Angelus

A little break in the garden reporting. I have been attending the General Chapter (meeting) of my monastic congregation at St. Anselm Abbey in Manchester, NH.

It’s just 6:45 in the morning and we are gathered in the dimness of the abbey church waiting for Matins and Lauds to begin. The monastic choir is quite full; yet, one senses a stillness that is almost tangible. It’s not totally quiet, though – there are coughs, the rustling of papers and the shuffling feet of the late arrivals. The stillness is something different. It’s like a scale that has just come into balance. This stillness is equipoise. At the same time, however, it is packed with energy, like runners waiting for the starter’s gun to fire. The monks await in readiness the start of Morning Prayer.

 All at once, the stillness is broken. A bell begins to ring. It tolls three times – the Angelus. The kneelers fall into place and the monks drop themselves onto them, some effortlessly, some with the weariness of age. “The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary . . .” Why are we doing this, anyway? This is not meant for us. The Angelus came into existence for the layfolk to pray, while the monks and nuns were praying in church. It was intended to be substitute for lay people to take the place of the Liturgy of the Hours that the professionals were reciting. Three times a day – morning, noon, and evening – the bell summoned the faithful to this prayer. They would stop where they were and bow their heads.  The familiar image of a young girl at silent prayer comes into the mind’s eye. “and she conceived of the Holy Spirit. . . Hail, Mary, full of grace”

The bell tolls again, three times. I sneak a quick look around me at all the heads bowed in prayer. “Behold the handmaid of the Lord.” We are beginning this day recalling the very beginning of the story, the greatest story ever told, as it is known. The Almighty is asking this young girl, the chosen of the Chosen, to become the unwed mother of her people’s messiah. “Let it be done to me according to your word.” She accepts and say ‘yes’. Does she know? How can she? But she trusts. This day has barely begun. Do I know? How can I know what will happen today. I mutter the words, “Let it be done to me according to your word.” I want to believe and put my trust in God alone. In reality, I’m thinking about all the things I have to do today.

A third time the bell rings three times. “And the Word became Flesh”. In the silence of love, the Creator of all things visible and invisible fills the womb of this young virgin. In the iconography of the event, the full of grace bows her head in acceptance. Along with my brothers, I bow my head in wonder and adoration of this ineffable mystery. “and dwelt among us.” The God of heaven and earth has become one of us and dwells among us now, this day, here with these monks from across the country. This is my prayer as we finish, “Help me to see You in these fellow human beings, these incarnations of God’s love. Hail Mary, full of grace.

The bell begins its final peal. Nine times. “Pour forth we beseech Thee, O Lord, thy grace into our hearts. Yes, Lord, pour your grace into my heart. I need your grace to love these creatures, all creatures, as you love them. Oh, I can be nice to them well enough. But, can I see You in them? Love You I them? Worship You in them? “that we, to whom the mystery of the incarnation was made known by the message of an angel. . . “

All goes still again.  We continue to kneel in silent prayer as the first rays of the morning sun pierce the stained glass. Poised. Ready to begin our sacrifice of praise. Somewhere in the distance, the abbot knocks. Obediently we rise to our feet. From the other end of the room, a young monk intones: “O Lord, open my lips.” The silence of the night is broken and; once more, this band of black-robes takes up the fragile chorus, “and my mouth shall show forth your praise.”