Editor's Note

November 27, 2021

While the vacation may offer a more leisurely pace around here, the gospel does not. An optional reading of Matthew 25:1-13 on the feast of Saint Cecilia (November 22) reminded me of an antiphon we often sing at communion based on the passage: “Quinque prudentes virgines” (“Five prudent virgins”). It is a chant about the parable of the ten virgins, those five who had sufficiently prepared for the return of the bridegroom, and the five who had not. It is a chant demanding a wider vocal range than I often have available, with my firm preference for singing the lower notes. It is, nevertheless, not as disconcerting to sing as its message is to ponder, a message tailored to Advent. You do not know the time. Do not procrastinate. And it is logically not 100% optimistic, for even if the five oil-less virgins run to get the oil NOW, they still might be out looking for it when he returns. Conclusion: get it yesterday. This reveals Advent preparation to be the inverse of procrastination. Your soul is demanded of you, now, and always. Do not put off for tomorrow what you should have done yesterday. So, will you attend to God’s will tomorrow? And, “If not now, when...?” This prophetic message, echoed in John the Baptist, passed on by the Rabbi Hillel, sung out in “Quinque prudentes virgines,” tells us that Advent is already upon us. Let us begin!  

Peace,

Blake Billings

November 13, 2021

I thought of the famous revelation to St. Francis this week, “Rebuild my house!” It seemed a week of rebuilding here, with reminders of the ongoing, pressing need for “renovation.” Reporting on the renovations of the monastery seemed somehow to segue into the Solemn Profession of Brother Benedict: a new member added to a newly renovated monastery. The celebration of Lateran this week made me think of the interweaving of physical structures and of the human edifice that is the Church. And with some of the brethren traveling to St. Louis for retreat, I thought of the need for a kind of spiritual strengthening and rebuilding that our spirits constantly need. This, in a month where we continue to commemorate our dead and remember our hope for our heavenly destination. May our prayers and our work both contribute to this project, building us up, edifying us, in the life of grace. 

Pax,
Blake BIllings

November 6, 2021

This: were we led all that way for 
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly 
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, 
But had thought they were different… 

 
Reflection on the Solemn Profession of Brother Benedict led me somehow to those words of T. S. Eliot. To call this paradox seems to overcomplicate the thing. Since, after all, there seemed a singular message coming from the event, inspired by the singular witness of one person, a witness that makes its journey over varied paths into the community. Maybe what I was noticing was “the reactions on their faces,” so to metaphorically speak. Maybe I was witnessing those “reactions” in simple terms of seeing and sensing the presence of those in attendance: friends journeying far to be there; monastic brethren excited to welcome a new member; brothers and sisters of religious orders inspired to come share in this commitment to consecrated life; students curious about the significance of this rare occasion; family, required to watch from afar. And myself, waving my arm at the Schola during the Litany, trying to see over the shoulders of the monastic brethren in the sanctuary as we sang. Sensing somehow the spectrum of impact, across the wide range of our extended community, a community of faith, of Brother Benedict’s embrace of three deadly, inspiring, life-giving vows. His singular and profound act of faith, perhaps best distilled into the gesture of the covering with a funeral pall, as we offer our humble, powerless, powerful prayers. It seems to overcomplicate it to call it paradoxical, that such a death brings joy. After making his promise, this solemnly professed brother draws the monastic hood over his head, where it is to rest for several days. Speechless. But it was unmistakable: the community was filled with joy, the joy of resurrection. And the message was clear in this willingness to pass even through death: this was evangelization. Fr. Michael mentioned to the school that it had been many years since such a solemn witness here. May others follow upon it much more swiftly.

Pax,
Blake BIllings

October 31, 2021

The experience of a concelebrated Mass was new to me as a student at Portsmouth. I had encountered in my hometown only the singular presider in the parish priest. It impressed me to see the gathering of many around the altar. I still take notice, particularly when the various concelebrants have their respective moments to speak. The movement of the prayer of each from the silence into the realm of the audible: it recently made me think of God’s ability to hear our silent prayer. “Darkness is not dark to You,” says Psalm 139. Neither is the silence inaudible to Him. As the baton of the eucharistic prayer is passed from one celebrant to another, we hear each distinctive speaker, each personality emerges, each voice with its own manner, pitch, timbre, tempo. Amidst the ongoing prayer at the altar, each now has its moment to be heard. But this prayer had already been noticed, on high, the prayers heard, the persons already identified, already known. What has been audible to God, from eternity, now becomes manifest for us all, who join in the prayer. And this then extends from concelebrants to laity, also gathered at the same altar, all granted their own distinctive moments to speak, to a God who already was listening. I wonder, too, about the manner, pitch, timbre, and tempo of the voice of Jesus of Nazareth. To hear that voice! But do we indeed hear that voice - differently now, inaudibly, yet recognize it, all the same? “My sheep hear my voice.” (John 10:27) Such voice recognition is indeed wondrous, whether in the realm of the audible or in the depths of silence.

Pax,
Blake BIllings