A Matter of Time (2 page)

As they entered the sanctuary, solemnly proceeding in a column of twos, he relaxed. Slipping on his robe was like slipping
into peace. No matter how much stress he was under, or how frustrated or angry, it was as if he were entering another world.
A world with no end, no beginning. Of permanence and eternity.

Was it the real world? When he first came to the abbey twenty years ago, he had wondered if he was escaping reality. He soon
discovered that there was every bit as much reality within the abbey as without. But there was also a
sense of abiding tranquility, which in their new basilica was even greater. As the brothers blended their voices into one,
the Gregorian chant rose and fell like the ebb and flow of the sea. The thought struck him again that their 28 voices were
not only blending one with another, but with the voices of monks down through the ages, who had sung these phrases in exactly
the same way.

Like the smoke of incense, the chant wafted up to the distant rafters and wreathed the lofty columns, lingering in the mind
long after their singing ceased.

As the last echo died away, stillness returned. It was far from empty. The basilica itself seemed to be listening—calmly but
intently, noting every sound, every thought.

He smiled. The peace of God did indeed pass all understanding. Long ago he’d tried to understand it. Now he just embraced
it, as probably the best part of monastic life.

Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto
…. He felt at home. Cared for, by God. And this morning he wished he could just stay here, in the hollow of God’s hand—forever.

After Lauds there was morning Mass, attended by the whole abbey, and after Mass there was a message for Brother Bartholomew
to join Brother Anselm in the library. He found the Senior Brother in his favorite chair, by the window where he could watch
the early morning sun playing on the apple trees.

Anselm had aged gracefully. The years may have grayed his hair and added a natural tonsure to the back of
his head, but the brown eyes were as clear—and as seeing—as ever. He’s only twenty years older than I am, mused Bartholomew,
on the verge of fifty himself.

They were alone. He drew up a chair alongside his spiritual director and waited.

There was no one he trusted more or felt closer to than Anselm, though that had not always been the case. When he’d entered
the abbey’s friary at the age of 28, Brother Anselm had been the novice master. He’d struck the new novice as too quick to
make up his mind—and too slow to change it. “The Number One enemy of ‘Best’ is ‘Good,’” Anselm had been fond of saying, and
he’d practiced what he preached, requiring the absolute best of himself always, and assuming his young charges were doing
the same.

Over the years Bartholomew had come to see that the very things he’d judged Anselm for were actually great strengths—strengths
that benefited all of them. Anselm’s refusal to compromise in the pursuit of excellence had inspired the rest of them to go
and do likewise.

With the passing years, the Senior Brother had mellowed. They all had. The average age in the brotherhood was 43, and while
that was three years younger than the average of the 69 sisters in the abbey’s convent, it was climbing steadily. Unless they
gained some new novices….

He smiled inwardly, recalling a poster that Brother Ambrose had once made for the benefit of the young men in abbey families.
(Counting the children, the abbey’s membership was around 350, most of them civilians.) A parody of the World War I poster
of a resolute Uncle Sam pointing at the passerby and summoning him to duty abroad, Ambrose’s poster featured an equally resolute,
robed figure—

So far, only three had responded—none of whom had actually been born on Cape Cod, much less in the little harbor village of
Eastport, as Bartholomew had.

At the bird feeder outside the window, a sparrow breakfasted while two chickadees perched on a nearby bough, awaiting the
next sitting. Anselm seemed totally absorbed in this gentle drama till Bartholomew felt compelled to speak. “If this is about
last night—”

The older brother turned to him. “It’s not about last night—though that nightmare’s grip on you is an indication of where
you are.”

Anselm turned back to the bird feeder. “What happened last Friday, there,” he nodded toward the apple trees, “is of more concern
to me. I had to wait until I could talk to Mother Michaela before speaking to you about it.” Their Abbess was also the director
of the choir, which had just returned from a concert tour.

“You mean, with Koli? Anselm, that was not a big deal. He—”

“You’re wrong,” the Senior Brother cut in. “It was—and is—a ‘big deal.’ And the fact that you don’t know it, is another indication
of where you are—or aren’t.”

Friday afternoon Novice Nicholas, whom everyone called Koli, had been working with Bartholomew in the apple orchard (if eight
trees could be called an orchard). When Nicholas had entered the novitiate three months after his 21st birthday, he had exhibited
effeminate tendencies
and had admitted to having been increasingly drawn to what he referred to as “an alternative lifestyle.”

Then God had intervened. To his utter dumbfoundment, Nicholas had discovered that God was real, that He loved him beyond all
human comprehension, and that He had been waiting all Nicholas’s life for him to realize it.

The realization had turned his world upside down, and eventually he was led to join the friary. It had been felt that he needed
to be brought along by a strong, mature father figure. This would enable him to complete the father–son bonding process that
had been interrupted when his own father had abandoned Nicholas and his mother eleven years before.

Brother Bartholomew had been the obvious choice for this role model, and they had worked well together. The repatterning occurred
naturally, as Bartholomew, in charge of the abbey’s grounds, had shown Koli how to cultivate roses, spread manure, edge and
trim and mow. Gradually the novice’s responses had modulated, until his previous tendencies were rarely in evidence. It was
a slow process—so slow that Koli himself may have been unaware of the change taking place within him. Until Friday.

That afternoon, after several hours of pruning in the orchard, Bartholomew had commended him on the exemplary job he had done
on the two trees assigned to him.

Overjoyed, and still desperate for a father’s approval, Koli had thrown his arm around the older monk’s shoulders and in imitation
of an old beer commercial, exclaimed, “I love you, man!”

Bartholomew had frozen, then shrugged the arm off—coldly, brusquely. With no explanation.

The young novice had stared at him. Then, eyes filling, he had run off—and avoided Bartholomew ever since.

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devil’s island

Breaking the heavy silence, Anselm spoke in measured tones. “What you did was reprehensible and inexcusable.”

Bartholomew’s mouth fell open. In all their years together, Anselm had never spoken to him in this fashion. He knew he should
just take it. Anselm was usually right, especially in matters concerning the friary.

But he was hurt. And angry. And tired of just taking it—from Anselm, from life, from everything.

So he didn’t.

“Look!” he declared. “I’ve always had an aversion to—” he hesitated, “to people like that. When I’m around them, it gives
me the creeps. I can’t help it; it’s instinctive.”

“No, it is not!” Anselm shot back. “You are no more a prisoner of your instincts than Koli is.”

“But it’s an abomination in the sight of God!” Bartholomew exclaimed, and then smiled sardonically. “Unfortunately for those
who’ve made a religion of fairness, God is not politically correct.”

Anselm refused to be drawn into debate. “I’ll grant you, God does not make mistakes. He made men to be
men and women to be women, and never intended them to pair off with their own kind.”

He paused and looked at Bartholomew. “Let me ask you something. Does God love Koli?”

“Of course.”

“Was that God’s love you expressed to him Friday afternoon?”

Bartholomew did not answer.

“Well?”

Silence.

“I’m disappointed in you, Bartholomew. I’d assumed you understood what was going on here. God has been repatterning Koli’s
responses into something more appropriate for monastic life. We cannot live together, as we’ve been called to, unless we are
chaste. You know that. We must embrace chastity in every aspect of our thought-life, as well as our behavior.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Koli was coming into that. But your rejection of him last Friday has set that process back
months
. In fact—we may have lost him.”

Bartholomew jumped to his feet. “I tell you, Anselm, I couldn’t help it!”

“No!” Anselm glared up at him. “Let
me
tell
you!
If God had been in your heart to the degree He should have been, you would not have reacted that way. Now—
sit
—
back
—
down
, Brother Bartholomew! I am
not
finished with you!”

Bartholomew’s jaw tightened. “Well, I’m finished with—” he stopped, in the certain knowledge that if he said one more word,
he might well be finished with far more than this conversation.

He sat back down, glowering at his spiritual authority.
Almost hoping that he would give him an excuse to say—what could never be unsaid.

Neither man spoke.

Then Anselm asked quietly, “How long has it been since you’ve written anything in your spiritual journal?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Anselm! You know what our life is like! We’re on the go from the moment we wake up! Matins, Lauds, Mass,
Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, Compline, Vigils—and in between we’re expected to put in a full day’s work! Plus, I’ve got all
the grounds to look after, and the Brothers’ exercise program to run, and Illumination and Calligraphy to teach, and I’m responsible
for Koli—or I was.”

Outside the window there was a flash of red. A cardinal had arrived at the bird feeder. A slow smile came to Anselm, who nodded
to the visitor in red vestments. “Whenever one of those comes, I take it as a sign of God’s presence. I believe He is here
now—no matter how unpleasant this might be for you.”

Bartholomew said nothing. He was not about to admit that that was exactly the way he felt about cardinals, too.

“In addition to all the other responsibilities you mentioned,” Anselm observed, still smiling, “we’re also expected to be
good stewards of our personal spiritual growth. Now, how long has it been since your last entry?”

When the younger monk didn’t answer, the Senior Brother sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

They both watched the cardinal. Then Anselm asked, “What are the watchwords of Benedictine spirituality?”

No response.

The Senior Brother answered for him. “Hospitality. Striving for excellence in all things, to the glory of God. Internal awareness.
Balance.” He paused. “We’re not
called to be contemplatives,” and then added wistfully, “though many’s the time I’ve wished we were.”