Posted on Aug 21, 2009
What Can I say about two weeks in a Trappist monastery. First I need to explain that this is not my only time there, and it is not just any monastery.
I first visited Gethsemani Abbey when I was a college student, driving the 45 miles from Danville to Bardstown over winding country roads to find myself in an island of silence; not just the silence brought about by the absence of noise, but a silence that was filled by a sense of presence. I usually say that I am not one given to religious experience, but Gethsemani is the exception which proves the rule.
I made several retreats while in college, and then again when I was chaplain at the University of Kentucky in the 90’s. Giles and I used to spend a quiet day there every month or so until Alex was born, and it became a special place for both of us. Our good friend Father Damien was first Guestmaster, then Interior Cellarer *which means he bought the groceries), the Prior (the second in command) and then Abbot. After retiring as Abbot last year he returned to his old job as Guestmaster. Over the years he has been friend, spiritual guide and companion, and intercessor extraordinaire. Giles credits him with getting Alex here safe and sound after a difficult pregnancy.
Gethsemani has changed a lot over the last thirty years. The Retreat House has been remodeled to accommodate women as well as men, and retreats have become so popular that they now have to use one wing of the monastery itself to accommodate retreatants.
Though the comforts are modern the schedule is medieval. The community rises at 3:15 for Vigils, a service of prayer and readings. By the time they sing Compline at 7:30 they will have been in church 8 times. Most of the services are sung to a modernized Gregorian chant, and, over the course of two weeks, all 150 Psalms are read or sung.
You might think that this would leave little time for work, but the motto of the Order is ora et labora, work AND prayer, and the brothers find plenty of time for the work which supports the monastery, making cheese, fruitcake and fudge.
Retreatants may follow the monastic schedule, and I have tried to do so, though I must admit to sleeping through Lauds (the 5:45 am service) a few times. Silence is enjoined throughout most of the monastery, and all meals are taken in silence. This creates an atmosphere especially conducive to prayer and reflection.
I have not spent all of my time in church or in my room inprayer. Following the advice of my retreat leader in Northumbria to “stay in touch with the earth” I have volunteered to work. This has put me at the tender mercy of Brother Conrad. Brother Conrad entered the monastery in 1957, and was the last monk to manage the Abbey farm. All of the farm land is leased out now, but there is still a lot of landscaping to be done, and other land to manage. I have found my prayers enhanced by weedeating, brush cutting, and using a chainsaw to cut up deadfall from last winter’s ice storms. This takes up three hours every morning Monday through Saturday.
In the afternoons I have gone walking on the monastery property across the highway. This is a largely wooded area featuring several prominent Knobs. Now a Knob is a geographical feature and also the name of a region in Kentucky. A Knob is defined as an “isolated, steep sloping, often cone-shaped hill.” The ones around Gethsemani rise four to five hundred feet and I can attest to the steep slopes. This too has been a species of prayer.
George MaCleod, the founder of the Iona Community used to tell the story of a woman who told a Highlander she’d been to Iona. “Aye,” he said, “Iona’s a thin place. There’s nought much between heaven and Iona.” I think that Gethsemani too is a “thin place,” where it doesn’t matter whether you sing your prayers, or work them or even hike them, there’s “nought much” between Gethsemani and heaven, and everything you do can be a prayer.
Posted on Jul 22, 2009
On the Feast of Pentecost in the year 563 an Irish monk named Columba and twelve companions landed on the island of Iona in the Inner Hebrides. They climbed a nearby hill to be sure that they could no longer see ireland, for which they were already homesick, and then set about building a manastery. This monastery became the center for the spread of Chrisitianity throughout Southeastern Scotland and Northeastern england. A century later, a missionary from Iona, Aidan, carried the gospel to Northumbria, and founded the monastery on Holy Island as a foundation for his missionary work.
The monastery on Iona was closed at the Reformation and soon fell into ruins. The abbey church was restored in the late 1800's and in the 1930's a Scots Presbyterian minister from the slums of Glasgow brought unemployed working men to finish the job by restoring the rest of the abbey. Thus was born the Iona Community, a community of laymen and clergy with a commtment to work, to prayer, to peace and to justice. The community now maintains three centers, the Abbey, the MacCleod Center (named for the founder George MacCleod) and Camas, a rough camp on Mull used as a camp and retreat for poor and at risk inner city youth.
The community has 200 or so members who vow to meet together regularly, to pray, to work for peace and justice and to account for how they use their time and money. Their are also associates who agreee to a lesser level of commitment. All live ordinary lives out in the world.
The Abbey and the "Mac," located on a hill above the Abbey, serve as retreat centers and a place for the community to stay when they gather yearly. There are 40 or so of us staying in the Mac this week. We come from all over the world and all backgrounds. Their are many individuals, but also groups. At least 4 of us are clergy on sabbatical (3 of us on Lilly Endowment grants!), a group of English and German folks whose parishes have a companion relationship, and individuals from the UK, Canada, Australia and Sweden.
There is worship twice a day in the Abbey Church. The Morning and Evening Prayer services are very simple, but the music is very rich. Much is sung ot familiar hymn tunes, or folk tunes from around the world, but the texts are contemporary, often calling us to service in the world.
There is a program every morning, with topics ranging from the spirituality of the Celtic Church to the history and practice of the Iona Community. There are a variety of activities in the afternoons and evenings. On Monday night there was a cailidh (kay-lee), a Scottish song and dance fest, in the village hall, with lively dancing, singefrs, fiddlers and even a piper.
On Tuesday we went on a "pilgirmage," a seven mile hike over rocky territory and though bogs to various points of interest on the island. Wesaw a quarry where they used to produce Iona marble, a beautiful white marble with green veins running through it. At 2.7 billion years old, it is much older than anything nearby. In fact, Iona is geologically closer to Newfoundland, across the Atlantic, than to the island of Mull, just across the channel. We visited St. Columba's Bay, where tradition says Columba and his companions landed.
There was a healing service Tuesday night, and many people wondered if it was a coincidence that it came right after the pilgrimage and the cailidh.
On Thursday there was a boat rip to Staffa Island, a volcanic island 5 miles from Iona. Like th eDevil's Causeway in Northern Ireland it is made of pentagonal columns of basalt, but these rise as much as a hundred feet above the sea. There are several caves, formed when the columns rose and bent towards one another. The largest, Fingal's Cave, the home of the Irish giant Fingal, is 650 feet deep, and 60 feet wide. The ocean flows in and out, but you can walk in on basalt steps on the side of the cave. An impromptu choir sang "Yakanaka vangeri," a Zulu hymn we had learned during th eweek.
Aside form any formal programming it was a wonderful week for making new friends and learning about how the church functions in other parts of the world. It is very different being a Baptist in a country as secular as Sweden, than being being an Episcopalian in America.
Posted on Jul 22, 2009
I had a loose day between Nether Springs and Iona I decided to spend it in Melrose, a town in the Scottish Borders, where I began my St. Cuthbert's Way pilgrimage two years ago. I had hoped to visit the ruins of the great Border Abbeys, but the weather was even worse than it was two years ago, with high winds and driving rain. All was not lost. I met the head of the local folk club in the pub of the hotel and spent an evening with a vriety of local musicians. THey ranged from a blind singer whose Scots accent was so thick he might as well have been singing in Hungarian, to a twelve year old piper, to a melodeon ( a type of button accordion) player who had driven 1 1/2 hours to be there. Yours truly was invited to sing and play the fiddle. There were thirty or so people htere, and anyone hwo wanted to contribute did. It was a grand and very old fashioned evening.
The next morning my misadventures began. I arose early to srive across Scotland to Oban. When I picked up the rental car in Glasgow I accidentally left my camera on the counter. I called from Holy Island and they said that they would put it away for me. It seemed like an easy thing ot stop at the airport to pick it up. But, halfway between Edinburgh and Glasgow on the M8 I stopped for gas and breakfast, and, while juggling food and drink I managed to leave my wallet on the counter. I discovered this while standing outside of the locked Hertz office in Glasgow, so I rushed back and picked it up. This should still have left me with plenty of time to catch the Noon ferry in Oban. However, the road around Loch Lomond is narrow even by Scottish standards, and hte bus at the head of the line of traffic was being driven by someone who was very nervous, or wanted to be sure everyone got to see all of the bonnie banks and all of the bonne braes.
I arrived in Oban at 12:30, which left me plenty of time to sample the local cuisine and walk around the harbor before the 4:00 ferry.