Friday, July 10, 2020

The Lectio Mindset

As all of us Benedictine, oblates or vowed monastics, could probably recite in our sleep, St. Benedict opens the Rule we aspire to live by with a double command:  “Listen…with the ears of your heart” and “put it into action.” It’s simple: listen to it, then do it! But St. Benedict is hardly one to advocate acting on impulse.  Nor does he intend to create an army of robots.  So something has to happen between listening and doing.

The tradition of lectio divina (prayerful reading of Scripture), which St. Benedict also mandated for us without actually using the term, supplies the answer.  You know the pattern:  (1) Listen (read); (2) ponder in conversation with God (meditate; pray); (3) act on what you’ve heard.  But this pattern is not restricted to praying with Scripture.  The monastic tradition speaks of 3 “texts” we can read, ponder, and act on:  the Scriptures of course; nature (this contribution by St. Anthony the Great refers to the mountains or the trees in the backyard,  but can also be interpreted as the human nature in those around us, of which he was himself a gifted reader);  and the “pages” of our daily life’s experience.  This is what St. Benedict means when he talks about seeking God in all things and in all people.  The regular practice of this extended version of lectio creates what I call the lectio mindset, because it is not just something we do at selected times but the way we interact with all of reality.

This mindset presumes, as St. Benedict presumed, and as Jesus taught in the gospel, that reality comes in layers.  There is the busy surface that enchants or annoys or simply absorbs in the business of everyday living.  But on this slick surface, St. Benedict might have said, you slip and slide and go no deeper into the underlying conversation for which our speaking God made us.  That requires plunging through the surface, sometimes with great effort, to get to the deeper places of reality where God is busy creating, transforming, enlivening all that is and inviting us to take part in the work.

This image suggests a two layer world, or maybe a three layer one if we assign God a separate place above and beyond us, as we often do but as St. Benedict never did.  However, reality is not a layer cake, with the chocolate carefully separated from the strawberry by a thick layer of vanilla frosting you could drown in.  The layered reality St. Benedict understood is intensely interactive: heaven and earth arein constant conversation as both God and God’s created reality work together toward a future we cannot even imagine, so the Bible simply calls it “a new heaven and a new earth.” What that might look like, we can only guess.

Really to live in this layered and interactive reality, we need to pray as St. John of the Cross would suggest (even though he wasn’t a Benedictine!): “We must … dig deeply in Christ.  He is like a rich mine with many pockets containing treasures; however deep we dig, we will never find their end or their limit.  Indeed, in every pocket new seams of fresh riches are found on all sides” (see The Liturgy of the Hours, Office of Readings, December 14).  Here, it seems, is the place to which we must go between hearing and doing: Christ, the Wisdom of God, embedded in and speaking throughout the Scriptures and all reality.  

So to get from the listening to the doing, let us put on our miner’s helmets, turn on the brightest light they offer, and go digging into all the nooks and crannies life offers to see what God has hidden there for us.  Thus do we honor the fact that life, like a mine, is seamed with gold. Or, as I prefer to think, seamed with light, the Light of the world!

 Copyright 2020, Abbey of St. Walburga

Tuesday, May 26, 2020

After the Ascension

This week we stand between the Ascension and Pentecost.  It was surely an odd time for Jesus’ followers, a time of suspense between the unexpected and the unpredictable.

The Solemnity of the Ascension, which we celebrated on Sunday, seems to mark the moment of Jesus’ departure from the followers who had walked with him for what was actually a short time—one year or three, depending on which gospel calendar you follow—but a time of presence so intense that they didn’t want to see it end. We see their anxiety at the Last Supper when Jesus begins to talk about departure and return.

Certainly his most dramatic departure was his death on the cross.  He did return-- but with no drama at all.  Instead, he appeared very quietly to his followers, usually either one-on-one (Mary Magdalene at the tomb) or in small numbers (the disciples on the road to Emmaus and the breakfast at the Sea of Galilee).  He came to teach them where they would find him in the future: not by holding onto him physically, as he told Mary Magdalene, but by listening to God’s word from an Easter perspective and by breaking bread together, as he told the two who were Emmaus-bound.  And they left us those stories to teach us what they had learned.

Then, in Acts 1, he left them abruptly.  Or he seemed to.  Acts 1:16 says “he was lifted up” and then “a cloud took him from their sight.”  (The Cloud is God’s presence throughout the Old Testament.) We can imagine them standing there with their mouths upon looking at the sky in which he seemed to have vanished, until “two men dressed in white garments” (presumably a pair of helpful angels “ said, “Men of Galilee, why are you standing there looking at the sky? This Jesus who has been taken up from you into heaven will return in the same way as you have seen him going into heaven.”

And he has and he does.  He disappeared quietly and he returns quietly, as he did in those post-resurrection stories.  Other biblical passages about the great cosmic drama of his final appearance at the end of time tend to draw our attention away from the quiet privacy of the here-and-now.  Jesus still comes to us one-on-one or in small groups (even a large parish gathering is small potatoes compared with the final gathering of the whole world!); he comes in the biblical Word; he comes in the breaking of bread, whether in a Eucharistic assembly or in the more intimate gatherings of family in friends.  (Yes, of course, Christ’s presence in the Eucharist and at the family table are very different in mode, but he himself told us that where two or three are gathered in his name wherever or for whatever reason, he is present as he was at that inn on the Emmaus road).  In fact, wherever we are, he is because he suggests that he has never really left when he promises the apostles gathered to see him off on the Mount of Olives in the ascension account in Matthew 28 that he will be with us always.  After all, his second name is “Emmanuel…which means ‘God is with us’” says the Angel Gabriel to St. Joseph.

So, in this long interim between the Ascension and Christ’s final return, we can do as St. Benedict says, which is to “seek God in all things” because we have been assured that Christ is in fact there to be found.  And Benedict’s Rule supplies us with many tools for meeting with him in all sorts of places:  in the word pondered in lectio divina and in the liturgical Hours, in the people who come to our door, either literally or figuratively by phone and e-mail and text, in the young, the old, the needy and the sick, and in fact in the communities to which we belong, whatever form they may take.  Some of St. Benedict’s search tools are obvious, but some are not:  obedience frees us from the clamor of the willful inner child to listen to God giving directions (Prologue and RB 5), silence (better, taciturnity) frees us from constant inward and outward noise to hear God’s voice in the depths of life (RB 6), humility frees us from the burdensome necessity of running the world as if we were God  so that we can live in communion with the One to whom responsibility for the world properly belongs (RB7).  Chapter 4 on the tools of good works in fact teaches us to construct the whole network of our relationships with self, others and God, so that we can be at peace with Christ at the center of that network.

One of the questions we might ask ourselves (and Christ) in this time between Ascension and Pentecost is: which of these many tools for seeking and finding Christ do we keep sharp and effective, and which ones have we allowed to get rusty from disuse?  When the Spirit of God blows through the world like a great wind, that force can blow away the rust and sharpen our desire to live more deeply in the ever-present Christ.

Copyright 2020 Abbey of St. Walburga

Thursday, May 14, 2020


 St. Benedict would agree.  In fact, to keep the monks at home, he directed that “The monastery should, if possible, be so constructed that within it all necessities, such as water, mill and garden are contained, and the various crafts are practiced” (RB 66:6). But his concern was not contagion of the body but contagion of the heart. He was echoing a widely circulated piece of sage advice given by an elder to a young monk seeking counsel in the desert: “Stay in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.”

Confinement at home, never mind in a small monastic one-room hermitage, chafes, as we have all learned during the long period of “stay-at-home.”  It chafes most when home is populated with other people, even people dearly loved, but it chafes the solitary as well.  However, God’s gifts come in strange packages.  Staying put opens a door to wisdom, should we chose to go there.  It invites us to renew our commitment to listen, and listen with the ears of our heart, to Christ who is always our true inward reality. 

But St. Benedict’s building plan suggests that we will be able really to hear if we clear out our ears by shutting the heart’s door on all the voices that clamor for our attention: the TV with 24 hours a day of pandemic news, the computer, the radio (unless music serves as a welcome wall between the heart and the racket outside!), the phone, the shelf of books that start by relaxing us and end by simply distracting us, and all the other intake with which we so often protect ourselves from the dreaded possibility of a silence in which there is nobody there.  There is never nobody there.  Jesus did say, as I often quote to myself as well as to you, “I am with you always” (Matthew 20:).  And he is God’s word forever speaking us into being as in Genesis 1 and speaking to our inmost being using the same powerful words of creative love that keep the world spinning.  As we all know, the Benedictine habit of lectio divina and praying the liturgical Hours mediates those words to us, but so does simply sitting still in God’s presence in whatever attentiveness we can muster, however long or briefly.

I am currently reading Michael Casey’s daily homilies collected into the book Balaam’s Donkey (Liturgical Press) in honor of his fiftieth anniversary of priesthood.  Today’s selection is entitled GIGO, the acronym for “garbage in-garbage out” familiar from early computer days. He warns that “The things we allow to enter our thinking also have a role to play in shaping who we are and what we will become”—that is the life of conversion to which all Benedictines, and not only Benedictines aspire.  St. Benedict didn’t put it that way, but he understood it in building walls to keep his monks from wandering all over the place physically and therefore interiorly.  It’s safe to stay at home – at appropriate times and in appropriate ways, of course—in the inner room of the heart.  But only if we are not simply taking refuge in selfishness, and only if we take care about what we carry with us into that inward cell. 

Whether it’s by means of  newscasters or journalists bombarding us with pandemic news or a relative’s gripes about all the pleasant things we no longer have access to or our own inner collection of fears and complaints, we do can cultivate deafness of heart without meaning to.  And that is sad, because, as Casey suggests, we really do become not only what we eat but also what we listen to.  And that’s not only in times of pandemic!

Of course the desert monks roamed about, sometimes quite far afield, to visit other monks, to talk with a spiritual father, to take their handmade goods to town to sell them for money to buy bread for themselves but more especially for the poor.  Of course St. Benedict’s monks traveled too, to get to the surrounding fields where they worked the harvest and no doubt to run errands for various purposes.  And of course, we all go out and about as needed, even much less often under “stay-at-home” and now “safer-at-home” regulations.

But that ancient monk’s advice, echoed by St. Benedict and by his modern disciple, Michael Casey, it remains true that it’s really necessary regularly to “stay in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.”  As long as you’re careful about who is in there with you!

Copyright 2020 Abbey of St. Walburga

Friday, April 10, 2020

Good Friday to Easter

Abbey Church Easter
This year, amid the ravages of the pandemic, it is easier to pray with Christ “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Psalm 22:1) than to sing the Easter alleluias. 

And yet.  Our “yet” is Easter.  However hard it may be to persuade our emotions in the face of danger and loss, life really has once and for all broken through death into that unknown reality we call “eternity” through both the death and the resurrection of Christ.  Faith reiterates it over and over again in the Liturgy of the Hours during these holy days.

But how will can we even think about singing  “alleluia” when suffering death is all around us, perhaps even in our own homes, perhaps even in our own lives?

Many years ago I had occasion to attend a wake service for a little boy. He had lived only five months, much of it in pediatric intensive care, his mother holding him when she could, his father keeping anxious watch.  The doctors offered hope till hope ran out.  The child died in his mother’s arms.

The wake was conducted according to the rite of the small Eastern Orthodox Church to which the parents belonged.  The mother was the community’s chief cantor.  When it came time to chant a poignantly beautiful “Holy, holy, holy” in Greek over the little body, she was the only one who could.  Her eyes never left the small casket, her voice never missed a note. Everyone present wept.

She remains for me an icon of Mary at the foot of the cross.  An icon of how faith and love sing praise to God for life in the teeth of suffering and death.

Sunday, March 29, 2020

Letter from the Benedictine Abbot Primate

The following is a letter written by Abbot Gregory Polan, OSB, former Abbot of Conception Abbey in Missouri and for some years now, Abbot Primate and Abbot of Sant'Anselmo Abbey in Rome.  The Abbot Primate is charged with serving to unify all Benedictines world wide, especially through communications like this one, meetings and visits.  Abbot Gregory is a biblical scholar and musician.  He is responsible for the revised Grail Psalter, though others have revised it.  This letter is long, despite the abridgement.  You might want to copy it and paste it into a Word document for easier reading!

Laetare Sunday – 22 March 2020
Greetings of Lenten peace from Sant’Anselmo in Rome. .... All together, we are living through a time of unprecedented change in so many aspects of our lives. We have all come to see that the best attempts at planning for events, good-will endeavors to be of service to others, and arrangements for community celebrations can come to a halt in a matter of moments. All our efforts to eat and live in a healthy way seem suddenly useless when the virus enters our community. With the collapse of travel and commerce, many of our sources of income from our guesthouses, our courses, and our small businesses and workshops, have gone down or even disappeared at present. While all this can be disappointing, discouraging, worrying and frightening, our faith reminds us that all people, all things, and all events are in the hands of a God who loves us, cares for us, and provides for us. While we may think of the name of God so often used in Advent, Immanuel, it is a divine name that stands true each day of our lives: indeed, God is with us. We cannot just say that, we have to believe it and put it into practice in ways that are life-giving for ourselves and for those with whom we live and serve. That is our encouragement and our strength as we move forward in faith.
... There is a beautiful verse in Psalm 125 which gives us an ancient truth that is still pertinent for us today. The text reads in verse 2, “Jerusalem! The mountains surround her; so the Lord surrounds his people both now and forever!” What a powerful image for us to reflect on. In effect, the Psalmist tells us that we live, move and have our being in the embrace of God’s loving care. God’s life-giving protection and care surrounds us, even when we do not feel it. But like the mountains that stand firm in their place, encircling Jerusalem, God’s steady, stable and strong arms remain a force that guides the course of world events, including the one in which we all now stand.
Someone wrote to me and asked if this Coronavirus is God’s punishment upon our world today. No, certainly not. When such disasters happen, it’s natural to ask, “Why did this happen, where did it come from, who is to blame?” This same question is found is the Gospel according to Luke, when people asked Jesus about the 18 people who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them. Jesus replied, “Do you think they were more guilty than anyone else in Jerusalem? By no means” (Lk 13:4-5a). The answer of Jesus to the people was that their interpretation was incorrect; the point often is, we simply do not know, and our human existence is filled with many unanswered questions. Another example appears in the Gospel according to John, when the disciples ask Jesus, “’Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?’ Jesus replied, ‘Neither he nor his parents sinned’ (Jn 9:2-3a). Jesus tells the disciples to look within themselves and to walk in the light that Jesus shows them, that is to follow him faithfully.
God continues to guide and care for us through the dedicated men and women in our governments throughout the world. They have taken a hard look at the threats that face us by the experiences that have already begun to spread through China, and now in Italy and beyond. God speaks to us through them, and also through the leaders of our Church who have told us to follow the restrictions and guidelines that the medical profession has given to our governments. These laws that have been put into place to halt the spread of this debilitating virus, to preserve lives, and keep safe those who are most vulnerable, and really, all of us. This virus does not discriminate according to age. These restrictions limit our lives, and put boundaries on what we can do, where we can go, and how we can relate to one another – all for our benefit. These men and women are instruments of God’s voice to us, to know the divine presence through this human communication. We can believe that our obedience and cooperation will be redemptive in both saving lives and arresting the spread of this virus.
An article appeared in one of the Italian newspapers from a doctor in northern Italy who was treating patients with this virus. It reads more powerfully if I simply give the story to you as the doctor himself speaks to the journalist. In Italy, no one is free to enter a hospital to visit anyone – not a priest, nor a religious sister, nor a family member. This is a story about a priest who came to the hospital because he was sick with the symptoms of the Coronavirus. “Nine days ago, a 75-year- old pastor came to us for medical help. He was a kind man, he had grave respiratory problems, but he had a Bible with him and it impressed us that he was reading the Bible to the people who were dying and holding their hands. We were all tired, discouraged doctors, psychologically and physically spent, and so we found that we were listening to him. Now we must admit: as human beings we have reached our limits, there is nothing more we can do, and more people are dying every single day. And we are exhausted. Two of our colleagues have died and others are infected. We realized that we have reached the limits of what man can do. We need God, and we have begun to ask for his help. We speak among ourselves and we cannot believe that we who were fierce atheists are now seeking for interior peace by asking the Lord to help us to resist so that we can take care of the sick. Yesterday the 75-year old pastor died. Despite the fact that in the last three weeks we have had over 120 people die in our unit and we are all exhausted and feel destroyed, he succeeded, despite his own condition and our own difficulties, to bring us a PEACE that we no longer hoped to find. The pastor went to the Lord, and soon we will follow him if things continue like this. I have not been home for six days; I don’t know the last time I ate something; I realize my own worthlessness on this earth, and I want to dedicate my last breath to helping others.”
My dear brothers and sisters, the Coronavirus places before us a great mystery, a paradox for us to ponder: in suffering and death there is healing and new life. The God who surrounds our lives is able to take the grief, anguish, suffering and even death, and bring forth the healing of souls and bodies to experience new life. We understand the paschal mystery at work in the words of this doctor; his exhausting service has meaning in God’s unfolding plan for our healing and our renewal. The transformation of the human heart is the work of God, and often God uses us as instruments of divine grace to bring about the restoration of people’s lives. That is why we can be assured that God stands in the midst of all the events of human history; not that he has brought them about, but that, as the Lord of human history, we are never far from the redemptive hand of God.
In the Book of the Prophet Isaiah, there is a moment when the people and city of Jerusalem are under siege by the Assyrian forces. In effect, the enemy is at the door, poised to enter and attack them. When Israel is tempted to make an alliance with Egypt to fight off the Assyrians forces, God gives an opposing and important word through the prophet which speaks to our situation today. “Thus says the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel: By waiting and by calm you shall be saved, in quiet and in trust shall be your strength” (Isa 30:15). Salvation and deliverance remain in the hands of God; our task is to trust with serene confidence. That is not always an easy task. The advances that have been made through the work of scientists, chemists, medical doctors and researchers all attest to the advances that have been made in recent centuries to curb disasters and to keep us free from threats of harm. Well and good, but we have now seen that even the brightest of minds and the most skilled in the medical profession are stumped, and waiting for something to reveal a cure. So now is a moment of great faith and challenging trust to see how God will lead us forward. The Psalmist says it another way: “Be still and know that I am God: exalted over nations, exalted over earth” (Ps 46[45]:11). It is God who moves the minds and hearts of professionals to see things in new ways and to make new discoveries. Our challenge is to know faithfully trust that God stands in the midst of this, and will lead us forward.
As Benedictines, our daily prayer remains a source of encouragement as our communities gather each day to hear the word of God and to pray the Psalms. The texts of Scripture and the Psalms unite us in one voice crying out to God, not only for ourselves, but for all who have suffered loss in any way. Sometimes people have said to me that they struggle with the harsh and violent words of the psalms, especially those found in the Laments. At this moment when so many are suffering under the pains of a foreign enemy that invades and debilitates the human body, the words of the Laments give us a language of solidarity with our brothers and sisters in the human family who have suffered death, disease, and distress. The words of the Laments join our voices with those people who can hardly express the pain they have experienced; we can become their voice to God, crying out for mercy and reprieve, an end to their confinement or exile. A deep sense of solidarity unites us with them, as together we storm the heavens both with our words and with our acts of sacrifice. When we can accept the sacrifices that are asked of us with ready willingness and a spirit of genuine charity, we fulfill the words of God given us through the Prophet Isaiah, “By waiting and by calm you shall be saved, in quiet and in trust shall be your strength” (Isa 30:15). The daily practice of lectio divina steeps us in the Word of God as a divine voice that speaks to us and asks for us a response. May we listen with open hearts to what God wishes to tell us in the quiet moments when the Scripture reveal to us a voice of compassion, hope, and peace. In that daily spiritual exercise we come into contact with the living God who desires to enter into communion and conversation with us. Let us listen faithfully and hopefully.
[In this time when the celebrationof the Eucharist is unavailable to many]  our daily celebrations of the Liturgy of the Hours provide rich fare for our reflection, food for thought and meditation that has sustained the faith of the Church for centuries. The Psalms, the biblical readings, and the non-biblical readings all tell the story of the mystery we celebrate during the day of the Triduum in a language that heightens the greatness of the paschal mystery for us to contemplate. ....
Also, the isolation which we all experience becomes an opportunity to go deeper within. We all know that the word in Latin Monaco/monaca refers to one who is alone. In that experience of solitude, therein lies the grace to dig deep into the rich well of the faith that lies within each of us. And however small our community is, we are privileged to gather as a community, brought together by Christ who told us that where two or more are gathered in his name, he is there in the midst of them (Mt 18:20).
Our charism of hospitality has a special meaning now, and we must think lovingly and creatively. For many of us, we are unable to welcome guests, allow others to join us in our common prayer, or allow our employees to carry on their tasks with us. As the saying goes, “Charity begins at home.” Our welcome and kindness to our community members becomes a genuine source of hospitality that we can often miss. When someone in the community looks lonely or fearful, a kind word, a greeting, or a simple expression of friendship becomes a way of expressing our care and concern for one another. When we have boundaries of space within our own living conditions, taking time to visit with others, observing the respected distance is a way of working together to combat the disease and to strengthen the bonds of brotherly or sisterly appreciation. Also, keeping in contact with those we know who are alone becomes another way to express our appreciation for the bonds of family or friendship. Hospitality extends a loving concern wherever we see or know of someone in need.
.... Our prayer together builds confidence, dispels fear, and builds a solidarity which strengthens all of us who feel the constraints of this situation. It is moments like this when our human possessions mean little to us, and our faith is a most treasured gift that enables us to be selfless, generous, and kind at all times. We remain strong in the embrace of God. Our prayer possesses a power that is stronger than we can fully comprehend, so let us keep faithful to that daily plea to God for an end to this debilitating disease. And let us listen attentively to the voices that God sends to us through the government and the Church, trying to foster a healthy path to overcoming this present situation.
Let us continue to pray for those who are seriously affected by the Coronavirus, for those who are working for a vaccine to prevent its spread, and for all who suffer from the physical and emotional effects of this dreaded virus. We look to Mary, whose maternal love and care for all of us is a sure hope for healing and restoration. And as we celebrate the feast of the Incarnation with the solemnity of the Annunciation of the Lord, we are reminded of how close Jesus Christ is to us, taking on our human flesh, to heal a broken world from the inside-out. Let us continue looking to Christ with trust, confidence, and hope.

Sincerely in Christ, our great Hope,
Abbot Primate Gregory Polan, O.S.B.

Sunday, March 22, 2020

Seeing Behind the Seen

“Let us open our eyes to the light that comes from God….Run while you have the light of life, that the darkness of death may not overtake you (John 12:35)”. Rule of St. Benedict, Prologue 9. 13.

In these dark times, St. Benedict encourages us not to close our eyes to the clouds and shadows but to look deeper.  He himself models the way of seeing the prophet Samuel described to Jesse, David’s father, in today’s second Mass reading: “God does not see as a mortal, who sees the appearance. The LORD looks into the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). St. Benedict looks at impoverished guests and sees Christ.  He looks at the community gathered at table and instructs the server to wash the brethren’s feet, seeing there the shadow of Christ washing the disciples feet and then telling them to do the same.  He looks at wayward brothers and sees as Christ his own exemplar saying to the Pharisees, “it is not the healthy who need a physician, but the sick” (Matt 9:12).  In fact, wherever he looks. St. Benedict sees the reality around him with wisdom and compassion because he always sees Christ present, acting in love.

    Faith is a way of opening our eyes to the light that comes from God and shines steadily though the reality around us and within us.  It it not a book lamp. Many of us imagine that life comes with an owner’s manual that explains not only the how-to’s but also the why’s.  In times of suffering we expect to be able to turn to the right page so that we will know exactly why all this is happening and exactly what we should do to fix it. Some of you may remember the poignant line in Jesus Christ Superstar where Jesus says to his Father out of the agony of Gethsemane, “You’re very good on what and when, but not so hot on why!” (This is the version supplied by my memory, not necessarily exactly by the show’s script!).  Faith doesn’t allow us to turn readily to the answer key.  It does enable us to see the light that signals God’s presence even in the dark. That is the light to which Benedict exhorts us to open the eyes not of the body but of the heart.
The web is full of wise medical counsel about containing the spread of the coronavirus.  In one place after another throughout the world and throughout our own country, that counsel is becoming law:  shelter in place, stay home and lock your doors, avoid the workplace, stay out of the supermarket.  St. Benedict, had he lived in our time and place, would likely not have argued,  Even in his own difficult times, towns (and monasteries) were forced to close themselves in behind barricades erected built to turn away armed invaders.  That is what most of us are doing now.
But St. Benedict looked at life from a deeper perspective.  He knew the psalms that image death as darkness, wordlessness, and utter isolation.  He recognized in them descriptions not of physical death as retranslated by the reality of the Resurrection.  He saw them rather as self-chosen prisons of the human spirit, dying long before death arrives.  He urges on us a different choice: “Let us open our eyes to the light that comes from God” in the belief and trust that will allow us to run free of heart, able to outrun that creeping death of the heart. 
We see around us, and perhaps we see ourselves as people who have made this choice.  We may stay home, but we pray, keeping God’s life-giving word circulating in the relational network that is humanity in Christ; or we reach out to others in safe ways with support, understanding, encouragement; or we help in ways we might never have thought of in other times.  And some obey the call to leave the safe zones and go out as workers in essential places, as medical staff, as priests and other ministers, even as the mounting death toll includes many of them. Those of us who do not share that call can still take them, too, into the light of God’s love with our prayer.
The blind man Jesus healed in today’s Mass gospel saw the light for the first time that day (John 9:1-41). May we, by God’s mercy, see it always, or, if we cannot, believe that it is always there.

Wednesday, March 11, 2020

Oblate Meetings Cancelled Until Further Notice

We are sorry to announce that because of the rapid spread of the coronavirus, oblate meetings at the abbey are cancelled until further notice.  It seems unwise to invite anyone to a large group meeting in a crowded conference room for now.

We do not yet have the virus in the monastic community, but of course this is a public place with frequent visitors and guests, so we do not want to put anyone at risk.

We will announce as soon as possible when meetings resume.

Blog posts will continue to appear as time allows!

God bless you all!
The Nuns of the Abbey of St. Walburga