Why don’t they use lights in this place?

I set my alarm to go off at 5:15. As it started to beep, it was joined with the bells. (which chime every 15 minutes, and at a host of other times as well) I quickly got up and ready. I was out of my room in a few moments and left the retreat house in the drizzling rain and made my way to the Abbey Church. I don’t know if the dark rainy skies had much to do with it or not, but it was dark. On the sidewalk, monks started to join me. No one said anything. As I opened the door that said peace in the window I saw five or six monks moving by, the hall only lit by a candle sconce on the wall. Why don’t they use lights in this place?

These men meet here to pray in the morning every day of their lives. What more can you say? I was sort of astounded when I began to do the calculations. Brother Mel had told me the evening before that he had been at the Abbey 15 years. They told me of a brother who had died recently after having been at the Abbey since 1941. Here is commitment to prayer. Here is a form of devotion to God. Oddly though, I didn’t feel guilty.

As we prayed this morning we came to one of my favorite passages, taken from the prophecy of Zechariah over John the Baptist. “You my child shall be called the prophet of the Most High, for you shall go before the Lord to prepare His way, to bring his people knowledge of salvation by the forgiveness of their sins.” (Luke 1) Once again, as I have felt so many times before, I felt the scripture speak directly to me. I grabbed hold of Zechariah’s words as if they were my own father’s. In fact, they sounded to me as if, Father God was encouraging me. I felt happy to be His child, confused by what He has for my future but confident in the knowledge that I was at least hearing his voice.

As the morning prayers ending, all of the monks hurried off to breakfast and then to work. I crept out the back door and went back to bed.

Bonds and the Juice

Being a fan of Hank Aaron, you think that maybe I would be happy that all this comes out on Bonds. (It's really nothing new, there has been talk about Bonds and steroid use for years). I've got friends, mainly Cardinal fans still upset that Bonds broke McGuire's single season homerun record, who are rejoicing now that Bonds is publicly discredited. "He's getting what he deserves" and "That just shows he wasn't for real..." are the things I am hearing.

But I don't feel that way.

I admit, when more talk about the "the clear" and "the cream" came out, I was thinking in the back of my mind, "maybe this will keep Him from breaking Hank Aaron's record", but then the sadness hit me. It's just not right, I mean for baseball and sports in general. Don't get me wrong, I love to watch Bonds play, but when the man is juiced up it almost seems like you are watching a scripted movie where the super human hero always wins in the end. It just seems to kill the realism. The part inside me that says, "That's just a normal guy like me, and check out what he is doing!" But maybe that's just part of growing up: realizing that the real heros aren't bionic sports stars, and robot rock and roll musicians, but really, your dad, your grandpa, and your uncles.

The fact for me still remains that Bonds can flat kill the ball. And you better believe that I will be watching as he hits 715, and 755 and 800. I say lets all put on our rose colored glasses and cheer for him as he cruises right past Hammerin' Hank. It is definitely going to fill the news for the next couple of years.

A tour in the dark
(continuing posts from the my recent visit to Subiaco Monastery.)

After the meal we had a few minutes to kill before evening prayer, and so Brother Mel, offered to show me around. I agreed and we began to walk the dark halls again. This time going up and down stairs lit only with the glow of stain glass light. The actual cloister, where the monks live, is usually closed to outsiders, but since it was under renovation, Brother Mel and Brother Francis guided me around and showed me all the sites. The abbey at night was awesome. The arches and columns threw amazing shadows everywhere. They walked quickly, obviously they lived here, and I struggled to keep up and notice everything as we passed by. They showed me the a cloister room, the common area, their library, their health center, and their private chapels. We peeked into the Abbots prayer chapel, a room probably 20x20 with a large altar in the center. Behind the altar was a full length stained glass window depicting the Holy Spirit as a dove, flying from the hands of Jesus. Candles were lit in the chapel and it looked like every square inch in the room was covered in art. Paintings, carvings and sculpture all glimmered in the candlelight.

We walked slowly back through the halls and once again slipped by way of a back door into the monk’s choir in the front of the Abbey church. The bell soon rang, and the organ began to play for the special All Saints Solemnity. I once again followed Brother Mel through the gymnastics of the singing and praying. When they came to passages that I knew, I closed my eyes and sang with them. Being very careful to pay attention and not let my voice hangover where it shouldn’t, I really enjoyed hearing my own voice in the monk’s choir.

Because of it being a feast day, the evening vespers were formal. The Abbot and the Priors were dressed in their full formal get ups, the Abbot wore a mitre on his head about half the size of the one I have seen in pictures on the pope. As we sang the first song, I saw Brother Francis, whom I had met at dinner, wearing a white stole over his habit and carrying the incense holder/swinger. While the Abbot prayed the blessing, He pulled out a what looked like a little snuff tin and scooped a few spoonfuls into the incense burner. Brother Francis put a cap on the burner and began to swing it back and forth. As we prayed the smell of the incense filled the monk’s choir, and the smoke from the incense burner slowly climbed upward. It reminded me of the scripture where it says our prayers rise like incense before Him (Psalm 141).

I really enjoyed praying with the monk’s. It was cool to join with them, singing praise, reading the scripture and offering petitions to God. It was also cool in my heart to know that I was different from them. That night I ran to Walmart, got some diet cokes and read until I fell asleep. It seemed to me that I was in for a good week.

Thanksgiving Fun

We have just had a really fun week. Thanks to alot of casual time, we took the whole week of thanksgiving off and basically just goofed off. It was a really enjoyable time. As always, it was good to visit with the family and catch up on things. The food wasn't bad either. Here are a few pics of from the week. Roll your mouse over the picture to see a brief explanation.

Dinner with the brothers

When we finished prayers, Brother Mel, once again motioned for me to follow. He bowed at the cross, and took off again into the dark hallways around the Abbey church. At an intersection in the hallways, we waited as if heeding an invisible traffic light as monks in habits streamed by. When they were past we ventured on. Everyone was quiet and knew exactly where they were going. I stayed close on the heels of my guide, because I knew that I didn’t want to be alone in these dark halls. He whispered from time to time, “We are going to the monk’s dining room.” And, “there is talk that the abbot will let us speak tonight.” Apparently, as I learned later, the brothers usually take their meals in silence. Occasionally on special days, this day being All Saints Day, the Abbot will allow the monks to speak at supper. Brother Mel whispered again, “We won’t know until we are all seated, but we are hoping…”

We formed into a silent line, 40 or so monks in black habits, and me, in a t-shirt and blue jeans. Inside the dining room, we served ourselves cafeteria style. The food was simple but tasty. You could have roast lamb or roast beef. The side dish was roasted potatoes, carrots and onions. There was bread and salad. To drink there was coffee, tea, wine and fruit juices. I followed Brother Mel to a table where we sat with two other monks. About a half minute after everyone had sat down, a bell rung and quiet conversation sprung up at all of the tables in the room. Before long, I heard the monks laughing. There seemed to be a lot of laughing in the room.

So there I sat in a room with 40 celibate men, myself extraordinarily happily married with 4 wonderful children, listening to jokes, talking about computers, baseball, the presidential election. It was pretty weird. I saw how human these men were. Those at my table told me of their families and where they were brought up. I was able to see that they were just real guys. They didn’t speak to each other in Latin and they actually smiled a lot. Although a few minutes ago, in the monk’s choir, as they chanted praise to God, I thought I was in the presence of ascended masters of the spirit life, I now felt like they weren’t too different from me.

O.K. sure they were different from me in everyway imaginable. But they had made their choices in life so that they could serve God. Jennifer and I have done the same.

The Heavenly Man

Every once in a while you feel as if God has slapped you in the face. When I was given the book, The Heavenly Man, I was sure that it would be placed on my shelf next to the scores of books that have been given to me yet remain unread. For one reason or another, I picked up this book and began to read.

I couldn't put it down.

Brother Yun and many others like him are aquainted with suffering and faith in Jesus firsthand in ways that we only read about in books. I was shocked at the inhumanity of our modern world (Brother Yun was imprisoned in the 80's and 90's). I was also shocked at the obedience, transparency, and urgency of the Chinese believers. I have much to learn.

If you don't have time to read the book, please google Brother Yun, and read about his miraculous prison escape. Or if you are more interested listen to him preach. You can read excerpts from the book here.

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.

Joby's Mohawk

The rumors are correct. My son does have a mohawk. Here are the pics to prove it.

Entering the Abbey

It rained all day. The drive up seemed like it took forever. As I got closer I felt more and more nervous. I can’t explain it, it just felt like I was entering into another world. As I drove onto the grounds I was sure that I had entered a foreign country. The landscape is dominated by this large sandstone fortress, part of which is discernable as a church (more like a cathedral). From one of the corners a tall bell tower shoots up. Crosses and symbols are everywhere, etched in the stone work of buildings and custom shaped into the landscaping. It feels like this must be a sacred place, everything is designed for it to be. Everything in my mind tells me that thought isn’t true, I know that God doesn’t dwell in houses made of stone and that He presence is just as real in my house as it is at the Abbey. Yet here is all this imagery. Crosses and Statues everywhere. Places set aside to pray and listen to the Lord. Knowing that I don’t need to be bowed before a crucifix to have my prayers heard by God, I still kind of like seeing them around. I pass 4 statues of St. Benedict, 2 Jesus, a St. Francis and a Mary on my way from the truck to the front door of the retreat house. Inside the lobby door of the Coury House there is a life size St. Benedict holding a shepherd’s staff and a broken goblet. On the other wall is a picture of Mary and the Christ Child, asking people to pray for AIDS victims worldwide. There is another crucifix complete with corpus (That’s a catholic way of saying the body of Jesus hanging on the cross) on my left. And on the right a mosaic of a flaming dove coming from heaven to touch the earth. There is no doubt what kind of facility this is. Its imagery gives it away. This is a place that reverences and honors the Triune God as the supreme king over everything. I can tell right away that these people are serious about God. I like that. I am going to like it here.

Why is St. Benedict giving me the creeps?

The granite St. Benedict that I am staring at high up on the front exterior wall of this humble but no less magnificent cathedral is 90% impressive and 10% creepy. Impressive is his commanding presence. He is sharply chiseled. He looks to be a serious man, maybe even fierce, yet calm and at peace. Whether it’s from what I have read about St. Benedict or not, He seems to be welcoming me. Almost as if this whole idea of Benedictine hospitality is for me, for this moment.

The creepy part is a bit harder to explain. At the churches where I grew up, the only bits of sacred artistic imagery were the simple cross crudely routered into the wooden pulpit that stood at the front of the rows of wooden pews, and the grassy green riverside oil painting that hung behind the baptismal. There were also some line drawings of doves and crosses on our literature, but nothing to betray the vastness of sacred art that existed outside of our religious tradition. Even further than not being accustomed to statues and sacred art, much of my formal religious indoctrination taught me that saints, rosaries, religious celebrations, and anything to do with Mary the Mother of Jesus were, depending on who was doing the talking, misguided, unfortunate or downright demonic. As more and more places of worship are looking like a meeting room at a hotel, it seems weird that I am drawn to the places that are old, anti-modern, almost cluttered with icons and imagery. And it’s not like I am creeped out like when you walk through a wax museum and you fear that a statue is going to spring to life and grab you. It’s more just a question in the back of your mind saying, “Are you sure that a statue or an icon or a person other than Jesus could have anything to add to my experience with God?”

I think I know the answer to that question. The life of St. Francis has made a large impact on me. The way I view my life and serving Jesus has radically been alter by the life of the ‘little brother’. Each time I see a garden statue of Francis with a bird lighting on his arm, I don’t fall down and worship it. Instead I think about the life that He led, and think, “If I was more like that, I would be more like Jesus.” Which is, of course, what I am trying to do.