Christ seated in majesty, Abbey recreation room
A Drive through Country Music
I’m not sure when my love of country music first began, but it blossomed on my drive through the Nevada desert in 2003. If you’ve never had the pleasure of that experience, you should, because the landscape there is hauntingly beautiful. It can also be desperately lonely, and for miles on end a run up and down the radio dial can yield a grand total of one choice. This choice invariably will be country, and this is a great blessing. I have this nagging suspicion that as much as I might like Chopin, country music is a livelier companion on a desert highway.
I was reminded of my respect for country lyrics last Saturday, when I heard a refrain come belting over the airwaves: “I turned out to be the only hell my momma raised.” How could you possibly compare that to a current favorite from another genre: “Baby, baby, baby, …baby. Baby.” There’s no comparison at all, of course, and they’re not even in the same league. Just put that baby song alongside this: “I still miss you, baby, but my aim’s getting better.”
The latter was on a list of top country songs for 2007, and it was a close #8 to some other inspirational ditties: “If the phone don’t ring, you’ll know it’s me”; and “I liked you better before I got to know you so well”; and “I’m so miserable without you, it’s like you’re still here”; and “My wife ran off with my best friend, and I sure do miss him.” Still better is a personal favorite from another vintage: “You were number one in my life till you number two’d on me.” And then there’s the song about the woman whose successful husband ran off with a trophy wife. She sued him, and “now she’s cryin’ those Cadillac tears.” Can you imagine a pop song that took three sentences to make its point?
Human relationships aren’t the only topic of country, because there’s dogs and hunting, cars, alcoholism, trouble with the law, and unemployment. If there’s an experience you’ve been through, there’s a song for you. And therein is the inherent value of country music (besides the catchy beats, which I can count on to keep me awake through long stretches of the desert.)
In case you wonder what this has to do with prayer or the spiritual life, consider this. All too often we think of religious life as all sweetness and light. In fact, the truly religious person brings everything to God. We’re not fooling God if we only pray about the good things and give thanks for how great we are. God knows better, and so should we.
Saint Benedict, Abbey cloister walk
For centuries the Psalms have been the backbone of Christian prayer, and for still longer in the Jewish tradition. But for those new to praying the Psalter, those bits of poetry can be off-putting. Sure, there are moments of love and delight that show through, but there are also the cursing Psalms and those that reflect personal loss and anguish. Some hesitate to recite them, as if they were unworthy of God. But three thousand years ago they were an accurate reflection of human experience, and they remain so today.
In his Rule Saint Benedict recommends that his monks recite all 150 psalms in a week. He’s aware of other traditions that prescribe the entire Psalter in a day, but I suspect he wanted monks to reflect on the words they recite, and let them speak to their own emotional experience. You can take my word for it that there are sinners and saints in the monastery, just like everywhere else. And more often than not, the sinners and saints are one and the same.
Some wags have suggested that the Psalms are a window into bronze age spirituality. That may be, but there is no scientific evidence to suggest that our brains have grown in capacity in the last ten thousand years. Nor have our emotional drives changed appreciably. And so it is appropriate that we approach the altar of the Lord with our whole selves, warts and all. We all bring to God a range of emotional experiences, and like the lyrics of country music, the Psalms speak to them all.
Path to the Guesthouse
Personal notes
We never did get the White Christmas we had hoped for, and our brown Christmas was quite unlike what we used to know. Throughout the Christmas season it was wonderfully warm in Minnesota — all the way through January 10th, when we reached a high of 52. That day people played golf and ran outside in shorts and t-shirts. Winter returned with a flourish the next day, and so did the snow.
The Crucifixion, by Jerry Bonnet, lobby of Abbey chapter house
Over Christmas two friends sent me the Christmas album of Libera, an English boyschoir whose music I find absolutely ethereal. I first saw and heard them on the BBC program called Songs of Praise, which visits churches around the United Kingdom. Unlike most other choirs of boys, this group will make use of orchestral accompaniment, and the result leaves you breathless. I recommend each and every one of their albums. That combination of young voices and orchestra leads me to hope for other innovative partnerships. In an age of fusion cuisine and jazz fusion, is it too much to pine for the day when the choir of Kings College Cambridge releases its sublime rendition of “I Met All My Wives in Pick-up Trucks”?
On February 24-26 I will deliver a retreat in the Abbey guesthouse entitled “A Path through Holy Week: a Meditation on Seven Days.” For further informaton please visit the Abbey web site, go to the guesthouse, and look for Retreats.
A Monk's Chronicle 