Читать книгу Hope’s Daughters - R. Wayne Willis - Страница 23

A friend and I visited Gethsemani Abbey, down in the heart of Kentucky. A mural at the entrance depicted St. Benedict’s face and hands and greeted us with his words: “Let All Guests That Come Be Received Like Christ.”

The monk who met us exuded hospitality. We asked if we could take his picture. “Sure.” We pushed a little more: “What about taking pictures during the prayer service?” “Sure,” he said, “We’re used to cameras flashing and clicking. Doesn’t bother us at all. Fire at will.”

After the prayer service, we walked through the cemetery. There, amidst many white crosses two feet tall, was the grave of Thomas Merton, maybe the most widely read and venerated monk of our times. His white cross was two feet tall. A small brass plaque on the cross simply read: “Fr. Louis Merton, Died Dec. 10, 1968.” Visitors had draped two rosaries around his cross.

We learned that the Trappist monks at Gethsemani rise every morning at 3:00 a. m. and have a cup of coffee before the first of seven prayer services interspersed through the work day. Their primary work that supports the Abbey these days is the production and mail-order sale of homemade foods.

Several years ago an eighty-nine-year-old priest leading visitors on a tour there commented: “This place has no practical value. It’s about as valuable as ballet. Or opera. Or a rainbow. Or a peacock. Or daffodils. What practical value do they have?”

We value most things because of what they can do for us. They are means to an end. We use them. Some things are valuable to us just for being there. Gethsemane stands as a symbol of hospitality and simplicity, especially for the city slickers among us who are preoccupied with getting and spending.

We bought a box of Trappist bourbon fudge and some Trappist cheese and headed back to the bustling city.