Jerodmac's Thoughts on Stuff

Brother Mel and going to my first prayer

As I checked in the front desk of the retreat house, a short middle aged man comes from a room down the hall and extends his hand to meet me. “Hi, I’m Brother Mel.” I introduced myself and we shook hands. He was dressed like he could be working at Office Depot: corporate casual all the way. I couldn’t exactly guess how old he was, but his grey/white hair and neatly trimmed beard made me think he was about my Dad’s age. I explained to Him why I had come and he shuffled me off to my room for the week. He appeared to be busy with some other things and quickly told me about prayer (office of the readings) at 5:30. He asked me specifically if I would like to join the monks for prayer, and I without having much time to think about it said, “Sure, I would be honored.” He disappeared and I shut the door to my room. I spent a little time getting settled in and then went to the lobby to wait on Brother Mel. I carried my prayer book with me, wanting to appear that I at least had some idea what we were about to be doing. (Little did I know)

At 5:28, Brother Mel walked through the lobby, this time covered from shoulders to the floor in a black habit (the hooded robe of the monks). A hand popped out from the folds of his robe and motioned me to follow him. I felt that he was genuinely glad I was there. He never broke stride. As we walked out of the doors of the retreat house, He handed me an umbrella, took one himself and kept walking. We walked around a wet concrete path and up a half flight of stairs into a door that had “peace” written on its one small window pane.
Inside, the hall was wide but dark, and I couldn’t tell how long it went on. Our shoes made echoing footsteps, as we made a few turns. There wasn’t much light other than the light that came dimly through the stained glass windows. Dim blues and reds cast onto the floor as we past through. On the wall a stone bowl was mounted. It had some sort of liquid in it; I am unsure whether it was oil or water. We didn’t stop long enough to look. Brother Mel, reached in dabbed his fingers and then dabbed his forehead, again without breaking his stride. We began to see other monks, all wearing the same habit, all striding toward the same place. It was a quiet place and all you heard was the footsteps of the monks.
Soon I caught a glimpse of where we were going. There was a door that light was streaming out of and the monks we lining up to walk through. About this time loud bells began to chime. I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was a few seconds from 5:30. Brother Mel, leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “What denomination are you?”

Before I could answer, he turned back around and faced the door that we were getting closer to. All of the sudden I knew that it was painfully obvious that I was not only not a catholic, but also that I was way out of my element. Not wanting to take the time to go into my own personal discourse on the problems of denominationalism I stammered, “Er…uh…Assemblies of God.” He never turned around, only stepped through the door, bowed low and then turned back to me and motioned me to follow him.

We had entered into the rear of the Abbey Church into the area they called the monks choir. It was massive wood structure built like risers with four rows one one side and four on the other facing each other. The monk’s choir had individual stalls for monks. At each stall was a shelf that held the prayer books and hymnals, a kneeling bench, and a seat. The arms and backrest of the stall were a foot taller than your shoulders. There right beside Brother Mel, I watched as around 40 monks filed in, bowed toward the cross at the center of the church and took their places in the choir. As the bells continued to chime, Brother Mel whispered again in my ear, “Oh, I have family who are ministers in the Assemblies of God in Florida.” I looked at him and didn’t know if I was supposed to answer or not. None of the other monks we talking. He just kind of smiled at me, kind of let me know that he knew I was nervous.

Brother Mel helped me find where we would be reading from in the books that were on the shelf in front of me. As he finished finding my place, a smaller bell from somewhere in the choir sounded and a voice began to say, “Lord, open my lips.” Immediately all the monks rose and said in response, “And my mouth will proclaim your praise.” They read some more, and responded in turn. Standing and sitting at different intervals. I watched Brother Mel closely and did exactly what he did. The monks sang the Te Deum:

You are God: we praise you;
You are the Lord; we acclaim you;
You are the eternal Father;
All creation worships you.

To me it was more like a chant than a song, but the pipes over my shoulder accompanied their singing nicely. The acoustics in this room were incredible. It was then that I had the courage to look around and see that the monk’s choir was at the head or front of the Abbey Church. The ceilings were high and vaulted, and the chants of the praying monks had a natural reverb.

It was then it hit me. All of the times that I have prayed the Divine Office, I had been praying with these guys. And not only with these guys, but with all the saints of God in the world who lift up their prayers to God. I felt a connectedness with others who loved God and sought him diligently. I thought of the people of prayer in Korea, where all night long the mountain side is lit with tiny candles representing people in every cave and rock cranny praying continually to God. I thought of some of the older monks in the that group before me, some of them, 40 or 50 years of daily praying together “Your Kingdom come, your will be done.”

I became resolute in my heart. I want to be a prayer. I want for my life be defined not by the great miracles that I accomplished because I was a man of prayer, but simply because I am a man of prayer. It has been presented to me too much of my life that a deep prayer habit is necessary if you are going to become a world changer. In our time we read E.M. Bounds, and the lives of Finney and Hyde and we selfishly desire to do the works that God did through these people. In our desire for glory, we view prayer as the road to get there. Praying will make me a closer follower of Jesus, teaching me faith, making me a stronger believer. The gospels say that signs will follow them that believe. It’s hard to cultivate a prayer life when I only see prayer as a means to an end. Prayer is in itself an end. I pray, not because if I don’t I will lose out with God, not because I want to juice up and become a super miracle worker, not even because I know that my prayers can change the world around me. I pray, simply because of the life that comes from being connected to my God in communication. I want to quit praying out of guilt, out of knowing that I should. I want to pray out of love.