Once Upon A Monk
Memoir EssaysBy T. C. AbelAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 T. C. Abel, D.Min
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4567-2016-2 Contents
Editor's Preface............................................................ixAcknowledgements............................................................xiForeword....................................................................xiiiI: The Path.................................................................1II: The Gate and the Guesthouse.............................................5III: Growth Along the Trellis...............................................9IV: Miraculous Growth and a Twist in the Trellis............................17V: Growing Inwardly.........................................................27VI: The Monastery as a Subculture...........................................33VII: Musings on Selected Aspects of Monastic Life...........................37VIII: Transplanting the Trellis.............................................65IX: A Conclusion and Some Closure...........................................71Appendix I: TIN Men Have a Voice Also.......................................75Appendix II: A Sociological Study by Dr. George Hillery.....................89
Chapter One
The Path
The cool breeze that sometimes wafts over New Orleans, the city of my birth, carries the sounds of Jazz, the smells of fine Creole cooking and a deeply imbued spiritual presence. To say I was born in the house of God is literally true. Hotel Dieu (House of God) was one of the earliest and best run hospitals in the United States. Founded and staffed by the blue robed, white "sailboat" hatted Sisters of Charity, it was a landmark of Creole New Orleans until 1992 when it was sold and renamed University Hospital.
This seemingly small detail in some ways represents a theme running through both my life and this book. Gradually over the years, New Orleans has lost much of its spiritual aura and its Creole traditions just as today not a few former monasteries, particularly in Europe, have become seminar houses or even fancy hotels.
In many Caucasian New Orleans homes, there was an African American surrogate mother. In our family, it was our dear Clara, who left her own family every day to care for ours. Women like Clara were often not only selfless, but also deeply spiritual and full of courage. She even brought her grandson to play with me. We were only four years old.
Later in my life, I noticed that our monastery, as well as many other religious houses, was predominately white. This prompted me on an adventure of founding a new monastery in the hope of attracting more African American vocations. I think Clara's influence was far deeper than I realized.
Without a doubt, this early environment filled with the challenges and sacrifices of a family facing the Depression, the love and devotion of Clara, and the deeply spiritual flavor of New Orleans played a crucial role in my desire to be closer to God and to have a strong spiritual life.
New Orleans has, and to some extent still has, a dual school system. Public schools were funded with taxes payed by all families, and Catholic schools charged tuition. I spent my elementary years at St. Dominic's School on Harrison Avenue in the Lakeview neighborhood. My father struggled to stay employed in those depression years and my mother worked in a sewing shop downtown. I had two older siblings, my brother John 9 years my senior and sister Lollie 7 years older than me. When I was eight, my younger brother Ronnie was born.
I helped pay for my early education with a job as a paper boy and was paid also to be the sacristan in St. Dominic's Church. Each day I prepared the altar for mass, rang the bells and in general cared for the order and readiness of this other "House of God".
There is speculation today that our desire for God could be genetically hardwired (The God Gene, Dean Harner). I have no real opinion of this, but I see clearly how even the choice my parents made about where I would be born started a process that became an unbroken path leading me from one House of God to another. Next door to St Dominic's Church was the Priory where the friars lived. Over the centuries there have always been spiritual movements that corresponded to the zeitgeist.
The so called "mendicant" orders (mainly Dominicans and Franciscans) grew in the Middle Ages when commerce and the rise of the cities made traveling safer and easier. The male members of these orders roamed through Europe preaching and spreading the message of Christ. The female members supported the ministry of the males. My deepest dream was to be a monk. Monks were a much earlier evolution in the life of the church tracing their origins to the early Middle Ages sometimes called the Dark Ages. Monks typically stayed in one place (most still do today) and worked and prayed in the house (monastery) they entered as youths. My ideal in this regard was the Trappist lifestyle, especially as lived at Gethsemani Abbey in Kentucky where the famous journalist and convert Thomas Merton lived and wrote. There were no monk role models in my New Orleans, so even as a child I saw my path leading to the Dominicans. A high school diploma was required to join and I completed mine with The Sacred Heart Brothers, who are a group of men teachers founded in France. Even though the brothers were strict, my grades never reached the level needed for me to be accepted to study for the Dominican priesthood. So, at the advice of my spiritual director, I traveled north to a large Dominican Priory for my formation as a Dominican brother. The role of the brother those days was quite hidden and quiet. In the best sense, they were the enablers who made the more visible ministry of the Dominican priests possible. Brothers kept the house clean, cooked or worked in the office or library. In much the same way the Dominican sisters taught school or cooked and did the laundry for the male Dominicans.
In retrospect I believe I was unhappy about not being able to follow my original plan of becoming a monk. However, the excitement of moving away from home and being in new places with new experiences ended whatever depression I may have felt.
My time of formation took place in the northern United States where I got my first experience of real snow. It did snow once in New Orleans but it was all melted away before noon time. I learned to love the fierce snow filled winters. The Dominican Priory in River Forest, Illinois looks like the marriage of a monastery and a fortress architecturally and wears the white winters there beautifully.
After 18 months of formation, I was sent to work at the Provincial House in Chicago. I spent three years there as assistant to the Provincial. At St. Pius is the national shrine of St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless cases. Interesting as this may sound, I never considered myself as a hopeless case. I was then transferred to the priory of Most Blessed Sacrament in the college town of Madison, Wisconsin.
It was here that my desire to be a Trappist could no longer be contained. So soon after arriving, I requested permission to transfer to the Trappist Monastery located in Iowa. My request was granted through Canon Law (meaning I did not have to renounce my vows as a Dominican brother). My feelings were mixed as Fr. Cain, the Dominican Prior, drove me to my new home in the Iowa hills that seemed like mountains to me. I was happy with the Dominicans but also had a continued longing for the hidden life of the Trappist cloister.
A journey that had begun in the House of God on Perdido Street in New Orleans was now continuing along Old Highway 20 through Iowa leading to the Trappist guest house where I was to officially enter upon my monastic life journey.
Chapter Two
The Gate and the Guesthouse
Trappist is a kind of nickname for the reformed Benedictines called Cistercians after the name of the Citeaux Abbey in France famous for its rigorous lifestyle and strict observance of the Rule of St. Benedict. The extreme austerity of this lifestyle had caused my earliest spiritual director to advise me against such an order and that is basically how I wound up first a Dominican.
The Cistercian/Trappists are primarily Benedictine and in following the Holy Rule, in my opinion, they considered themselves "purists" (at least this was the case some years ago). The other Cistercians are known as "The Common Observance".
The Reformers were indeed idealists of a sort, and only desired that the monasteries they founded, particularly after the French Revolution, would conform strictly to the Rule of St. Benedict. They added to their monastic practices extra fasting, discipline, and other austere additions too numerous to mention.
In reading the book entitled Benedict's Dharma in which several Buddhist scholars reflect on Benedict's Rule, I was fortunate enough to learn that the root meaning in Latin and Greek of the word Rule is trellis. This makes perfect sense since Benedict was establishing a framework on which a life can grow. Norman Fisher writes:
"While the branch of a plant climbing a trellis cannot grow in any direction it wants, you cannot know in advance just which way it will go. The plant is finding its own path, within a structure. The space in which it moves is open, though not without boundaries. Dharma (teachings of Buddha) is a kind of trellis that supports the awakened life. Both the Rule of St. Benedict and the Dharma of the Buddha are general guidelines for an inner journey."
One of the other writers of this book, Judith Simmer-Brown tells us:
"As I got into the Rule, I recognized St. Benedict's sophistication, his intuitive understanding of the importance of structure and boundary. He was working at communicating something that cannot be communicated at all through theology or doctrine, something more like meditation instruction. When I began to see this level of the Rule, I realized I was stepping over a lot of history and prejudice on my part about monasticism into something that felt completely familiar."
St. Benedict instructs the monastery gatekeeper to require that a new candidate for entry be left outside the gate until he has knocked at least three times. After only one knock, I was welcomed by Br. Joachim, the porter, into the guesthouse of the Abbey where I was to spend some time getting used to the quiet and seclusion of the place and considering carefully whether I really wanted to be there for the remainder of my life. This time also allowed the Abbot an opportunity to consider my fitness for the life. Brother's warm smile, gracious nature, and bright intellect allowed me to feel completely at home. He was assisted in his work by an equally delightful Friar Tuck look-a-like called Br. Conrad, a real man of God who chose to keep silent even when his special work allowed him to speak.
Both of the brothers in the guest house, as well as many of the other monks, were originally from Ireland giving me a taste of the Irish hospitality of Mt. Melleray Abbey in County Waterford, the founding monastery of the House in Iowa.
Earlier I mentioned the distinction between the lay brothers of the Dominicans and the priests; this was also the case with the Trappists. Brothers were a class apart, wearing a brown habit to distinguish them from the monks of the monastery who wore white with a black scapular gathered at the waist held by a thick leather belt. The brothers also had a separate place for prayer only joining the monks for Mass and other special services. The monks chanted their daily prayer, which St. Benedict entitles "Opus Dei" or the work of God, in the church. This prayer form is composed of Psalms, songs and readings, all of which was in Latin.
The brothers worked in farm, fields and kitchens and would stop to come together for their prayer in English. As with so many class systems, this one led to some inequality and injustice and I am happy it has been abandoned. Thankfully this "class" distinction left over from Europe no longer exists.
My days in the guesthouse quickly passed and my resolve to continue remained firm. I was soon measured by Br. Ambrose, the abbey tailor, for my Cistercian habit. Brother Ambrose always had a sweet smile, despite a health condition and perhaps arthritis that kept him stooped both sitting and standing. His patience with adversity was for me both a model and the essence of "monkhood".
Before I could don the new habit, I had to empty my pockets (in this case only a wallet with my name and old identity) and give it to the care of the monastery. Should I ever exit the cloister, it would be returned. At my actually leaving, it was not returned, so there is still a small piece of me somewhere in the Abbey. My new life began with a new name and now I was called not Thomas but Br. Martin De Porres.
A Spiritual Parable
Pachomius, while still a young convert to Christianity decided he wanted to be a monk. Having heard that an old man living alone outside his village might help him reach his goal he visited him and asked to become a monk. They say that a real monastic father is never eager to accept novices, so Paloman answered his request this way "No, this life may prove too difficult for you, as many who have come have already left". Since Pachomius persisted and returned again and again, Paloman explained the monastic way of life the "poletia" thusly:
"Try yourself in point to find out whether you can be steadfast; then you will come back to us once more. When you come back we will be ready, in so far as our weakness allows, to work with you until you are able to yourself."
Translator Abbot Armand Veilleux +
Chapter Three
Growth Along The Trellis
Novitiate was also my introduction to the fierce Iowa winters. The snow drifts were sometimes piled twenty feet deep. When the buzzer sounded at 2:30 am to wake us for our prayer of Vigils there were sometimes icicles hanging from the cement rafters above.
We slept in our habits so I rarely felt the chill. Our beds, which we called couches, were a straw and corn husk filled mattress and a pillow of the same material. That was topped with an Army surplus blanket and we were cozily set for winter. We had old time steam radiators and early in the morning we could hear the heat on its way to the fourth floor knowing that by the time it reached us we would already be downstairs and in the chapel. Events were tightly scheduled. Between waking and chapel, we had only ten minutes to splash water on our faces and enter the chapel. In winter, we wore our cowls in choir. These are very large garments worn over our tunics, which kept us warm enough. Despite the cold and other austerities, I thrived during those years. We are certainly capable of being much more than we sometimes allow ourselves to be.
Our days were filled with prayer and work. I was much more involved with getting to know the rule of St. Benedict and the customs of the Trappists than I was in getting to know myself. Perhaps the others were developing self awareness but I was quite involved in outer activities, particularly in choir where one of my duties was being a cantor.
My memory is that the Abbot was quite obsessed with perfection in Gregorian chant. When not otherwise occupied, we spent hours practicing the eight modes of this ancient music. I did not feel put upon by the time we devoted to this task. To feel my monkness was very important to me and chanting in choir was a main contributor to this experience. Dom Armand, cited above writes, "the goal of monastic life is to get to know yourself, to know your heart, which means to return to the center, to go back to the roots, to the core of one's being, where one can ultimately encounter God".
Living those many years according to the Rule was a genuine delight for me. Observances were well organized and for the most part no one had too many serious responsibilities unless they held a governance position in the community. Those of us studying for the priesthood had morning classes organized around the Opus Dei (chanting the hours of the Office). Manual work was scheduled for the afternoons.
This arrangement seemed to work well for everyone. I had the joy of working with hundreds of chickens over a period of several years. I cared for their well being, gathered their eggs and ordered their nests. I candled the eggs which I thought of as Grade A treasures.
Eggs were reserved for those who were young (under 21) or the very elderly or ill in the infirmary. Most of the eggs I gathered were brought to Br. Anthony the cook in our guesthouse. He used these for breakfasts or other meals our guests enjoyed.
Br. Anthony, who looked like Father Time, was over eighty and a truly benevolent man. The novices were often assigned, after the Office of Vigils (night chanting of the office), to help in the guesthouse kitchen peeling potatoes or apples. These were happy times where we joked and chatted with each other, using our sign language of course.
I also occasionally was fortunate to have a novice helping me in my work with the chickens. One of these young men had been an altar server during my time at the Priory in Madison, Wisconsin. Jack was a special individual with a sensitive personality. I was a strict observer of the rule, so I only spoke to him when it was needed for our work. Looking back, I regret this observance since he left the monastery under strange circumstances shortly thereafter. This was very difficult for me to be so disciplined that I controlled my feelings through such an experience. I had watched this young man literally grow up. As I now see it, I held my true feelings back as he experienced some mental anguish of his own. Such a strange way of showing concern for a young man I cared for so deeply. The Abbot thought he might have a mental problem. I still wonder sometimes if by reaching out to him I could have been of some help. Unfortunately, hindsight does not justify such a careless oversight. Strange as this may sound, I think even St. Benedict would understand my so called breach of his Rule in that instance.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Once Upon A Monkby T. C. Abel Copyright © 2011 by T. C. Abel, D.Min. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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