11/22/2000

Gethsemane: A Life of Prayer

We drove from Michigan to Kentucky together -- my Dad, my nineteen-year-old brother Bill and I -- when I was about fifteen. It must have been fall because I can still picture leaves skittering across the road in swirling eddies of red, orange and yellow. We arrived in Bardstown late in the afternoon and followed our directions to the Gethsemane Abbey.

The road to the monastery wound through rolling farmland, freshly tilled after the summer harvest. We parked across from the main building; Bill collected his bags from the trunk; and we walked through the front gates into a small courtyard. The bearded man who greeted us looked just like I had imagined a monk would look. He was dressed in a brown hooded robe and wore a wooden crucifix around his neck.

"Welcome to Gethsemane, Bill," he began. "I am Brother John. How was your trip?"

After we introduced ourselves and exchanged a few pleasantries, he told us about life at the monastery. The monks follow the rule of St. Benedict by praying together as a community seven times a day. Their prayers, called the divine office, include the Psalms, Torah, Prophets, Bible and other religious texts. They celebrate mass every day, as well.

"We lead a quiet, contemplative life here," Brother John said, "praying for our community, for the Church and for all humankind."

The monastery is financially self-sustaining because the brothers grow much of their own produce and bring in money by making cheese, fruitcakes and bourbon fudge, for sale by mail-order.

While Brother John was talking with us I noticed a second monk approaching. He stood nearby and nodded to acknowledge us but did not speak.

"Brother Timothy will show you to your quarters, Bill, whenever you are ready."

"I'm ready now," Bill said in a soft, steady voice. He was smiling and seemed eager to get started. He hugged Dad and hugged me, assuring us that he would write letters home and then walked inside with his escort. In disbelief, I watched him walk away.

Brother John extended a warm invitation that Dad and I accepted to attend Mass at the monastery chapel before heading back.

The chapel was beautiful in its simplicity. The walls, ceilings, altar and pews were hewn of dark wood. Votive candles flickered beside the altar, which was draped in white linen. Soft lights illuminated the crucifix that hung over the altar and a gold chalice rested on the linen cloth. Before mass began, we heard low, chanting voices approaching the chapel. A procession of monks appeared, walking two by two with their hands folded, chanting Latin prayers in unison, letting their voices drop at the end of a phrase, taking a breath and returning to the higher note for the next phrase.

"Dominis vobis cum," they intoned.

"Et cum spiritu tuo," we replied.

I looked for Bill, but he was not among them. The rise and fall of their voices, their muffled footsteps and the rustling of their robes soothed me. I felt safe and completely at peace in this profoundly spiritual place. I began to understand why Bill was drawn to this oasis in the hills.

Even so, I was totally opposed to his decision to become a Trappist monk. How could he give up marriage and raising a family? Why was this brilliant man -- an artist, mathematician, poet and student of the classics -- shutting himself away from the world? For what? His life had barely begun. He could not serve humanity by shielding himself from it.

During the ride home I told Dad how I felt. He listened sympathetically but maintained his neutrality. Before marrying my mother, a devout Catholic, he had signed a pledge that any children they had would be raised in the Catholic faith. He did not participate in our religious education but occasionally attended Mass with us. I know very little about my father's religious beliefs; he left our religious education up to my mother and the Church. We attended public schools and learned about many different religions from friends.

After returning home, I wrote to Bill almost every day. My letters contained every reason I could think of why he should come home, and why I thought he was making a huge mistake. I was determined to convince him that any life outside the monastery walls was better than life could ever be inside them.

He sent an occasional letter to the family and just one letter directly to me. His letters to the family described his daily routine and the simplicity and beauty of his life at Gethsemane.

In his letter to me he wrote, "Beth, try to think of the universe as an atom or group of atoms. Electrons orbit the nucleus of the atom and each electron occupies a different orbit. Each orbiting electron contributes equally to the stability of the whole. If one electron is pushed or pulled out of its orbit, the atom becomes unstable and can even break apart completely.

"I think about people in the same way. Every person moves in a unique orbit, too. Right now mine has brought me here to the monastery. My prayers are just as important as your flute playing or Dad's inventions or Mom's delicious pies. The different paths we take contribute equally to the universe and keep it stable and intact."

I respected Bill's choice after that. I still didn't like it much, and I missed him terribly. But I understood his explanation and appreciated its message. In fact, it made me feel stronger and more courageous myself. If what he said was true, it meant that I could choose my own path, too, and that whatever I chose would make a unique and special contribution to the world.

The content of my letters changed to reflect my understanding. I found myself feeling happy for my brother and for the other monks at Gethsemane, where they led quiet and peaceful lives in prayer.

Please send questions or comments to bbruno@snet.net.