Rereading "The Cloister Walk" at a Monastery

When I tell people I'm headed off to a monastery, I get a variety of responses.  For people who know me well, my sojourns to the world of monasticism is no surprise.  I'm sure that some of them are surprised that I come back.  Some people are fascinated and want to know more.  And I see a flicker of doubt in some eyes, as if the person is thinking, I thought Kristin was a sane, rational woman, but now I'm not so sure."

The book that launched me on this path was Kathleen Norris' The Cloister Walk, which I consumed many times as the twentieth century shifted to the twenty-first and implored my friends to read.

Let me amend that--I only implored the friends whom I thought would like the book.  Even then, I knew that monasticism was not for everyone.

I had already moved from the Charleston area to the tip of southeast Florida when I read it, but one of my South Carolina friends wrote to tell me that she went to Mepkin Abbey periodically, when she needed to get away for an afternoon or when she wanted to buy the eggs that the monks sold.  She proposed that we go on retreat there at some point.  I said yes, and a tradition began.

I've dipped in and out of The Cloister Walk in the last ten years, but I haven't read it cover to cover.  I took it with me to last week-end's trip to the monastery.

What a great experience!  Granted, Kathleen Norris' monastery is a different place than mine--a lot more monks, a lot less isolated.  But the monastic schedule is similar.

She writes essays that try to convey a sense of the schedule and a sense of the effect of the monastic practices.  It was very neat to read her essay about Vespers service and then go off to Vespers service.

I always succumb to a bit of romanticizing of the monastic life, and it's good to read her work to remember that these monks are humans, just like the rest of us.

And it's wonderful to read her essays about her efforts to integrate her spiritual tugs, her married life, and her domestic duties.  Again, I succumb to a bit of romanticizing, assuming that someone like Kathleen Norris has no problems with conflicting duties.  Her essays serve as a corrective.  It's no easier for her than for any of us.

I might feel frustrated because the demands of my administrative job keep me in an office for 40-60 hours a week.  She might feel fretful about money because she doesn't have my kind of job.

The Cloister Walk was published in 1996, which means Norris wrote it twenty years ago.  It still feels fresh and interesting, although some of the geopolitical events referenced, like the situation in Bosnia, have been sort of settled.

As we took walks on the monastery grounds and talked about our projects, my friend said that she felt that I had been taking steady steps staying always on the same path.  I feel like I've been zigging and zagging.  For example, I find it ironic that when I lived a half hour away from the monastery, I wouldn't have had the slightest interest in it--I was probably in the most agnostic phase of my life (my late 20's).  And now that I live 10 hours away, I yearn to make more frequent trips.

The Holy Spirit works in interesting ways indeed:  a book that I found in the library sparks a passion for monasticism which launches me to a monastery and friends on a regular basis.  It makes me wonder what seeds are being planted now.

Meditation on This Sunday's Narrative Lectionary: Transfiguration Sunday Edition

The readings for Sunday, February 10, 2013:

Luke 9:28-45



optional text:  Psalm 36:5-10 or 36:9     Here we are, the final Sunday before Lent begins.  Transfiguration Sunday gives us a chance to wrestle with an essential question:  who is this Christ?  Why worship this guy?

Do we worship Christ because of his glory?  The mystical elements of Transfiguration Sunday dazzle us and threaten to overshadow the rest of the story.  What a magnificent tale!  Moses and Elijah appear and along with Christ, they are transformed into glowing creatures.  A voice booms down reminding us of Christ's chosen and elevated status.

It's easy to understand Peter's response:  we'll stay on the mountain, we'll build booths!  It's easy to understand why the disciples stay quiet about this mystical experience.

Jesus then heals a child; he's a success where his disciples have failed. 

Do we worship God in the hopes of harnessing this kind of transfiguring power?  It's easy to understand this impulse.  But the rest of the lesson for today warns us against this impulse.

Jesus know that he's on a collision course with the powers that rule the world.  The disciples argue about who is greatest, and Jesus reminds him of the nature of his ministry:  to be least.

For those of us who worship Christ because we want transfiguration, it's important to remember what kind of transfiguration we're going to get.  We're not likely to get worldly power because we're Christians--in fact, it will be just the opposite. 

Will we get healing?  Maybe.  Will we be creatures that glow with an otherworldly light?  Metaphorically.  Can we charge admission and get rich from our spiritual beliefs?  Go back and reread the Gospels, and see what Jesus has to say about wealth.

Ah, Transfiguration Sunday which leads us to Mardi Gras, a few last hurrahs before the serious season of Lent, that season of ash and penitence.  Let us stay here in this glow.  But let us not forget the path before us, the path that brings us off the mountain and into service.

Candlemas: The Close of Christmas

I had been excited to see Mepkin Abbey in action during a different part of the year.  We usually go in the fall, and I wanted to see what winter at the Abbey looked like.

We were there during the Feb. 2 celebration of the presentation of Jesus at the temple.  We didn't bless all the candles that the monastery would use during the coming year, as is the tradition in some churches, but we did have a special service. 

We met in the solarium of the senior wing, did a bit of the service, and lit candles.  Then we walked in a procession to the chapel to the Eucharist service.

Throughout the day, we were reminded of the light of Christ that we all carry within us.  We heard the story of Simeon, who held the light of the world, in the form of a tiny baby, in his hands.  It was a beautiful end to the Christmas season.

I'm thought of as odd for hanging on to the Christmas season until Epiphany, January 6.  The feast day of Candlemas, or the Presentation of Jesus at the Temple, reminds us that the season could be even longer.

I've often said that I wanted the Christmas season to last into February.  In January, the light still leaves us earlier than I'd like.  Christmas lights make the evening so cheery.

In November, the outdoor nativity scene is mostly empty:

During our February trip, I noticed that the nativity scene was complete:

I peeped into the manger, where I noticed that the baby Jesus looks a bit like a termite:

I love this nativity scene, and longtime readers of my blogs know that I've written about it before.  I love that this art project uses things that might otherwise be thrown away:  old gears (look at the halo around baby Christ's head), chain link fences, twisted and rusted metal of all types.

I wonder if the monks now take down this scene.  I imagine that the manger stays up and empty year round.  It would be hard to move that heavy piece of concrete.  The metal shapes could be easily stored elsewhere.

I also love how the monks use elements from their natural surroundings in the chapel space.  During the time that we were there, some of the buds on this branch opened up:

The holidays of early February (Groundhog Day, Candlemas, St. Brigid's Day) remind us that the light hasn't really left us.  Spring will be here soon.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, February 10, 2013:


First Reading: Isaiah 6:1-8 [9-13]

Psalm: Psalm 138

Second Reading: 1 Corinthians 15:1-11

Gospel: Luke 5:1-11


Today's Gospel is one we must have heard a gabillion times, if we've been going to church for any amount of time at all. As the Gospel becomes familiar, perhaps the rich symbolic language loses some of its power. The symbol of the fisherman is one we find across church cultures; the mission of fishing for people, too, is one that most faiths hold in common.

Let's look at the Gospel again, to see what we might have missed. In these times of longer work days for those of us still lucky enough to have a job, I'm struck by the fact that Jesus comes to call Simon Peter and his friends and family during their work time. Christ, too, is on the job. The familiarity of this Gospel makes me forget that first verse, that tells us Jesus is preaching when he slips into the boats. I wonder what the crowds who came to hear the word of God made of that?

Jesus slips into the boat of weary fisherman who have had an unsuccessful night. What convinces Christ that these men are the cornerstone of his work on this planet?

If you were setting up your new ministry--or any other kind of venture--would you choose the men that Jesus chose?

In hindsight, it's easy to say "Of course." But take a minute and consider the story for today.

We see fisherman, and unsuccessful fisherman. In the Palestine of Christ's time, these men wouldn't have been at the bottom of the social ladder, but they'd have been close, viewed as solidly working class or lower. It's hard, heavy work to do this kind of fishing--and dirty work, as there are fish and nets to clean.

These are not men who own land, the kind of men that would have had status. These are not men who have been trained by religious authorities, as we might have expected Jesus to choose for his ministry.

Jesus chooses regular, ordinary people. These are not men with gifts of oratory, not first. These are not the best and the brightest, at least not at first. But Jesus chooses them. In similar ways, Christ still calls us, if we can hear.

There are several powerful messages for us here in this Gospel. We, too, have been offered this invitation. And what are we to make of this invitation? How do we respond? Do we tell others? Do our lives change? Can other people tell that we've been changed?

One of the tasks that God calls us to do is to transform the world we live in, to make the Kingdom of God manifest here on earth. No small task. But God has given us an example of how to do this: Christ's experiences on earth show us the way.

At this point, perhaps you echo John the Baptist, "I am not the Messiah." Perhaps this knowledge that God still invites us to be part of Kingdom building makes you feel tired, instead of excited. You think of the chores you have to do each day, your family responsibilities, the work tasks.

The men in Luke's Gospel were no different. In the previous chapter, Jesus has healed Simon's mother-in-law. These are not young, single men, fishing on a boat to pay for college. Just like you, these men had families and work and lots to accomplish in a day.

But Christ calls, and they respond. Perhaps it's because of the nets that are so full to bursting that they almost sink the boats. Perhaps they realize that on their own, they have empty nets, while with Christ in the boat, they're successful in ways they didn't think they could be.

It's a potent metaphor. Christ wants to join you on the boat. Will you give him a place to teach the world? Christ wants you to try again, when you're convinced that only failure can come from casting down your nets again. Will you follow Christ? Will your nets be empty or full to bursting?

Cast down your nets. Cast them down again and again and again until you are a different kind of fish and a different kind of fisherperson.

Monastery Teachings: Time, Light, and Solitariness

I've written many posts on what my time at a monastery has taught me, from approaches to creativity to worship to food to community to simple living.  What a delight to discover that there are still lessons from the monastery for me.

I spent the last week-end at Mepkin Abbey, and I'll write a future note about spending the Feast Day of the Presentation of Our Lord with the monks.  It was wonderful to be thrust back into Christmas and the season of light.  I've already turned my attention to Ash Wednesday and Lent.

It was wonderful to be reminded of Simeon and Anna and waiting patiently for salvation.  We returned again and again to the idea of holding the light of the world in your hands.  We returned again and again to the idea of ourselves being the light that the world needs.

I have always taken my monastic retreats with friends, and my friends left on Sunday.  I've never spent a night alone at Mepkin before.  I thought I might be more afraid.  Our lodging is in a trailer about a half mile from the monastery.  It's on the monastery grounds, but very far away from anyone if I needed help.

I didn't know in advance that I'd be there Sunday night by myself.  I decided to be big and brave, and my mood quickly passed into acceptance and calm.  It's very dark, walking to Compline by oneself, but I didn't feel afraid.

The Abbey is deep in the country, and country scares me less than city.  I willed myself not to think about all the scary movies set in the country.  I slept easily.

I was the only woman at Compline, which was new.  Often there are plenty of female retreatents, but not this week-end.  I didn't feel out of place or threatened, just solitary.  It wasn't unpleasant, just something I noticed.

On Sunday, I asked the monk manning the gift shop what time the gates were opened, and he told me 4:30.  So, I planned to leave at 4:30 a.m. yesterday.

I knew that monastery time is different from regular world time, so I wasn't surprised that the gates weren't opened when I drove up at 4:35.  I went back and forth:  back to the trailer to go to the bathroom one last time (which I did several times) and then, when it was 5:00, and the gates were still closed, I decided to have breakfast and fix peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the trip.

Finally, at 5:30, I returned to open gates, and I was on my way.  It was a useful lesson in patience.  There was no one to consult.  I knew that we were still in the silent hours, even if I could find a monk.  And my travel schedule really wasn't that important, in the long range--or the short range.

In the end, did it matter that I got on the road an hour later than I planned?  No.  I was pleased with my quiet acceptance of the circumstance.  It's a lesson I'll try to carry with me.

The Shifting of Seasons

Today is Candlemas, where Christians celebrate the presentation of Jesus at the Temple, and pagans long ago celebrated the goddess Brigid, and some Wiccans today will be celebrating at Imbolc, or a variation of any number of pagan holidays. It's also Groundhog's Day.  It's one of those times when we can almost perceive the shifting of the seasons.  It's not spring yet, but it will be soon.

A year ago, I wrote this post, which has this wonderful reference and quote from Christine Valters Paintner:  "She reminds us that this time of year, with St. Brigid's Day and Candlemas, celebrates the light shining in the darkness, the seeds already germinating in the ground. She encourages us to go inward to see what's sprouting inside ourselves: 'Candlemas and Imbolc are traditionally a time to look forward. What does the new life stirring in your own world sound like? Can you hear it deep within you? How can you nurture this seedling in the fertile dark earth of your soul in the coming days?'"

My post of a year ago went on to consider my work at my job, which some days consists of reading many e-mails most of which are trivial, and my social justice work of feeding the homeless.

This year, I'm at Mepkin Abbey where I'm working on my memoir and thinking about restructuring a poetry manuscript.  I'm reading spiritual works of all sorts and going on walks through wintry landscapes that are shifting to spring.

I'm ready for new seeds to sprout.

Soon it will be Ash Wednesday (February 13 this year).  How quickly the seasons shift!

The Feast Day of St. Brigid

Today is the feast day of St. Brigid, one of the patron saints of Ireland. She is one of the early Christians who stood at the intersection of Christianity, Druidism and the other pagan religions of Ireland. She is also one of those extraordinary women who did amazing things, despite the patriarchal culture in which she lived.


To learn more, see this post that I wrote for the Living Lutheran site.  It's also got a beautiful picture of St. Brigid's well in Kildare.

There are so many ways we might celebrate her feast day.  To celebrate her generosity, today would be a good day to give away some of our stockpile, secure in the knowledge that we'll find abundance as we need it.

To celebrate her miracles, which involved abundances of butter, milk, and beer, we could bake some bread and slather it with butter.

To celebrate her artistic tendencies, we could start an illuminated book of our own.  How would our lives change if we kept a daily book that illustrated all the miraculous abundance that we found in the world?

But above all, today is a good day to consider our own lives.  If centuries from now, a middle-aged woman read about your life as you’re living it, would she be inspired?

Across a space of centuries, Brigid inspires me.  I'd like to be a similar inspiration.