Incredible Friday

Why did they call today merely Good Friday? It was in fact awesome. The awesomest. I cannot wait to participate in what this day may offer. Part of the Pastoral Formation course I am taking at the seminary requires a half day retreat once again. This time I am going to the Abbey of the Genesee for my special time with God. They are having a Good Friday celebration with music. I wonder what beautiful choral works I will be privileged to hear. And from a men's choir - this should be spectacular!

The day begins with a few potentially frustrating activities. I have to run some things over to my sister's so she can deliver Easter goodies to my grandchild and a little something for Mom. I mutter as I prepare to leave. The kitchen is a mess and I didn't mess it up. But I refuse to let that spoil this day. I intend to drop off the packages and head south. Unfortunately, I discover I cannot leave my sister the address of my son's new home as I have left my cell phone home. Rats. I will have to go back. I hate delays, especially when I am anxious to enjoy a special event.

I determine not to let this throw me, and soon I am cheerfully heading south on 390, immersed in choral music befitting the occasion. I have never been to the Abbey, but when I mentioned it to the Pastor, she was jealous, having been there herself and wishing she could go with me. Yes, this will be a wonderful day.

After a pleasant hour's drive in summer-like weather, I make the final right hand turn in Piffard onto River Road - an odd name since there is no river to be seen. There are quaint signs strategically placed, keeping me on track. Soon I pull into the winding drive and head toward a long building composed of large stones and dark wood. I am told that Henry Nouwen hauled those stones out of the river himself for the building of this edifice.

I park and head towards what must be the entrance, unsure of exactly where to go. I am struck by the trinity theme - three pine trees shading the parking lot, three rocks in the small garden in the center of the circle, three oriental looking lights placed near the walk. Near the front door is a white marble statue of the Mother Mary cradling a tiny infant in her arms. How strikingly human her gaze, how normal the baby - not like some of the paintings I have seen where Jesus as a new born looks mature already. I tear myself away in anticipation of what lies inside.

The doors are massive and heavy. There appears to be no handle, but closer inspection reveals a slit behind one of the strips of wood that you can slide your hand into. I pull. With a creak and groan, the door gives way and I enter a dark foyer. There are printed instructions - this is a silent order. No cell phones please. Don't talk in the hallway or in the chapel. I turn to the right and enter a room with comfortable couches and chairs, one occupied by a gentleman who glares at me.

Behind the seating area is a small store where you can purchase not only books and devotional materials but various "monk-made" products. The monks at this abbey bake bread and specialty cakes - I have seen them in stores in Rochester. They offer the products of other abbeys - jams and preserves (32 varieties) or candies or flavored honey.

I retrace my steps and find myself standing in front of another set of wooden doors. I push them open and enter a dark octagonal chapel with Anglican style choir stalls about the room. As my eyes adjust to the light, I realize there are three or four people in the chapel. About a third of the space is open to visitors, the rest of the area dedicated to desks for the thirty odd monks who worship here on a regular basis, monks who observe the hours every day.

There will be a service in about ten minutes - called sext for the sixth hour. I sit to wait, not sure what to expect, feeling very out of my element. I recognize right away that this space is not intended for physical comfort. The wooden stalls are straight, rigid, hard, very uncomfortable. I would not want to have to sit here too long. My legs are already beginning to ache and my toes are falling asleep.

I flip through the Psalter on the tilted table in front of me. The print is huge and a bit styled though not excessively ornate. Here and there are marks to indicate changing from leader to congregation, to show a pitch up or down motion. A few more people amble in, trying to see in the dark, tiptoeing so as not to disturb anyone, least of all the monks who are no where visible as yet.

Suddenly I hear the most obnoxious noisy clattering. Who in the world is so flagrantly violating the signs posted everywhere? The sound grows louder, but it is not coming from the entrance near us. It is coming from the opposite side of the room, the part chained off from the public. I cannot imagine what could be making such a racket. Maybe someone is pushing racks of bread? But no, on the far side of the room in the dimly lit recess by the farthest table a small, white, bald head appears.

The man is ancient, barely moving. His head, which is all that can be seen of him, seems almost to float along, his lower lip hanging down as he huffs and puffs his way to a set of steps. He pauses a long moment, slowly bows his head toward the cross hanging from the ceiling, the one completely draped in purple cloth. Then the clattering begins again as he moves out of sight, appearing in the middle of the room making his way up a ramp. His gait is a study in slow motion, but at last I realize that the racket is being made by his walker that he pushes along in front of him.

He is barely seated at one of the desks when the clattering begins again, and the process is repeated by another ancient entering, bowing, wending his way up the ramp, settling into a station. He is muttering over and over "54 and 55. 54 and 55." It is all I can do to keep from laughing at the blatant disregard for quiet. I wonder if the poor old gentleman is senile, muttering nonsense to himself.

One by one the monks filter into the chapel. They are all old, some older than others. Most are either bald or have very short hair, and they all wear a white robe covered by a black apron type garment. They don't talk out loud, but you can clearly hear them whisper now and again. It is evident that these men function at a completely different rhythm than the rest of the world. Having observed the Divine Hours for decades, they are in no hurry, under no obligation to time.

When they walk, their steps are completely without tension, without any sense of need. Neither irritation nor boredom appear in their visage and demeanor. This is not what they do. This is who they are. They take us into their cycle of prayer, showing by example when to sing, when to kneel, when to be silent, when to stand, when to pray. As we chant together Psalm 54 followed by Psalm 55, I understand what the second monk meant by 54 and 55. The words are appropriate.

The Divine Hour is thankfully not an hour. I am grateful for the handful of people around me who by rote knew how to fold the seat of the stall up when it was time to kneel and who touched the sheet of laminated instruction at appropriate times so I did not get lost. It is a strange configuration for the familiar words. I feel awkward but not unwilling to participate.

I head out of the chapel and back to the seating area near the store where I take out my readings for this retreat. It is difficult to concentrate because the woman who runs the small store has no compunction about talking and liberally chats with every customer who comes in. I wonder if there are so many because it is Good Friday or if they always get so many faithful to spend money there.

I am joined by five men in their twenties, students at the Catholic seminary in Rochester. They too have brought devotional books. They too try to read, to concentrate on what is before them. They finally give up and decide to take a long quiet walk on the abbey grounds.

I too exchange the indoor comfort for the outdoor quiet, finding only hard wooden benches outdoors and none of those in any shade. Still, I have come aside to meditate on God's word and work. Comfort is of little importance. At least no one talks to me. And the special service is forth coming. I settle down to read and meditate, thankful for that small urging to bring lunch instead of thinking I would find something here!

As I read and contemplate, I begin to understand more of where I am on my walk with God, to know more about myself, more about who God is and how I can get to know him better. As the prescribed activities wind down, I decide to visit the little store, coming away with a jar of strawberry rhubarb jam, a chocolate cake, and a loaf of white bread. Some of the books are familiar, others simply not something I am interested in at this time.

Just as I deliver my purchases to my car, people begin to arrive for the 3:30 service. Lots of people. Where will they all fit? I realize that if I am to get a seat, I better get in there. And none too soon. Minutes after I find a stall a monk comes in to direct traffic and every seat in the house is taken. People line the stone walls and sit along the ramp, one woman hunkering down beside the chain where monks are entering.

Gone are the black stoles, replaced for some monks by a thin strip of vivid red. One monk, referred to as the celebrant, is completely clothed in rich red robes. The instruction sheet overflows with tiny print, both sides, and interspersed with little semi musical lines of chant. I never realized how visceral this service would be. The monks prostrate themselves full prone on the cold hard floor over and over and we sing our way through the first part of the service.

The second part of the service is the entire passion of Jesus as given in the gospel of John completely rendered in chant by three monks, one a narrator, one Jesus, and one representing the crowd. Though they are singing in English, it is sometimes difficult to catch their words. On and on and on they sing, telling the story. Everytime Jesus endures something like the crown of thorns, the whipping, the nailing, we stop while the monks go prone and we kneel and maintain silence.

I have never experienced a reactive reading of the gospel. It grabs you, thrusts you into the action, makes you part of the day. We do not do the stations of the cross, but the third part of the service is a veneration of the cross, beginning with the wood. They bring in a cross with Jesus on it, wrapped in red cloth. Slowly as the virtues of the cross are extolled, they unwrap it.

I have not experienced much in the line of Catholic services other than what I have seen on television. I am not prepared for the kissing of the cross as a sign of devotion and love. The monks line up with great humility. It is an honor to participate. One by one they file past the cross and kiss the feet of Jesus. After each man has bowed, a monk wipes clean the place that was kissed.

It is moving to see thirty men totally devoted to Christ, totally honored to serve him, men who have spent a lifetime worshiping Christ five times a day every day of the week every week of the year, men for whom this has not grown tiresome, but ever more significant. You don't see that kind of devotion every day.

It was not the musical concert I expected. Yet it was music from the hearts of men who are totally sold out to God. What surprised me was the effect on my behavior for the rest of the day. I was different. More caring. Wanting to reach out and do something special for Drew who had been struggling with trig problems for hours, to take Sugar for a long walk in the park, to chat with neighbors and see how things are going. This is an unusual reaction to immersion in Good Friday services.

This is a good thing. In fact, its rather incredible. It doesn't hit you right away, but sneaks up on you quietly. I like feeling happy and content in this way. Perhaps I should celebrate Good Friday more often.