The Cloister as City
Last Saturday, as I checked in for a flight leaving Phoenix, I struck up a conversation with the guy in the adjacent line. As two agents tagged our luggage, we chatted away — as did the agents. I’ll admit such relaxed exchanges at the airport are rare, but they can come with a heavy price. As we finished, I glanced at my baggage receipt, and it didn’t seem quite right. So I turned and asked my fellow traveller if by chance he was going to Hong Kong. “Yes, but how did you know?” he asked. “Well, it’s quite a coincidence, but my bag seems to be going there too,” I replied.
I don’t know what was in his bag, but I probably could have survived on it in Minneapolis. But I’m not sure what use my habit, alb and stole would have been for him in Hong Kong. Fortunately we did not have to find out, because of one iron-clad rule I have at the airport. No matter how capable or nice the agent may seem, always check to see if you and your bag are headed for the same place.
Arizona in July does not seem like the best idea in the world, but last week I was very very lucky. While Minnesota sweltered on the 4th of July, it was a balmy 85 and cloudy in Phoenix. Who would have guessed?
Whether it’s July or January, I find Arizona hauntingly beautiful. But I also find it spiritually inspiring because the terrain would have suited the monks and nuns of the Palenstinian wilderness in the 5th and 6th centuries. Arizona is not at all like Egypt, where the desert is totally barren and unforgiving. By contrast, a skilled person can survive in the Syrian and Arizona deserts, and the surreal landscape easily pushes you into spiritual reverie.
Through the centuries Christian monasticism has been wonderfully adaptible, and nowhere is this more true than when it comes to climate. The desert fathers and mothers begat spiritual descendents in the snowy expanses of Russia and on the plains of Spain. They inspired communities in the cool dark forests of France and Germany, and on semi-tropical Italian mountainsides. In each place a local spirituality took root, and monks and nuns built their own cities where one could walk with God each day.
If those monks and nuns built spiritual cities, they also built them to be physical homes, and architecture played a major role in nurturing their lives. Today tourists look at dreamy ruins and savor the mystical beauty of it all, but they’re generally oblivious to the talents of those builders. The latter were not naive dreamers. If anything, they were practical to a fault.
Most medieval monasteries were environmentally sensitive places, where builders took advantage of the site as best they could. If the site was spacious and level enough, they built a square or rectangular cloister, and the centerpiece of the puzzle was the church itself. From a spiritual point of view this made sense, because the liturgy was a central feature of their lives. But the church also acted as the primary regulator of climate in the monastery.
In southern Europe, the church was sited on the south side of the cloister. From there it provided shade for the courtyard and shielded the community from the hot southerly winds. In northern Europe, it naturally was the opposite. There the church sat on the north side, protecting the community from cold north winds and reflecting the warmth of the sun down into the courtyard.
If the community could afford to build an arcaded cloister, then the ideal complex was complete. Those arcades were not just corridors for processions and for travel from one room to another. In them the monks also worked. Depending on the season, they could avoid the blistering sun by sitting in the shaded and cool arcades in the summer, or catch the angled rays of the warm sun in winter. And while all this could be expensive to build, this provided a never-ending and free source of energy.
Of course monks and nuns and lots of other people knew this a thousand years ago. But all of this know-how seems so distant to a culture that depends on thick insullation and on central heat and air. Of course I would not want to trade this away on days when it soars to 102 or dips to 10. On those days the romanticism in me discretely slips away. But on the other hand, we would all do well to appreciate the worldly wisdom of the monastic builders of a thousand years ago. Before we dismiss them as hopeless primitives, let us remember that they have more than a few things to teach us about heating and air-conditioning.
+A Summer Note
While peace and quiet seem to reign on the campus throughout most of the summer, the list of recent activities might suggest that the place is not as sleepy as you would imagine. As I walked around Saint John’s a week ago Saturday, the steps of the Abbey church were crowded with a big wedding party. Elsewhere you could find the remains of a high school football camp, and on that particular Saturday the parents of a high school ministry conference joined their sons and daughters at the Abbey Mass. Also that weekend we hosted a reunion of alumni of the University choirs. The latter group brightened our worship immensely by singing at the Abbey Mass on Sunday.
Of course the summer theology courses tend not to attract a rowdy bunch, but they do bring some welcome visitors to the monastery. Benedictines from abbeys in California, Louisiana and North Dakota are here for a few weeks, as are Trappist monks from Oregon, California and Kentucky. The prize for the furthest-travelled monk goes hands-down to Fr. Lazlo of the Abbey of Pannonhalma in Hungary. For their part, our monastic guests seem to enjoy their time at Saint John’s. And for our part they broaden our horizons enormously.