Wind and Rain, Bless the Lord!

I had wrapped myself in my rain jacket and was walking as fast as I could from the seminary campus with my hood covered head dug tight into my soaked stiff chest.  It was still pitch black at 5:52 am with the only light coming from the orange lamps which illumined the front of the abbey church, reflecting a shine upon the sidewalk leading me toward dry refuge.  Hurricane Isaac had finally reached the North Shore of Lake Pontchartrain a few hours prior, bringing side sweeping sheets of rain and 75 mph wind gusts with him.  As I continued the journey I could see how the entire area of the abbey grounds was now entrenched by an inch deep puddle with the church building now resembling a sort of mighty ship emerging from the harbor waters, completely unshaken, unmoved.  By the time I had reached the covered doorway my pant legs were drenched and my muscles were still tightened from the work it took to walk against the blowing gusts.  Luckily my boat was firmly moored, ready for six o’clock vigils.

It took every bit of strength I had left to open the towering wooden doors; it seemed as though my spirit was being tested by the powering winds of heaven and earth.  As soon as I was safely within the walls of the church and the door was shut behind me, I quietly slipped off my jacket, hung it on the post, and quickly began whipping the droplets of water from the lenses of my glasses using the inside cloth of my front pants pocket.  Once I positioned them back on my face it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the solemn darkness within the sanctuary.  The only lights were those which hung above the altar revealing the two rows of choir stalls below: each facing the other, one of the north side, the other on the south.  The sanctuary lamp flickered a small candle light above the tabernacle; all is well, my Lord is here.

The abbey church is humongous; the prized pearl of the bayou.  It’s a good 50 yard walk to the choir stalls and by the time I had reached them, I quickly recognized the four early bird monks who are always there seated before I arrive each morning.  And this morning of all mornings, why should a silly hurricane keep me from attending prayer with the monks?  As I slipped into my cedar plank seat it had occurred to me that I hadn’t taken a breath since entering the church for fear I would disturb the monastic silence.  And so upon slowly exhaling I looked up to see the large fresco of angels circling above me, singing their celestial hymn.  When I looked down toward the wall opposite from my stall, I noticed the fresco of old father Abraham with knife in hand, all too ready to sacrifice his son Isaac at God’s command.  Luckily for Isaac, the hand of the angel of God is keeping Abraham from going through with the deadly blow, and luckily for me, Isaac is only blowing back as a category 1 this morning.

The wind can be heard swirling all around the outside of the church building as tiny droplets of rain sizzled loudly on the window panes much like bacon on a hot iron skillet.  As the remaining members of the monastic community begin to trickle in from the passage way which connects the church to the monastery building, a warm feeling of peace and security begins to overwhelm my entire body causing every one of my muscles to go limp.  The inside of the ship begins to creak and groan as it floats atop the troubled waters, or perhaps it’s the hard winds bellowing against the large wooden doors at the entrance.  The howling gets louder and softer and louder as the monks flip through the pages of their prayer books, all to ready to begin this day with thanks, praise, and prayers for the whole world.  As the abbot taps his wooden gavel signaling the brothers to rise, I know I must offer these prayers for those who are not as fortunate as I to be safely in the thick hull of this ancient abbey, those without shelter or who will be without shelter by the end of Isaac’s wrath.

Facing east towards the crucifix each monk crosses their mouth with their thumb while chanting:

Lord, open my lips…

And my mouth shall proclaim thy praise…

The cantor begins the intonation of the invitatory psalm:

Come ring out our joy to the Lord,

Hail the Rock who saves us;

Let us come before Him giving thanks,

With songs let us hail the Lord…

(Psalm 95)

Just another day’s work for the monk.

Spirit of Kateri

It's only fitting that the memorial of soon-to-be-canonized Bl. Kateri Tekakwitha should follow so close to that of St. Benedict's, considering how just weeks after I arrived back in the States from my four months of monastic discernment in Italy, I began living and working with Franciscan friars on the Navajo Reservation in Northeastern Arizona.  The transition from a very traditional, very Latin monastery in the cloistered mountains of Umbira to a mission chapel in the middle of a most desolate, most impoverished desert was indeed some what strange; neither of the two settings were in the least bit of my familiarity.  Yet in the most profound way, the desert proved to encompass a more naturally innate solitude than the monastery ever could: beautiful, hauntingly vast, eerily endless, but beautiful.

And the Spirit of Kateri is very much alive with the Navajo people, both Catholic and non-Catholic alike.  Although she belonged to the Algonquin and Iroquois tribes of 17th century French Canada, this "Lily of the Mohawks" has been accepted by countless Native Americans as a model of virtue, conversion, and purity.  While working as a catechist with children and adults around the different missions which dotted the highland desert, it was amazing how well and eager the Navajo were to make connections between Catholicism and their native spirituality.  Everything from creation stories, tales of love, trickery, and miracles, to legendary figures who withstand time, it is evident that the Holy Spirit has been working with and preparing these people to be evangelized and receive the Truth since their very beginnings.  One of my favorites includes the mystical figure Changing Woman.  This woman, who is present throughout the Navajo oral tradition and takes different forms in each story, has been seen by many to symbolize the Blessed Virgin Mary in the way she has come to us in different apparitions throughout our history since her Assumption.  These, along with other ways of expressing and teaching our faith to native spiritualities, has helped me come to greater grips on the universality of our Church and the mystical outreach of God's grace among all peoples.

Kateri, like all Native Americans, was no foreigner to the consequence of foreign take over.  Stricken by small pox at a very young age (which left her face scarred), Kateri was eventually left orphaned as a result of war and famine by the time the French had occupied the region.  Even before her conversion, at thirteen years of age the young Lily had devoted herself to a life of purity by choosing to remain a virgin and refusing to be wed.  Once the Jesuits had established their missions, she was baptized at the age of twenty and it was then that she was given the name Kateri (Katherine).  This is remarkable considering that the practice of these missionaries at the time was to hold off baptisms until a time when the native is close to death just to be safe that they would not turn back to their old ways.  Baptizing a native at this young age is a testament to how serious and sincere Kateri had become as a follower of Christ.  Despite the great sufferings she had already known, with all the joy she had for her faith and the grace she had been given, Kateri led an austere life of mortification and penance for the mercy and conversion of her kinsmen.  Continuing to live out her faith, she was eventually ostracized by her people and lived among other devout female converts just as herself, forming a sort of religious community under the direction of the Jesuit missionaries.  It was within this mission community that Kateri died at the age of 24, beginning what would be a history of miracles attributed toward her intercession along with a wide-range of peoples who place hope in their devotion toward her prayers and witness.

Bl. Kateri Tekawitha saw her earthly life for what it truly was: temporal and passing, yet a gift from God as the only opportunity we have to come closer to Him through His Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, before we pass from this life onto the next.  Surrounded by the reality of life and death from a very young age, Kateri knew how important it was to prepare for the moment she stood before her Father in judgement.  This faith went beyond a concern she had for her own soul, but led her to a life of incessant prayers and penances for the conversion of her people.  How beautiful is this example of agapic love: a love which is lived for another, not for their own sake, but ultimately out of love for God and the gift of love He has given.  The example we have from the Communion of Saints reveals to us the richness of our Church.  Though diverse throughout time, culture, ethnicity, and background, the Saints each stand together as a witness to the unity which is found in our faith: in our love for God and our love for one another. 

In a way the diversity we share on earth, when brought together in the unity of our liturgy, helps us to come to a much deeper understanding of our faith.  Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again: there are many different angles to look at the one mystery (a crucified God now resurrected).  When celebrated in a different language, a different setting, or a different cultural backdrop, we can enter into not only a deeper level of understanding, but a more sincere level of prayer and reverence we had never before known.  Each Mass we attend should not leave us the same but should send us out into the world with new found faith, and this can be accomplished during the sacred liturgy of a traditional Latin Mass, a Spanish Mass, an English Mass, or a Navajo Mass; the list is endless.  Though celebrated differently the message is still same, Go out into the world and proclaim the Gospel with your life.  This is what it is to be a Saint, not separating religion from the secular, but having the faith to live our religion within the secular.  That's our call to be witnesses to Christ and envangelize, to live our faith.

Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you.

And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age.  - Matthew 28:19-20