life and death in the monastery

This blog has been neglected for too long.

I wish to express here my gratitude for the glimpses into the life of a monastic community that I have been privileged to experience here.  I have had much more interaction with the monastic community during this sabbatical than I did when I was here seven years ago.

In January Br. John hosted a concert/evening prayer event called "More Light".  He and I and my husband, John, along with two other monks, Frs. Aelred Senna and Michael Peterson, a couple of graduate students from the School of Theology, and another friend of Br. John's performed some music in a lovely chapel with beautiful accoustics.  We also had most of the group over for dinner before the concert for planning and rehearsal.  I met other young monks in the class I audited on Eucharistic Liturgy and Theology: Br. Brad, Br. Stephen, Br. Lou, Br. Benedict, and at least one more whose name I don't remember.  I met two more, Br. Lucien and Br. Isaiah, in the ecumenical and interfaith group that met for breakfast twice during our time here.  On the other end of the age spectrum are Frs. Killian, Wilfred and Luigi (90-something, 80-something and 75) who regularly attend the seminars and Friday evening dinners with the Collegeville Institute scholars.  Frs. Killian and Luigi invited John and I for dinner in the monastic dining hall one evening in February.  (They extended the same invitation to each of the other scholars on other evenings).  Over dinner we had a chance to talk to Br. Paul Jasmer, whom I have been told has a picture of Luther on the door of his cell.  After hearing my timid expressions of wanting to find a way to be both Presbyterian and Catholic, Br. Paul said "The only way I know how to be Christian is to be ecumenical."  He also asked for a copy of my talk.  One snowy day, Fr. Killian again invited a couple of the other scholars and myself who had trudged up to noon prayer in the snow to have lunch with the monks rather than walking back to our apartments.  That was shortly after Pope Francis had been elected, and Fr. Killian was beaming with hope for the church--especially the hope for greater collegiality signaled by the new pope's riding back from the conclave on the bus with the other bishops rather than in a limousine.

Then there are those whom I met in the process of entering the Catholic Church: I met with Fr. Killian for an hour on two different occasions, asking him my questions about the Catholic faith and issues of intercommunion.  I then approached Fr. Nathanael for pastoral advice.  Br. John and I met with Fr. Michael Kwatera to discuss liturgical logistics.  Then John and I had a private meeting with Abbot John Klassen, whose warmth, understanding, and exuberance may have been what closed the deal on my "conversion".  Then a couple of meetings with Fr. Joseph for more pastoral counseling.  Br. John Brudney prepared the script for the Easter Vigil and instructed me when to come up and where to stand.  Fr. Anthony found a way to work a prayer for the Presbyterian Church into the intercessory prayers, and also asked for a copy of my talk on dual belonging.  (I had met him seven years ago when I learned how to sing Gregorian chant in the schola that he directed).  I was also one of seven people selected to have my feet washed by the Abbot at the Holy Thursday celebration of the Lord's Supper.  This got John and I another invitation to dinner in the monastic dining room, while Br. John served tables.

Then there's Br. Walter who directs the Maple Syrup operations, and who also served as deacon when I was welcomed into the Catholic Church at the Easter vigil.

So I now see a lot of friendly, familiar faces when I join the monks for prayer 3-4 times a day. 

I have been a part of two monastic processions.  Last Sunday I was a lector, so I processed into mass behind the long train of monks, carrying the red book of the Gospels, feeling a tingle down my spine as I stepped up to place it on the altar. 

A week or so earlier, I followed the funeral procession for Br. Gregory from the funeral mass in the Abbey Church, out the back door of the monastery, through the private monastic gardens between the monastery and the lake shore, then a few hundred yards down a rural lane to the monastic cemetery.  The monks at the front of the procession were singing; Br. John was at the front of the procession, carrying a cross on a pole.  Earlier that day, after morning prayer, I had met Br. Gregory, in his black monk's robe and black shoes, lying in his open, varnished pine coffin in the church.  A few other monks stood around, speaking to and about him affectionately, referring to him as "Greggie", commenting about his shoes, his glasses.  Now I watched them lower him into the ground, as I had watched John's Aunt Dody lowered into the ground a month or so earlier.  The thought of myself one day being buried in the ground used to be unthinkable to me, but it is coming to seem more normal and acceptable to me.  At the funeral mass, Abbot John told stories about Br. Gregory's love of gardening, and how last fall, with ailing health, when he had been asked what he was going to plant in the spring he had said "me!".  As I walked back to campus after the burial, I heard a group of young monks walking behind me, sharing their thoughts about death, burial, cremation.

This afternoon I observed and participated for the first time in the sacrament of anointing the sick.  I had met Fr. Kevin Seasoltz during my previous sabbatical here, and had had a couple of significant conversations with him.  His article on open and closed communion had played a role in my faith journey and featured prominently in my talk on dual belonging.  I had hoped to interact with him when I arrived here in January, and had been dismayed to learn that the was dying of cancer.  I prayed for him often during my time here.  When the intercessory prayers called our attention to those who were sick, I thought of him.  He looked weak but alert this afternoon, lying in a hospital bed in the middle of the hallway of the monastic retirement center on the second floor of the quadrangle.  A few dozen monks and a handful of nurses were gathered around as Abbot John led the rite.  I watched as each monk filed past and laid their hands on Fr. Kevin's head.  Br. John motioned me that I could do the same, and I gently laid my hand on his bald head.  I felt undeservedly priviledged to be there, witnessing this intimate moment in community life.