Liturgy of the Frogs

There are many things about our temporary lodgings in Anselm Hall while the monastery is under renovation that I find agreeable. Other things, not so much. Home is home, and we all long to be there. The temporary move, however, has been a good opportunity to practice virtues like charity, patience, simplicity, and surrendering expectations.

In any event, one thing about my room in Anselm Hall I enjoy very much is the symphony outside my window each evening. My third-floor room overlooks two courtyards--one directly below me, and another just off to the right. Dwelling near the small pond in each courtyard is at least one frog, though I have never seen either. Each evening--say, about 8 p.m. or so--one of them pipes up. The other, occupying the courtyard on the other side of the wing that separates them, responds in kind. And they continue in this manner, first one and then the other, back and forth. For hours. Soon, a couple seemingly smaller, less throaty specimens join in--forming some sort of amphibious backup chorus. 

(There also are three box turtles in the courtyard directly below me--having been transported from their previous confines in the monastery, where it would be too dangerous for them to be right now. Unlike the frogs, however, they don't say much.)

I find the little nightly concert very relaxing, peaceful, and soothing. A good way to end the day. I sit in my chair and listen to the frogs perform each evening (I can hear them distinctly even with my windows closed and the air-conditioning on) before turning in for the night. Of course, I have no idea what they are communicating to one another, or even if they know what they are doing, but there is a beautiful symmetry and harmony to it all. Creatures praising Creator by simply being what they were created to be.

Back and forth, one after the other, listening and responding, making music together. Like monks chanting the Divine Office.

A couple evenings ago, I opened a window, placed my laptop on the sill, and used a sound-recording function to capture this "Liturgy of the Frogs." Novice Timothy--a fellow frog-lover who hails, as I do, from Findlay, Ohio--joined the audio recording to a few images from around Saint Meinrad Archabbey, producing the two-minute video above (and enabling me to post the result here). Many thanks to him.

Enjoy the show (remember to turn your volume up). Another live performance due up in a few hours... 

We know not how it grows

By Br. Peter Sullivan, O.S.B.

A reflection on the Mass readings for the 11th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year B
(Ezekiel 17:22-24; 2 Corinthians 5:6-10; Mark 4:26-34)

XXX

As beautiful as it is, nature can sometimes seem harsh and indiscriminate—whether it’s the environment we’re talking about, humanity itself, or all the natural forces that direct them. The storms of life fell many trees in the world, both literally and figuratively, and the body, mind, and soul are not exempted.

While it is necessary and healthy to survey and mourn the damage wrought by the occasional tempest, focusing on it can severely limit or distort our perception of all the good surrounding the storm—or even arising from it. We must, as St. Paul says, “walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Corinthians 5:7).

Life certainly takes many unexpected twists and turns, but God’s promise to us is that he is always at work in the world—whether we see it or not, or even whether we believe it or not. Like a tiny seed slowly sprouting, taking root, maturing, blooming, and striving toward the sun, the Kingdom of God continues to grow upward and outward. “See, I am making all things new,” God promises, for “all things work together for good for those who love God” (cf. Revelation 21:5; Romans 8:28).

As Jesus states in Mark’s Gospel (4:26-34), “The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.” God gently beckons every withered tree to bloom, put forth branches, and bear fruit, so that all may dwell beneath the shade of the Almighty (cf. Ezekiel 17:23-25; Mark 4:32).

By God’s promise and grace, through the Tree of Life that is Christ, the Kingdom of God is sprouting and growing night and day, in war and peace, in raging storms and restful stillness … though we know not how.

Excerpt from Grace in the Wilderness:
Reflections on God's Sustaining Word Along Life's Journey

by Br. Francis Wagner, O.S.B., Abbey Press, 2013

Prayer as punctuation

Punctuation can make a world of difference in our understanding of written communication. … In a similar way, the regular praying of the psalms in the Liturgy of the Hours is a grace-filled gift to keep us centered and headed in the right direction. The Divine Office literally punctuates—or interrupts—the flow of the hours of the day to supply them with the structure and meaning that otherwise risk being lost amid our other activities and concerns.

(An excerpt from my article in the latest issue of America magazine. To read the article in its entirety, click here.)

Out with the new, in with the old

Just a few odds and ends to share. We have finished moving out of the monastery (with no small effort by our fabulous co-workers, novices, and juniors), and the renovation work there has begun full-force. For a while, things were a little hairy: as we moved out lock, stock, and barrel, we had our community retreat, celebrated three jubilees of monastic profession, and buried two confreres. Things have begun to settle down a bit, although we are still getting adjusted to our "new" temporary surroundings--which we will occupy for the next 14 months.

The picture above is of Anselm Hall, where we have temporarily moved the monastic cloister (my room is on the other side of the building, with a view into one of the inner courtyards). The current monastery, now empty, is on the other side of the church in the picture. Anselm Hall, ironically, had been the monastery until the early 1980s, when the current one was constructed. So, some of our older monks have returned to where they started (though Anselm Hall looks much different now inside then it did then).

While we were moving, the Evansville Courier-Press came to take some pictures, and a story/photo package appeared on the front page of the newspaper a couple days ago. You can see the online version by clicking here.

In other news, today we are celebrating the priestly ordination of one of our monks, Fr. Luke Waugh, O.S.B. I just came from the ceremony in the Archabbey Church where Indianapolis Archbishop Joseph Tobin ordained him. Please keep Fr. Luke in your prayers as he begins a new phase of his life as a monk and priest of Saint Meinrad Archabbey.

Also, we recently welcomed another candidate to the monastery--Tony Wolniakowski, who came to us from Michigan. We are expecting another candidate in the fall. Please pray for our candidate, seven novices, and four junior monks, and that God will continue to add to our number.

As for the state of my Cincinnati Reds, it would probably be best not to speak of them at all. Too painful. Much too painful. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains, and sometimes you wish it would have rained.

Broken, scattered, gathered, One.

"Because there is one bread, we who are many
are one body, for we all partake of the one bread."
1Corinthians 10:17

The sound of something breaking is not typically pleasant. Rather, it tends to be startling and alarming. Even the sound of the word “break” and some of its various synonyms—shatter, split, crack—seem to signal violence and pain.

However, there is one sound of something breaking that brings me much peace, comfort, joy, and hope on a daily basis. Or, rather, Someone being broken in a profound, sacrificial, loving, and life-giving manner. If that seems odd, stay with me… The fraction rite—during which the celebrant breaks the consecrated bread while everyone sings the Agnus Dei or “Lamb of God,” is my favorite part of the Mass, I think. And, since I live in a monastery with many monks who are also priests, our daily conventual Mass typically involves at least five people breaking the consecrated bread on the altar at this same point in the rite—the celebrant and four concelebrants. In our cavernous church (especially if the celebrant still has his microphone on), the effect can be quite striking.

No matter what spiritual, mental, emotional, or physical state of mind I may be in at that moment, the “snap, crackle, pop” of the Eucharistic species being broken into as many pieces as necessary for those in attendance always refocuses me on the paschal mystery of which I am a part. And thank God for that!

Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, who is wholly present in body, blood, soul, and divinity under the appearance of bread and wine, lovingly allows himself to be broken, shared, and consumed so that all may become one through him, with him, and in him. Together, these broken fragments of Eucharistic bread (not just here, but in churches throughout the world) constitute one Body, with Christ as Head. As we partake of them, we are mystically brought together in the same way as many grains of wheat constitute one loaf of bread before it is broken and shared.

With this sacrament , Christ becomes fully present to us, with us, and in us, as he told his disciples at the Last Supper the night before he died:

While they were eating, Jesus took break, said the blessing, broke it, and giving it to his disciples said, “Take and eat; this is my body.” Then he took a cup, gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you, for this is my blood of the covenant, which will be shed on behalf of many for the forgiveness of sins.” (Matthew 26:26-28; cf. Mark 14:22-24, Luke 22:17-20, 1Corinthians 11:23-25)

Then, having taken part in this mystery of Christ being broken and shared for us, we are sent out into the world to proclaim—to be—Christ by our lives, broken and shared with others. It is only through Christ that we are gathered together in this way, as the celebrant prays in Eucharistic Prayer IV of the Roman Missal:

Look, O Lord, upon the Sacrifice which you yourself have provided for your Church, and grant in your loving kindness to all who partake of this one Bread and one Chalice that, gathered into one body by the Holy Spirit, they may truly become a living sacrifice in Christ to the praise of your glory.

It gets me every time—that “snap, crackle, pop.” With such evocative imagery (and even sound), we are not only reminded of, but become one with the paschal mystery of Christ, who gathers what has been scattered, and restores what is broken by becoming broken and scattered himself. It’s such a beautiful thing—so beautiful that it can’t be fully grasped, only allowed to sift through the fingertips of our minds like grains of wheat. This kind of beauty can only be lived through praise.

So, let us pray in the ancient words of the Didache (The Teaching of the Twelve Apostles, from the first or second century):

Father, even as this broken bread was scattered over the hills, and was gathered together and became one, so let your church be gathered together from the ends of the earth into your kingdom. To you is the glory and the power through Jesus Christ forever (Didache 9:4).

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

Amen.

"Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies,
it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit."

John 12:24