase, brachio extento, at least ten times in the Vulgate, beginning with its first appearance in Deuteronomy 5:15, in which God led the people of Israel out of Egypt, in the context of the fourth commandment, establishing the Sabbath: et eduxerit te inde Dominus Deus tuus in manu forti, et brachio extento -- "and from whence the Lord your God led you with a might hand and an outstretched arm". The prophets use the phrase extensively and broaden it to include other interventions by God on Israel's behalf. So the fifth is a reference, somewhat veiled, to the Exodus itself.

If there is a meditative surprise here, perhaps it is in the order in which these events are given in the antiphon. In the scriptures they occur in the sequence burning bush (3), revelation of the Name (1), the escape from Egypt (5), the giving of the Law (4), and God's military leadership (2).

The author of this antiphon has clearly another sequence than the historical in mind. The first clause combines the saving action of Adonai in the revelation of his identity with His identity as giver of military success. No doubt the people of Israel found confirmation of the Mosaic proclamation in the concrete realization of victory over the Canaanites, and perhaps our poet is adopting their point of view. The central section, the subordinate clause beginning with qui, dwells on Moses' centrality in this encounter with God, at the bush and in the giving of the law. These are placed in central, equivalent, positions structurally, leading us to wonder about their connection with each other: the unexplainable mysteries of God's presence in nature and the mysteries of humans keeping the Law of God, transforming our nature into something unexpectedly holy. Then the meditation returns to the display of power, this time the saving power God extends in history to his people, which we need now as much as then. The poet is identifying us with the ancient Israelites, looking for confirmation of God's identity and revelation in acts of saving power for us, his people, as of old.

So the movement of this thought pattern is identity (in Name [A] and in action [B]) - revelation in two parts , the burning bush [C1] and the Law given on Mount Sinai [C2] - return to action [B], and by implication, restoration of our confidence in the Name of the One [A]. An incomplete chiasmic structure (A-B-C1-C2-B) leaving us to fill in the missing A. Which is, of course, so hauntingly chanted at the beginning of the antiphon, and which is what we will remember first: O Adonai.

O Adonai, you who trust us with your Name, who led our ancestors in the battles that won them the Promised Land, who appear both in mysterious events we cannot explain and in the mundane activities of everyday life, making the smallest act of law-keeping an encounter with You on the holy mountain: Come and save us now, with the mighty arm of your unfathomable and unknowable power, so gracious to us in our need.

O Wisdom

From the English usage on December 16:
O Sapientia, quæ ex ore Altissimi prodiisti, attingens a fine usque ad finem, fortiter suaviterque disponens omnia: veni ad docendum nos viam prudentiæ.
O Wisdom, you came out of the mouth of the Most High, and reach from one end to another, mightily and sweetly ordering all things: come and teach us the way of prudence. (trans. from OHC's A Monastic Breviary).

The O's begin with a meditation on wisdom, the wisdom proceeding from the mouth of God which orders creation. This is the theology of the Word, in Hebrew dabar, in Greek logos, the foundational insight of the Judeo-Christian tradition which directly links the world we experience to the mind of God. So our approach to the saving work of God starts with the assertion that what is to be saved was created and is already foundationally in tune with its creator/savior.

The coming into the world of this wisdom is a kind of homecoming. I sometimes wonder if the parables Jesus tells of a householder going off on a journey and coming back unexpectedly, not knowing what he will find when he returns, are not an indication of God's experience in finding the world he made not exactly perfectly in tune with him. Certainly John (1:10-11) makes that explicit.

I am reading a new, interesting, somewhat abstruse book on Roman paganism by Clifford Ando, The Matter of the Gods: Religion and the Roman Empire. Ando's starting point is the assertion that the Romans did not have myths, or at least when they needed them, they borrowed them. From the Greeks, of course. What they did have was praxis, the right performance of ritual. This praxis permeated everything in life. Their praxis can be shown to have changed as they noted what did and didn't work. Ando argues that Roman pagan religion was profoundly experiential, in that what they were interested in was discovering the links between the phenomenal world and the spiritual realities which lay beyond it. Each ritual act was observed in its intention, its performance and its effect. Just as the Hebrews and their Christian descendants did, the Romans were looking for the word behind the world. They were looking for the wisdom that would enable them to act prudently, to line themselves up with the relevant spiritual powers and find protection and success by doing so.

This doesn't seem so odd to me. I suppose that trying to line yourself up with the divine is the universal desire of humankind. So for me, this first antiphon is a bridge to the experience of all our ancestors, going back to the dawn of consciousness. They all wanted wisdom, they all felt and thought that the world we are in proceeds from and operates according to the will of the divine one(s), and that our job is to get in touch with that and speak and act accordingly, which is prudence.

It gives me great comfort to imagine that my desire for wisdom and prudence is shared by all serious thinking and feeling people of every age, even the painters of the caves of Altamira, even the worshipers of the Venus of Willendorf, even the obsessive-compulsive Romans trying so hard to get it right so that they could go out and conquer some more of their neighbors, near and far. It is profoundly human. Judaism and Christianity are not discontinuous at all with the great human longings for wisdom.

The Wisdom we ask to come to us is mighty in its actions. But it is also sweet, which is perhaps the surprise word here. For on the whole pagan religion is about fear, seeking to avoid trouble -- famine, disease, injury, natural and human disaster, childlessness, death -- which is the lot of every human, and knowing that even if you get too close to the virtue of the divine one(s), you may not be able to bear it. And if it is not about fear, it is about power -- getting it, keeping it, using it. The divine is powerful and dangerous, and so prudence is the right gift to ask for. But Jesus, now there's a different kind of power. The helpless child, poor and insignificant. The teacher whose words and deeds only get him into trouble with the higher-ups, and anyway, he spent his time with people who really don't count. The life given on the Cross. The surprise ending of the Resurrection and the astonishing (eventual) victory of a community at least nominally centered on the Love, not the Danger, of God. Blessed are the meek. How very different from the Romans, indeed, from practically everyone else, who have the sense to ask for the sensible gifts, not mourning, poverty, persecution. In Jesus the world of desire and power is turned on its head.

So sweetness is part of real prudence too. Not only the avoidance of danger, but learning the wisdom of delight, of beauty, of kindness, of compassion, of agape, disinterested love for the sake of the other. Learning the sweetness of not just loving the poor but being one of them. Come and teach us the way (now there's a loaded word for Christians!) of prudence.

Advent and the Great O's

Well, it is now more than halfway through Advent and I haven't written anything. So I thought I would make up for that by writing a brief meditation on each of the "Great O" antiphons, which in the Anglican tradition begin today.

These antiphons are called "Great O's" because each begins with the exclamation "O", which when chanted in plainsong is a rather long musical phrase. They seem to date back to the seventh or eighth centuries and were written to adorn the sung monastic office in Advent. There are seven Great O's in the continental liturgical tradition, eight in the English rite. The eighth is a meditation on the Blessed Virgin Mary.

The seven first antiphons each begins with a title from the Old Testament tradition which describes a saving aspect of God: Wisdom, Adonai, Root of Jesse, Key of David, Dayspring, King of the Nations, Emmanuel. The saving action of each of these is briefly characterized, followed by a brief prayer which begins: Veni, Come, and accomplish that great work in our time. The eighth does not follow this threefold format, but is a brief dialogue between Mary and the daughters of Jerusalem on the mystery of the Incarnation.

I love these antiphons. I first learned them (all unknowing) as perhaps you did, in the great hymn in our tradition, O Come, O Come, Emmanuel. The music for the Great O's in OHC's monastic office is beautiful, melodic, contemplative. We began singing them this evening.

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving is upon us.

This one will be different from my last sixteen. While I was in parish ministry, Thanksgiving was always problematic. In Anaheim we had a service in the morning, and then people went home for dinner. A couple of times I wasn't invited anywhere and just shifted for myself. Usually, but not always, people invited me in advance, and that was always kind. A couple of times it was at the door after the service. "Where are you having dinner?" Well, actually nowhere, I would say, trying but not succeeding to keep my disappointment to myself. I had some really nice times those years. But to be a guest in someone else's home on a day with so many intimate associations was a challenge for me. I suppose I could have cooked a nice dinner and invited others, but, frankly, I wasn't up to it.

When I moved to New York City, I discovered, I am almost but not quite ashamed to admit, to my delight, that St. Edward's had no tradition of Thanksgiving Day services. Hallelujah. We had the usual Wednesday Eucharist and then I would betake myself to the monastery, catching the always packed train to Poughkeepsie. Being with the brothers was wonderful, but it wasn't quite home. So this year really is home! I'm here already, and so thankful to be in the midst of a loving community.

Things to give thanks for. The usual inventory of the present moment, of course: a roof overhead, heat, clothes, food, which so many do not have. A loving community to live in. Rewarding work to do. Reasonably good health. More interesting books to read than I can ever finish, and doubtless more coming my way. Friends. The Church, in all its present weirdness. The Order of the Holy Cross, now entering our 125th year. The House of the Redeemer, its wonderful staff and trustees, its great programs, the window on other worlds that it gives me. Music (I am listening to Haydn's Esterhazy operas in the evenings). And on and on. I sometimes feel guilty when I am in list mode for thanksgiving in prayer, because I always leave something important out.

And the inventory of the past: my family (though I would not always have put all of them on the list, I do now), especially my Aunt Mary who is 100 this year, made it to the party and beyond and is now beginning to fail; my parishes and their wonderful people, St. Edward's East Harlem, St. Michael's, Anaheim and Holy Family, Half Moon Bay; the brothers in OHC now gone who live on in heart and memory; my seminary, CDSP, and especially the Borschs; the Diocese of Los Angeles, with special memories of the Commission on Ministry for many years; Cornell and Michigan State and Western High School and Hyde Park Junior High School and Edison Elementary School; All Saints, Las Vegas and St. James, Pullman WA; the monasteries I have lived in -- Holy Cross in West Park (in the old days -- the 70's are now the old days!), Toronto, Berkeley, and of course, Mount Calvary; the Camaldolese brothers, with joyful regard to Robert Hale and Andrew Colnaghi; the Camaldolese monastery at San Gregorio Magno in Rome; the Anaheim Police Department, who welcomed me as their chaplain for five years; the Spanish language and Hispanic people I ministered to for so long, and especially the undocumented ones, whose faces just pop into my head unbidden from time to time, needing prayer, I suppose; the seminarians and recent seminary graduates I have mentored and who have now gone on to ordination and whatever their priesthood has been called to; spiritual directees over the years; so many places I have preached; the list is just going to get longer.

And then there are the things which did not seem to be blessings at the time. The disasters and traumas and losses, the conflicts, the closed doors, the attempts which failed. I used to be depressed by them, but now I give thanks for them. Each one proved to be a blessing eventually, from learning from the experience, from moving away from something I wanted but wasn't really for me, from learning t0 love the realities that God had placed me in, from being forced to grow into skills and identities I never imagined I would need to have. I think my greatest growth has always come from the things that did not work out. And one of the things about growing older is that the turnaround time decreases. When I was younger I would spend a lot of energy on my reactions, tenderly nurturing my disappointments. But I have learned that those plants don't bear very good fruit.

So, Thanks for not being admitted to grad school at Yale or Princeton but to Cornell. Thanks for not getting a job in my field. Thanks for being told to shut up about my great learning when I was a postulant in OHC. Thanks for living in our priory in Berkeley when we had no money for food sometimes. Thanks for not being sent to Texas when I graduated from CDSP but to Mount Calvary instead. Thanks for being made Novice Master in a really difficult situation in the 80's. Thanks for the Order losing its wealth in the early 80s. Thanks for the sewage system at Mount Calvary collapsing. Thanks for not being reappointed prior in 1990 when I wanted it more than anything. Thanks for communal problems in Berkeley. Thanks for reaching my limit and deciding to do parish work but not leave OHC. Thanks for all the parishes that did not elect me rector. Thanks for St. Michael's denying its own future to itself and thanks for the conflict it brought. And for two things which are certainly not causes for rejoicing in any objective way, but set up conditions for grace to flow: Thanks for the poverty in East Harlem, because without it there would not have been the parish of St. Edward's that is so faithful there. Thanks for 9/11 just months after I moved to NYC, because without it there would not have been the many opportunities for ministry it brought. This list could go on and on too.

So, this fall, death, the economy down the tubes, Mount Calvary lost to fire.... It's a lot. But I give thanks, because I know that people who meet loss with faith and energy and determination find new life.

The Fire on the Mount

As usual in the monastery, it is the little things that denote something important. I noticed at breakfast yesterday that Robert, our Superior, whispered something to Charles, our postulant. Soon Charles was doing breakfast dishes with us rather than Robert. And in a few minutes the news spread: there is a serious fire in Montecito. Robert appeared and let us know the details -- that the guests at Mount Calvary had been evacuated on Thursday evening to St. Mary's Convent near the Old Mission; that the brothers had evacuated around midnight; and that the situation looked pretty grim.

We got through the morning without anything definite, but then at the noon meal the news came that a friend of Mount Calvary had contacted the Santa Barbara Fire Chief and that the monastery had burned. As the day went on the confirmations mounted, pictures were seen, a live feed NBC helicopter camera spent 90 seconds or so showing Mount Calvary. It was gone.

We had a scheduled monastery finance committee meeting at 2. During it I felt myself having what I assumed was an allergic reaction to something at the noon meal -- impaired respiration, tingling in extremities, tightening up my vocal cords, raised temperature, flushed face. I have never had a food allergy reaction before, except for a very mild one when I eat raw honey, and that is just a few raised bumps on the tongue. How interesting. Bede suggested it was a nervous reaction. Perhaps it was.

I spent 11 years of my life at Mount Calvary. I arrived there in the summer of 1979, a freshly ordained deacon right out of seminary. I was made Guest Master, and spent 2 years cleaning and improving the facilities and creating a more comprehensive administrative system. Two years later our new Superior asked me to be Prior, and I continued in that position for 9 years, until 1990. In that time we brought our guest ministry there into an almost professional operation. I am happy to say that the brethren there since have made the operation better and better. A few years into my time as Prior it became clear that we were going to have to do something serious about the building. The sewage system was gradually collapsing, the neighbors were objecting to our traffic up the hill, the monastery section was primitive to say the least. We joked that we were living in the Bates Motel. The building was running down.

We spent years fund raising while we also worked on developing renovation plans. We spent those years working also with the City of Santa Barbara and our neighbors to gain access to the City's sewage system. It was a long struggle, but we finally reached an agreement: The neighbors would build a new road up the back of the ridge, which would become the new access road, and we would be allowed to run our sewage line through their property to the City main. That insured our continuation at Mount Calvary, since our most recent effort at a leaching field had utterly failed.

We raised the money, got permits for the plan, found a good contractor, rented a house in Goleta to live in for the duration, and the work began in June, 1989. It finished on schedule, right on time for a writers' retreat to be led by Madeleine L'Engle. Madeleine was a tall person, and she had given a gift to install an extra-long tub in the new room she would occupy.

I like to imagine that I knew every inch of that building by the time the renovation was over. I wanted to stay on and build on what we had accomplished, but new leadership in OHC wanted to make changes, and so I was transferred to Berkeley. It was a hard adjustment for me.

So to hear that such an important part of my life was burning, and then to see the pictures, was heartbreaking. I know what the conventional monastic response to such a loss should be -- gratitude for gifts given and detachment as they are taken away. But. But. It will take me a while to get to the conventional place. A part of my life, a part of my heart, is gone.