I sat, silent, with my head in my hands. An expanse of pew extending to my left and to my right, all empty, save for me.
The clock on my wrist said the hour was half-past 2:00 A.M.
No one should be awake at this hour, let alone in church.
Not thirty minutes before, I had dragged my body from yet another night of restless slumber in order to make the mile walk from the Retreat House where I was staying to the Abbey…
The cool, full moon of an Upstate New York night gave just enough light to protect me from falling—but not stumbling—along the mile or so journey across the cornfields. The imposing darkness that had fallen across the landscape seemed to mirror that of my own inner long dark night of the soul.
How long must this dark night last, Lord?
To get to the Abbey one must pass by an enormous cross that towers above everything around it. It is a simple but imposing symbol that acts as a boundary between the Abbey and the world beyond. Passing it is to feel as though one has left one world to enter another, wholly “other.”
Other thoughts. Other time. Other prayers. Other-ness.
The door of the Abbey is as daunting as the cross. It is a monstrous piece of old-world architecture that boldly stands in the way of all who would enter.
Should I knock first or simply open it?, I wonder to myself. There looks to be no handle. How odd.
I grab hold of the door as best I can and wrestle it open. It feels a bit like David against the Goliath. To anyone who might have been watching, it must have seemed quite awkward.
Am I being hazed? How is there no handle to this stupid thing!?
The Abbey of the Genesee is home to several dozen Trappist monks, mostly famous for following old rules of order and especially for taking a lifetime vow of silence. They are contemplatives, spending as much time as possible in prayer and reflection. I had come to this place to sever myself from the deep ministry pain that encroached upon my life like a cancer.
I hoped to hear God’s voice again, a voice which had been all but silent during my dark night of the soul.
What I had not expected on this silent retreat was five hours of worship a day, led by the monks, and spread throughout the day… and night. Surprisingly, the monks’ vow of silence did not disallow them from using their voices in prayer, and pray they did!
I take a seat at the end of a pew close to the exit. The monks, whose pews are positioned on the other side of a railing that acts as a barrier between us, slowly file into the Abbey and slide into place. Just as I, each of them have made their way into the Abbey by way of the outer darkness.
My pew remains empty, save for me. Even here in this holy place—among other men of the cloth—I am painfully and desperately alone. The only thing that prevents me from another spiral into self-pity is the sound of a bell that tolls from somewhere other.
The 2:00 A.M. service of prayer—which I learn is called Vigils—begins.
Each pew seat has its own songbook, which upon further inspection is simply a Book of Psalms. Their songbook is Psalms, how interesting. Next to the songbook is a heavily worn piece of paper that lists the song roster for each service of the week. It is obvious that the monks are chanting from somewhere in the songbook, but the words of their chant do not match the psalm list sitting at my station. I am immediately and hopelessly lost, and all of this is making me feel more alone and out of place than when I arrived… a feeling I wouldn’t have thought possible.
My mind wanders.
I stare for a time at the towering cathedral ceiling, the concrete buttresses that hold it in place, and the slender panes of stained glass encased within the wall of boulders that surround the space. I am struck by the soaring peace of this place.
If God is to meet me anywhere, surely it will be here.
My eyes eventually fall on an out-of-the-way board that is apparently used to list last minute changes to the service’s typical psalter schedule. It proclaims that the usual psalms for this particular service have been replaced with 141 and 142:
I have called to you, Lord; hasten to help me!
Hear my voice when I cry to you.
Let my prayer arise to you like incense,
The raising of my hands like an evening oblation…
With all my voice I cry to the Lord,
With all my voice I entreat the Lord.
I pour out my trouble before him;…
While my spirit faints within me.
I cry to you, O Lord?
I have said: ‘You are my refuge, all I have in the land of the living.’
Listen, then, to my cry, for I am in the depths of distress…
Bring my soul out of this prison,
I sat in stunned silence.
God?!?!
The words of the replacement psalm have hit a line drive into the very heart of my soul, laying it bare. I look around, half-expecting to see a camera.
Am I being Punk’d?
Someone once said that coincidences are nothing more than circumstances in which God desires to remain anonymous. These psalms were no coincidence, of that I was certain. God was very clearly up to something, I just didn’t know yet what it was.
I gathered my emotions and tried as I may to plug back in to the prayer service. One of the monks was now making his way to a lectern. Opening the Bible, he began to read the night’s chosen text:
The Word of the Lord, from the Second Letter to Timothy…
My mind spun; my heart sung. The monk could not possibly have known that this particular letter attributed to the Apostle Paul—written to a young pastor like me—had long been my favorite. He could not have known that, but there was One who did.
During this, my first service of prayer at the Abbey, I was hearing the clear and unmistakable voice of God, a voice which I had neither heard nor felt in a very, very long time.
…Chapter Four:
I have fought the good fight,
I have finished the course,
I have kept the faith.
And to come, there is a crown of righteousness waiting on me, which the Lord himself will give me on that day.
In that sweet hour of melodic prayer, the soft voice of God swept away the encroaching doubt and brought reassuring confidence that the Lord had neither forgotten me nor left me in my pain.
As I made my way out of the service, once again entering the outer darkness and silence, the door of the Abbey seemed a bit less imposing than it had when I first arrived.
Had it changed, or had I?
Pondering the question, I realized that the massive door to the Abbey did indeed have a handle!
What?! Where did this come from?
It was well worn—and more than a bit hidden—but a handle nonetheless.
How had I missed it?
Was it intentionally hidden… or had I just not been looking in the right place?
The cross which I had shuffled past just an hour before was now framed on all sides by a dazzling curtain of lights set like twinkling stars behind it.
It was 3:00am, and I was a bit physically and now spiritually delirious, but these could not be stars.
Allowing my eyes to refocus, I realized these thousands of points of light were not stars at all but the light from thousands of homes stretching for miles up the York Valley and into the Adirondack’s beyond.
It was overwhelming.
These lights—connecting with the sky and stars above—created a seamless blanket that framed the cross in a spectacular display.
I realized that, though my time of prayer had ended for now, somewhere beyond the cross there were others, that very hour, who were continuing to pray… for me, for their children and churches, and for all of creation to have an encounter with Jesus who gave himself on that cross.
He endured pain, and perhaps I could endure a bit longer as well.
But for now, it was time for me to venture out… beyond the safety and sanctuary of the Abbey and the cross, out into the field of lights beyond,
Whatever may come.
Thank you for this word!! It was just what I needed to hear today!