my time at Holy Trinity

These are some of my musings and reflections from my 60 or so hours at the monastery. Forgive any grammatical errors or heresy found within. It was a weird, holy time. It's kinda long.

Holy Trinity Monastery
Monday, January 22, 2007
6:45PM
We spotted a huge cross from about a half mile away. That must be it. We pulled into the drive and found the guest house. It was closed, but stuck in the door was a piece of paper that said, “Jacob Armstrong, St. Scholastica, #2”. The simplicity of the note immediately reminded me of my first and only communication with the monastery thus far. After I had sent an email begging for more information about the time and nature of my stay, I received the response, “We have reserved a room for you. Blessings, Bill”. And now it seems that Bill had took and held my reservation and I was sent to the house named St. Scholastica, room #2. Rather sheepishly, I invited my brother and sister-in-law to stay with me for Vespers. After all my excitement and anticipation I guess I wasn’t quite ready to be left in the desert 3 hours from the safety and familiarity of their home. We went to worship. The chanting was off-key and the monks unimpressive. But, God was there. His peace was just beginning to chip away at the years of anxiety and impatience and fear that lived around my heart. It had been a while since I had heard that type of liturgy, and I wasn’t quite in rhythm with it yet. After half an hour of God’s word resounding off the wooden trusses of that small chapel, I hugged Andy and Bonny and asked them to please come get me in a few days.
It was freezing. I was in the desert and not only were the mountains around me covered in snow, there were still traces of frozen precipitation lingering on the rooftops of the monastery buildings. I turned up the heat in St. Scholastica hoping that my suite-mate Roy would not mind. I found my way to dinner and there met some very friendly faces. I was given a glass of hot tea, and was given some real hospitality and encouragement from a woman in her sixties. Her name…Mary. That works.
One of the monks stood to pray before dinner, and then announced that we would eat in silence. Meaning that all the questions that I was going to ask Mary would have to wait. I was left in the state of not knowing what was going on, but I was beginning to like it just a little. Dinner was a small bowl of broccoli-cheese soup and a simple salad. After I stopped wondering if we would get anything else, I bit into the home made bread and felt the warmth of the soup down to my toes. Father Bill put on some “music” of some other monks chanting Latin, and they made perfect harmony with the ting and cling of silverware on bowls and plates. The meal left me full, but not stuffed, satisfied but certainly not over-indulged. I sat there and finished my tea, which was now cold. I tend be a tea snob back home. This tea was perfect, I tasted every drop of it. After what seemed like an eternity and no dessert, Father Bill said “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit” and we of course all said “Amen”. I was shown how to dispose of my dishes, and then I checked my watch. Dinner had lasted exactly 23 minutes.
If my retreat was anything like dinner, these would be a long three days, uncomfortably long at times, but they would be a full three days. I actually thought during dinner, actually noticed that I was chewing, and tasted my food. They would be a quiet three days, but God would make some headway on cleaning off my heart. This wouldn’t be utopia, but I’m quite sure it will be a life-altering experience. Because I’m going to have deal with myself. I’m going to have to listen to what the noise of my life usually hides. It doesn’t sound fun, but it sounds necessary; necessary if I’m going to keep on this set-apart journey of priesthood.
Coming out here has felt stupid, scary, and selfish. But I feel like I’m here for a reason. When the others here ask me how a boy from Tennessee ended up here, all I can say is I felt led to come here. It felt shallow to say I was a part of a continuing education group studying monastic spirituality, and I know that’s not the reason I’m here. I’m here because I need this, and a big part of me wants it. To spend some alone time with my beloved. It didn’t seem like too much to ask. Sometimes I feel with ministry as if I have gotten married and then spend every night away from my bride telling people about my marriage and teaching others what’s it like to be in a relationship. Where’s the intimacy? Where’s the connecting time? Does thirty minutes a morning really cut it?
And so I googled “Arizona monastery” and the third hit was Holy Trinity Monastery in St. David Arizona. Here I am. I’m here. Did I really have to travel four hours by plane and three by car to meet with God. Perhaps, yes. God is certainly available in Murfreesboro, He’s available anywhere. My availability on the other hand…I have to check my calendar to make appointments.
I’m not going to try to achieve anything, in the next few days. That will be hard for me. There is no to-do list. There is a to-be list. Be present with God. Be real with God. Believe that the one who made you wants to be with you.
Psalm 38.9-10, “all my longings lie open before you, O LORD; my sighing is not hidden from you. My heart pounds, my strength fails me; even the light has gone from my eyes.”
When I lie here a thousand miles from all my responsibilities, I wonder, “can they really survive without me?” From things as trivial as changing the church sign to things as crucial as my little girls. Can they really get along without me for a few days? Do I forfeit all I have worked so hard to be by taking this time apart? All my longings lie open before you, O Lord, my sighing is not hidden from you. My heart pounds. “O Lord, do not forsake me; be not far from me, O my God. Come quickly to help me, O LORD my Savior.” Psalm 38.21-22
8:30PM
I went to the service of Compline. I arrived early and no one else showed up until eight o’clock when several of the monks came. No other guests or laity arrived. The monks all sat in the chancel area, with me the lone congregant in the pews. I felt as if I was sitting in on a private service. Father Henri read a lengthy journal entry from an older monk. Then we prayed and chanted the psalms. I thought we were done and went to leave and was politely told there was one more prayer. We stood in the dark with only two candles burning and they sang in Latin a song which I think venerated Mary, but definitely talked about Jesus and the Holy Spirit too. It was holy to hear those voices, grown men singing together their love for God at eight o’clock at night in a tiny chapel in the middle of the desert. All that mattered was God, not how many people were gathered, not the quality of voice, just God. Then two of them extinguished the candles with a wave of their hand and they laughed at some Compline-Benedictine inside joke which I did not get. I laughed anyway. We left in silence.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
6:08AM
It would be hard to explain the accommodations unless you live in them a half day. They are adequate. There is nothing that I could go back and brag about except for the view outside my window. The bed was small and the sheets not too soft, but I slept well. The carpet is old and there are very few adornments, but there is nothing to distract. The bathroom is down the hall, but I have made it there in plenty of time for all my needs and it has accepted everything I gave it. The food was not spectacular, but it tasted good in the silence and warmth of St. Benedict’s Hall. The people here have been kind but not overly in my business as I have grown accustomed too with some southern hospitality; but I am not here to meet and talk with them really. My liturgics professor in seminary would be appalled at some of their practice of the office, but it lacks the tenseness and rigidity that I experienced at Sewanee. Everything is enough, so as not to make me worry about needing more towels, or needing more drink, yet not too much so I would focus on how luxurious are my arrangements. And so instead of wanting to offer great thanks and attention on my hosts here at the monastery, I have to focus on You and thank You. Thank You.
8:16AMJust some quick thoughts…
This morning we chanted “Here Am I, I have come to do your will”. Over and over we said the words and it did something deep inside of me. I feel like I might cry any moment, in a good way. Like there is stuff inside of me that needs to come out and crying might be the best way to expel it.
This morning at least three people remembered my name. One lady calls me Jake.
The preacher this morning was a very large monk with dark skin with a thick accent like Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite. He said our world calls people with gifts freaks or mutants. Anyone that is different is given strange looks. He said Jesus would have been thought of as a freak or mutant, He was extra-ordinary. He said holiness is being different. Coming to a monastery to live or for the week is different and there is something in it that is seeking to be holy. His insinuation of course, is that we’re a bunch of freaks. That’s easier to handle in community.
They laid hands on and prayed for a Presbyterian couple who were leaving this morning, and then sang a blessing over them. It was wonderful.
The Presby guy told me the wild pigs or javelinas come out at 10pm.
9:12AM
On my short walk down to the San Pedro river, I spied all kinds of splendid things. The many peacocks that roost in a tree near my cell were walking about talking to each other. There is one large male peacock who stays perched high in a cottonwood behind the chapel. I think he must be the abbot of the peacocks.
On my walk through what I pretended was middle-earth, because it looked like what I had imagined Frodo and Sam walking through, my feet fell on a soft bed of pecan shells. The sale of pecans is the primary way the monastery sustains itself. I saw all kinds of birds, species that I am unfamiliar with, except for the doves and quail. I also saw a hawk zooming over the frost frozen field. I was reminded of Barbara Brown Taylor’s thought that perhaps the dove that descended on Jesus at His baptism was actually a hawk. The Holy Spirit diving down with talons ready to grab and hold his prey. I feel grabbed by the Holy Spirit now perhaps in a way that I have never experienced. I feel happy and my mind is flooded with thoughts about God that relate to me now. Usually all of my God thoughts have to do with the future. I was recently given confirmation that this was a spiritual strength for me, to dream about what God holds in the days and years to come. I would have assumed that my thoughts here would focus on my dreams and callings to be a missionary, or start a church, or go back to school. Those are the desires of my heart, my dreams that I think God gave me. I have asked God to give me clarity on those things, even while I was here. Yet, the word this morning, was simply Here am I, I’ve come to do your will. Now. Here. It’s a different focus for me, but one that must be necessary. How can I serve God then, if I never learn to serve God now? The Holy Spirit is descending upon me like a hawk, grabbing, and pulling me up to see what is before me now, and probably, hopefully, to devour me as well.
11:45AM
After advice from others I resolved to not seek to achieve anything in my time here at the monastery. So I felt somewhat uneasy about my run this morning. Back home running is my get away, monastery time, but here it felt different at first. I was running a part of the current marathon training I am doing, which called for a10 mile run. So, in that regard it seemed like achievement. I decided not to be too neurotic and just go for a run.
The weather was perfect and the scenery something to behold. I found that on the 148 acre monastery there were at least 2 miles of soft packed trails. I was in paradise. Running next to the river in the cool shadows of old mesquite trees was grand, but when I came out of the forest into a beige open field, my breath was taken away by the view. I audibly said, “Oh, wow”. I tried to remember the brief geography lesson I had received from my brother on the way down. I think to my west were the Whetstone mountains tall and majestic mixed with browns and greens. To the north were the Rincon range with nine thousand foot Mt. Lemmon covered in snow somewhere behind them. And, to the east, what took my breath away, was the Dragoon mountain range stretching for miles that was home to Apache chief Cochise’s stronghold, his famous hideout. I could tell why it was now a favorite for climbers as it had large cylindrical rocks hundreds of feet tall coming right out of the ground. I no longer felt guilty about my run, I felt like I had been let in on a secret. I ran through that particular stretch of trail three times, just to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. The ten miles was a little much with the elevation being about 3500 feet higher than home, but I survived. I’m looking forward to lunch. It is supposed to be the main meal of the day. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds promising.
4:30PM I walked down to the San Pedro River bank after lunch. I found a grassy spot next to this river, what we might call a creek back home. The sun was sending down much heat and light, so much so that I took off my jacket and used it for a pillow in the sandy grass. For a good awhile I just lay there shielding my eyes from the sun with one of the sleeves from my jacket. High up the wind was blowing loudly through the sycamore trees, and with that sound mixed with the rush of the water and the cacophony of bird noises, I felt a great peace. I really settled in and prayed wordless prayer to the creator. That I guess would be the main difference between my usual prayer and the prayer I’ve prayed here. I know I have written some reflection here, but most of my talk with God has been deep unto Deep, spirit unto Spirit. I read some musing’s from Donald Miller and some of my Cormac McCarthy novel about two young men breaking horses in northern Mexico and all seemed to be right. I know all is not right really in the world, and I realize I am romanticizing the monastery experience. The monks do not seem to romanticize it, they are not overly smooth or even happy for that matter. I would guess giving up money and sex to eat below-average food and minister to mostly sixty-five year old women, does not leave one really excited. But they got something going, and they know it. Something better than good food, they are daily practicing the presence of God and once you get a taste of that, though it can be so dark and empty at times and joyous and full other times, you don’t give up eating that bread.
I miss my family’s noise. I like that noise. But not yet do I miss Katie Couric or Dan Patrick or even Jerry Seinfeld. I’ve found myself talking to myself several times today, so I started reading aloud Psalm 40 in my room. “I waited patiently for the Lord, he turned to me and heard my cry…Then I said, Here I am, I have come…I desire to do your will…Do not withhold your mercy from me…You are my help and deliverer, O my God, do not delay”. Those words were not noise, but seemed to be feeding me in the empty parts. Those parts that usually hold anxiety and the desire to move, are not anxious or moving today, and God’s word is filling it. Wow. That sounds romantic, and I am in love with my God who would do that.
6:55PM
Strange occurrence at dinner. I wouldn’t call it a disillusioning experience, but certainly less romantic.
I’m not quite sure why at some of the community gatherings (i.e. meals, worship) there are a bunch of people and then at others there only a very few, like last night’s Compline (Jake and the monks). I don’t know which are the popular meals and entertaining worships, so I just go to everything.
Everyone must have known dinner tonight would be leftover eggplant lasagna from who knows when. In fact, meals here are a lot like a big family dinner, which means lots of leftovers. Anyway tonight there were only seven people at dinner. Two monks, four oblates, and me, the lone guest. This old monk who I have watched fondly was “in charge”. He is an elderly hunched over fellow who wears enormous hearing aids that are obviously not big enough, if size is how you judge the effectiveness of a hearing device. I do notice that he kneels long and low when walking past Jesus in the chapel, and he like me is at all the community events. Brother Shaun is his name.
Brother Shaun read to us about Francis somebody for about 8 excruciating minutes before dinner, and then announced that our meal would be with music and in silence. I think I mentioned before, every meal I have been to, has been with music and in silence. I kind of like it. His announcement did not sit well with the rest of my dining partners. While Brother Shaun fooled with the tape player, my table continued to talk. Finally it was apparent that Brother Shaun was not going to win the battle with the stereo and no one from my table was going to help. This early on in the game I did not have the courage to side with old Shuanny and help with the boom-box. So Shaun, obviously annoyed, says, “the meal is in silence, please cooperate.”
Well, the meal was in silence for Shaun, who sat at another table, only because the poor guy couldn’t hear that my table continued talking. It was strange to witness this rebellion from what I had only witnessed as a very compliant, submissive group. They talked about stuff that church people usually do, including complaining about other churches and glorifying old priests who had come before.
I wished that I was sitting with Shaun.
I sit in St. Scholastica now in complete silence. St. Scholastica has six rooms and tonight there is only one occupied: room #2.
In some of my reading today I actually ran across the famous story of St. Scholastica’s namesake. Scholastica was Benedict’s sister. One winter night Scholastica was awakened by a song bird. This was a strange sound, it being the middle of the night and all. She looked out the window of her cell and saw three naked men dancing in the monastery garden by the light of the moon. The one whistled like a song bird and this made her laugh. It seems, Scholastica found the experience a favorable one and enjoyed watching the naked guys dance, but she knew that morning prayer would come early, so she did what any good nun would do in this situation, she prayed. She suspected that the men were demons and prayed they might return to from whence they came. The story ends with Scholastica waking to the scent of roses and finding a rose bush where the men had been dancing.
I was hoping to see those javelinas tonight, but I think if I hear strange noises outside, I will keep my curtains drawn. I’m in no mood to see any naked guys dancing and I’m allergic to most flowers’ scents.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
6:48PM
After my readings this morning I have a strong sense of Jesus. Jesus being everything. The Purpose. The Hope. The Life. Paul wrote to Colossae, “my purpose is…that they may know the mystery of God, namely, Christ, in whom are hidden all treasures of wisdom and knowledge.” I have certainly sensed the mystery of God here. They worship different from me, talk about God some different from me, certainly behave differently than most of the Christians I hang around. But the mystery is the same to all of us, the mystery of God, namely Christ. In Him are all the hidden treasures of life. All the stuff that we are searching for, all the things that will take away our insecurities and give us peace are found in Christ, or better there is one thing that will do that work and it is Christ.
There is a refrain that we have sung in most of the worship services here. It is very close to being like a praise chorus, though I am sure that it is ancient. They sing very slowly, “Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus, Mercy. Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus, Mercy”. It takes my breath away to be caught up in that chorus. It reminds me that as Paul says to the church in Colossae, “I am alive with Christ”. He forgave me all my sin, canceled the written code with its regulations, that were against me and stood opposed to me, he took it away and nailed it to the cross.
And so as Paul says all these rules, the religion rules, and my self-imposed rules, they are all just a “shadow”. They are not the real deal. They should not be my main focus. The reality Paul says is “found in Christ”. The reality of life is Christ. It’s not what we think it is, what we can see and touch, the reality is Jesus, what I can’t always see and touch. But if I believe that I was created “by Him and for Him”, that should drastically change the way I think and behave. If I was created by Him, that means there is something in me that is of the image of God. There is hope for my holiness, because of my creator. That should change my self-image. If I was created for Him, that means my life, my day, my breath can all fulfill the purposes of my creator. That should change the way I behave. I am not created for my own purposes, but for His. This does not stress me, as one might think, but gives me peace. My life was created for Him, not for me, for Him.
One principle of the Benedictines is to welcome everyone as Christ. There is a man here who after each meal, takes my plate and washes it for me. I learned today, he is the bishop.
9:58 AM
I’m realizing now that I won’t have much to show for my time here at Holy Trinity. I have written a sermon yet. I haven’t memorized any Scripture. I haven’t heard from God where I’m supposed to go in June. And, yet something has happened, something is happening. I have easily learned more in this time than any other retreat I’ve been on.
It won’t be something easy to communicate, but I hope that it shows in my eyes. I hope it shows in the way I love my wife. I hope it shows in the way I talk to people in my office. I hope that it shows in the pace of my day. I hope that I spend more time outside than I do under fluorescent light.
I will leave here being really excited to be a child of God. I’m also excited to eat a cheeseburger, maybe a milkshake.
3:39PM
I spent another afternoon on the banks of the San Pedro River. I think that is what I will remember most when I look back on this trip. Being totally alone and totally at peace with some books, a can of green tea, and God out there in that tan grass and deep brown sand.
It is the same river that Coronado came in on when he was exploring Southwest America. I can’t imagine a conquistador and all his companinos coming in on that little river, but I bet there were at least a few of them, who like me when they got in the shadows of those mountains, praised God in their hearts. I learned today that Coronado is not the only one who has used that river as a passageway into a new land. Years ago before politicians like Bob Corker donned their Timberlands and walked the border promising to secure it, brothers and sisters from Old Mexico would walk the 70 miles down the banks of the San Pedro to the pecan groves on the grounds of monastery. The Benedictines treat everyone, even or especially a vagabond as if he is Christ and here “illegals” could find a warm meal, a warm shower, and no condemnation. The monastery wasn’t running a racket, but they did love without prejudice.
I, too, have been received in the Benedictine way this week; offered hospitality and a place to refuel and warm up. I haven’t had trouble with the silence like I feared. It has not bothered me once. I haven’t longed for TV or radio or surprisingly even for my guitar. I have enjoyed the solitude as well. I miss my family a lot, and I am really looking forward to seeing my brother and sister in the morning, but knowing the time will come, I have coped fine. The part I have had trouble with the most is no to-do list. It rules my day at work, and on off days I have plans for my family’s recreation. I had a flare-up today of the “have-to-do-something syndrome”. I checked a book out from the monastery library on Benedictines and devoured 200 pages in an hour just like I used to in seminary. Not really reading everything, but now able to have a discussion and pass a test if need be. I can carry on an intelligent, even academic conversation if I need to, to prove I learned something. It seemed absurd that I had come here with only an elementary understanding of the people I was living and worshipping with; how could I explain to people that I came here just because God told me to come here? So I read the book and I can tell you all about the rule of St. Benedict, and the role of the abbot, and the five principles that govern a monk’s communal life.
I eventually took a deep breath, grabbed my Bible and went to walk the perimeter trail again for the fourth or fifth time. When I got to the field where I said “oh wow” yesterday, I opened up my Bible to the next chapter I would read. Colossians, chapter 3, “Rules for Holy Living”. Yes! That’s what I wanted, some rules. O.K. I read, “your life is now hidden with Christ in God”. I hit my knees on the hard pack earth, in the middle of that field, in view of Cochise’s stronghold, knowing that I wasn’t the first to do such a thing. I prayed through those Scriptures changing Paul’s “you’s” to “I’s”. “I will put to death whatever belongs to my earthly nature, sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed. I will rid myself of anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language. I will clothe myself with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. I will forgive as the Lord forgave me, and over all these virtues I will put on love. And I will let the peace of Christ rule in my heart.” I was then led to pray for my wife and my little girls. I prayed for others in my family. I prayed for the members of my group, Mark, Chip, Bryan, Tommy, and Peter. And then I prayed for my church. I prayed His will be done. In some of these prayers, those tears finally came which did seem to expunge some of my cruddy-ness. It was time for chapel, and I made it in time to sing, “Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus, Mercy. Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus, Mercy”.
I won’t have a lot to show for my time here, some trinkets from the bookstore to give to those I love, some random facts about Benedictines, and a few funny stories. But in my heart I will know, really know, that it is by grace that I have been saved, Jesus’ mercy, not by works, so that I can’t boast about it. I can’t brag about my monastery experience because I’m blessed enough to have a job that allows a week off, that doesn’t count for vacation, to go get intimate with God. There’s nothing I can boast about, but I’m saved. I’m saved. It’s all because of Jesus, created by Him and for Him, and He chose to save me. He saved me from my sin. And I think He saved me this week from 30 to 40 years of church ministry that probably would have meant a lot to other people, but wouldn’t have meant that much to me, because all I was doing was checking things off a list.
6:37PM
It has been an excruciatingly wonderful experience of grace and a long two-and-a half days. I feel like I have been here six months. I am ready to go home. Not that I couldn’t sink in and stay longer, but if I did I fear it would really mess me up for what I have to go back to.
I will miss the peacocks’ magnificent colors. I will miss the grove of cottonwoods near the trails that look as if they have been reaching towards the heavens since the heavens were created. I will miss my little spot on the bank of the river. I will miss the rhythm of the liturgy and the way the Scriptures stay in your head when you leave. I will miss feeling as if bumped into Orion when I leave the chapel at night, and the way the stars dance from one horizon to the other. I will miss the view of Cochise’s stronghold and the sense that those native people still lay claim to this land. I will miss the silence, which scares you, then surrounds you, then holds you closer to the mouth of God speaking in a still, small voice. I will miss being able to walk slowly with no destination in mind. I will miss feeling like I’m praying, even when I wasn’t intentionally praying.
And God reminds me, there are birds at home, and trees, and trails, and rivers. There are places to worship me, Scriptures which speak of me, and stars that are shining in Tennessee. There is silence if you seek it and cultivate it. There are times to take walks and very dear people to take them with. God is there, speaking and calling. Will I be listening?
There was a guy at dinner who looked like a gray-headed Steven Seagal with a couple days growth on his chin. He was emanating the weird vibe and drinking a lot of coffee. I have this fear that he will be my roomie in sweet St. Scholastica. Unfortunately in my time here I have not been working on my kick-boxing (oh wait that was Jean Claude Van-Damme), so I’m praying I don’t come “under siege” tonight.