The Celtic Monk Musings

It’s hard to believe that my time here is over. It has been a wonderful journey from a variety of perspectives. I’ll have much to unpack spiritually, emotionally and intellectually long after the suitcases have been returned to the attic. In reality, I cannot do justice to the graces I’ve received in one final pilgrimage blog; but I can let your know some of the things that will continue to work deep inside me in the weeks and months, likely years ahead. Right now they’re no more than a list of words. In reality they are the raw ingredients of what I’ve learned about myself, the Church, and God that I hope will become a magnficent feast.

So here’s just an appetizer of what’s filling me and calling me as I return home:

BEAUTY–God gives us glimpses of Himself each day, do we look for Him.
PEACE–Not as the world gives.
WELCOME–As in, how can we be more welcoming to others.
RADICAL UNITY–Each person breathing is made in the Image of God; how can we act like that is true.
REPENTANCE–What would it look like for the Church, corporately, and each of us individually, to repent of working our own agendas for so long?
THE GOSPEL–Who needs it and how do we get it to them?
SANCTITY–Are we who we should be? What are we doing about it?
PRAYER–Reviving prayer in the Church.
IMAGINATION–God’s imagination gave us ‘green alligators, and long neck geese, a humpty back camel and the chimpanzees…’ How are we using our imagination in our spiritual lives–for our good and the good of all God’s Church?

The photo above is the cornerstone of Holy Cross Benedictine Monastery, Northern Ireland. It really says it all, don’t you think? May it be true in your life and in mine. May it be true in the wholw Church.

BLESSINGS AND JOY TO YOU FROM DUBLIN! Kathleen Bronagh Weller, THE CELTIC MONK

“HOW FAR FROM THE TREE OF RED-HAIRED KATIE”

If you’ve sent me an email since I’ve been gone, you’ve received a poem about my pilgrimage that contains the line above. Katie Walsh McDonough, my dad’s mother emmigrated from Castlebar, in County Mayo on the western coast of Ireland. I don’t know if her sister, Auntie Lily, accompanied her or they reunited here. Auntie Lily never married. Katie Walsh married Tom McDonough, Sr. and had three children: Mary Catherine, Lill and Thomas McDonough, Jr.-my dad.

I grew up knowing I was Irish. While having an awareness of my mother’s family background (German)it wasn’t the bigger part of our identity. Maybe it was because our name was McDonough. Maybe it was because my mother converted from Lutheran to Catholic. Don’t ask me how exactly it was communicated that Irish was the identity we claimed, I really can’t say. Maybe it was because Grandma Katie and Auntie Lily never lost their brogue, or that Irish red-hair kept showing up somewhere in each generation.

That came to mind yesterday as I sat down for dinner at a round table at the University of Cork. Two older women across the table would smile as our eyes would meet. The room was noisy and we didn’t have the chance to speak. After the meal, one of the women asked if I was a sister to the woman sitting next to me. I laughed as I offered that I didn’t even know her name! “Oh,” she said-“I was convincing my friend that you two must be sisters.” When I had the chance to catch a better look at the woman who was sitting next to me–I didn’t see me–but she was the spitting image of Aunt Mary Catherine.

Almost immediately after that, I sat down for our opening presentation in the large old library of the college. An elderly nun from Cork sat next to me. Looking at my name tage she said: “You look like a Kathleen, but not a Weller,” which made me laugh. “Actually, I said, I’m a McDonough.” “Ai” she continued…”a McDonough you do look like–I thought you were from here.” I told her that I was pleased to look like I belonged here. We continued a sweet brief conversation before the speaker began.

“…how far from the tree of red-haired Katie…” What tree have you fallen from–and what does it mean to you? Does your ethnic, family heritage still live in you and ground you in some ways? Are there traditions or sayings or practices you identify as coming from your lineage? If you could visit the place of your grand-parents, or great-grandparents (whether that’s near or far) would you? Is it important to you?

In his leacture, our speaker Laurence Freeman, said that there is a place of mystery and light inside of us–where the Divine resides–a place of grace and peace. A practice of stillness, prayer, meditation or whatever we call our spiritual practice helps us to become acquainted with that place of mystery and light. (Our soul) It’s a heritage, a lineage we all share–all crated beings–as we are all made in the image of God. How different the world would be if we would connect to one another from this inner place of grace and peace. How many wars could have been avoided, famines averted because of a generosity, understanding and love of brother to brother and sister to sister.

Our teacher for the first part of the week is Laurence Freeman, a Benedictine Monk and Director of the World Community of Christian Meditation–hosts of this event. He told the participants that by the end of this week, the mystery and light of the divine in each of us, here from 16 countries, will because of our prayer and meditation make us capable of seeing the mystery and light in each other.

And yet, this idea isn’t uniquely his, is it? It’s what Jesus had in mind when he said to His disciples: “Be One, as I and the Father are One.” May it be so this week. May it be so in the world. May it be so between me and thee. BLESSINGS AND JOY, Kathleen Bronagh Weller, THE CELTIC MONK.

I began to call this post Bronagh’s Miracle, but then I considered my audience~a bunch of mostly Protestant folks, many Presbyterians, with a few Catholics in the mix~Bronagh’s Miracle seemed a little strong. But I’m already ahead of myself. Let me begin at the beginning.

After the daily celebration of the Eucharist, I left the sanctuary of Holy Cross and headed down the tiny two lane road that then leads downhill for 1.5 miles into the town of Rostrevor. I looked at the road before me and thought it looked rather level for at least a while… so I walked in the few inches of weeds off the road. Emboldened with this little bit of success, I decided to walk down a little further. If there was a car coming towards me, I crossed the road to the other side… when I heard one behind me, I did the same thing. There are no city noises here — so I can hear a car a mile away.

I don’t know exactly when I decided that I would walk all the way down to the Old Kibrone6y Graveward, where I’d find Bronagh’s well… but it was after all on my list of things to do. Even realizing what goes down…must come back up, did not deter me from making this the day. I’m on a pilgrimage, I thought… as I reminded both myself and God, and asked the He provide any strength I might need on the way back up. I continued my criss-cross pattern the mile and a half down.

Arriving at the old gates to the cemetery it was easy to see that it was jam packed with the graves of folks from many centuries. Yes centuries. But even from the road I could see the grotto that had been erected over Bronagh’s Well. What surprised me as I approached, was the small hand pump and stainless steel cup used to bring water up from the underground well. Someone had left the cup half full of water to prime the wee pump.

There were other folks in the cemetery this cloudy Saturday afternoon and it wasn’t too long before I learned firsthand the meaning of “the rain falling softly.” You could hardly feel the drops as they began. It was one cloud just overhead that was so softly letting loose of rain no harder than dew.

Looking back up Kilbroney Mountain from whence I came… I could see that there were many more of these watery black clouds on their way. “Whose idea was this?” I thought…as I put my camera into the sleeve of my sweater to protect it from the soft rain. I now needed to pay the price for my impulsive walk.

The cemetery (like everything else here) is on a steep incline and I began to make my way up the loose gravel. I noticed on the way up that just outside the gate is a sign that says Rostrevor City Limit. I did indeed walk all the way to town. Just then a car turned into the bit of road off the two-lane and a man with white hair and a bag from a bakery exited. He bent back in towards the car and I noticed he was pulling money from his pocket. The Taxi! The taxi just happened to be letting off a fare right in front of me.

I hurried across the street likely scaring the older gentleman with his bag of donuts. I also surprised the driver when I knocked on the back window of the cab. “Want another fare?” I asked. “Sure, come along” he said. I found out that Mr. Sloan had gone to Derry… this was his brother-in-law who takes over business when he needs to be out of town. I explained to him that walking down to the cemetery seemd like a good idea at the time, but when the rain started I began re-considering…only too late. “It’s a far bit to walk up” he said, stating the obvious.

I didn’t tell him about my pilgrimage to the well of Bronagh, or how I’d mentioned to God that I might need some help getting back up. Truly in my prayer I was hoping for will, determination and stamina. I’m guessing it was Bronagh herself who sent the taxi. GOD’S BLESSINGS AND MUCH JOY TO YOU! Kathleen Bronagh Weller, THE CELTIC MONK

Dublin is a beautiful city full of restaurants, young people and coffee shops on every corner amid stunning old architecture, monuments and memorials. The ethos of the city center with its museums, schools, hospitals and banks is eclectic and could be taken as a miniature Chicago or New York.

On Friday I boarded a bus heading an hour north and don’t ask me where it began to change, but Northern Ireland NI (the northernmost 1/4) and the Republic of Ireland the 3/4 of the south–though on the same piece of land are miles apart in more ways than one. My travel book tells me there is a Protestant majority in NI and a Catholic majority in the south. I am old enough to remember their bloody feuds. In Dublin the currency that came out of the ATM was the Euro while here it is British pound Sterling. The hustle and bustle of the city gave way to grazing land, trees, and frams as far as the eye can see. There was no noticable border to be crossed of the official sort. But the crossing was palpable.

The bus that carried me out of Dublin dropped me in a town called Newry where I’d catch another bus to the very, very, small town of Rostrevor. On arrival I asked a local merchant where to find a bank to exchange/cash out money to British Pound Sterling…it seemed reasonable. Imagine my surprise to find that there are no bankis is Rostrevor… but two ATM’s. The ATM in the back of his store laughed at my ATM card from 5/3rd. I’ll have to remember that. But with a bit ‘o Irish luck, the ATM at Sloan’s Store cooperated. With a little help from the cashier at Sloan’s she pointed me down the street to the yellow painted building that said — you guessed it — SLOANS on the mailbox. There I would find the taxi — Mr. Sloan, driver. I rang the bell and taking one look at my overpacked suitcase he said: “Goin’ to the monastery, are ya?” It seems us monastery junkies are his best customers. Off we went on the mile and a half ride up Kilbroney Mountain to Holy Cross.

In case you’re wondering where heaven begins, its here. Along with the abundance of natural beauty, the monks have gone out of their way to improve on perfection. Around each corner there’s another nook or cranny tucked away with beautiful attention to natural details…a babbling brook, a surprise splash of color of an abundance of flowering plants, several secluded artist-touched benches hidden in grennery. One after another place of prayerful solitude to pause, to ponder, to sit and wonder and wait for the God Who delights to reveal Himself to any who seek Him. To steal a line from Field of Dreams. Is this heaven? No its Rostrevor.

Everything was at the monastery but internet access…indeed it must be heaven. (I’m in Cork this evening)

Beauty seemed to be emerging as the theme of the early part of my journey. What is beautiful where you are? Does God use beauty to speak to you? What beautiful something can you thank God for today? Before these few days as Holy Cross… I was a little surprised that John O’Donahue (one of my favorites) right before his death had written a book simply titled BEAUTY. But since he resided only a little ways west of Hoyl Cross, it doesn’t surprise me anymore. BLESSING, BEAUTY AND JOY, Kathleen Bronagh Weller…THE CELTIC MONK

P.S Here in Cork we are staying at the University of County Cork. They have computers for us to use… but I can’t share pictures. I’ll post them when home.

“Let all guests who arrive be received like Christ, for He is going to say, “I came as a guest, and you received Me” (Matt. 25:35). And to all let due honor be shown,especially to the domestics of the faith and to pilgrims.”

Before I’d read the selection of the Rule of Benedict assigned to today, I’d already had my walking tour of the center of Dublin. On a sunny day, much warmer than I had any reason to hope, I hopped a train from the airport into the city. What caught my attenion all along the way, and then in the city proper was the way the Irish decorate their front doors in a way that shouts both welcome and invitation.

Most homes along my route were what we’d call a brick Georgian style; a square box shape, usually two stories, with a door flat against the front of the house. I began to notice right away that many folks had painted their door a bright primary red, yellow or blue with a white trim. Whether or not the door was painted, others had hung long trailing petunia planters-lush in all their pink and purple glory on either side of their door. While stopped at a red light along the way, I was amused to see that an attorney had come out of his office (in his suit and tie) and was trimming the brown bits from the hanging planters which graced his office entry.

By then, I’d added to my attention those folks who’d built a little roof, or a clear glass entry way-the shape of a bay window-over and around their door to keep people dry as they approached. I’m sure both are very welcome in a country that gets more than 150 days of rain each year. And though I didn’t approach to see if I’d be welcome… it felt like I would and it made me smile.

With thoughts of these graced doors still clear in my mind, when I arrived back at my hotel I opened the reading from THE RULE OF SAINT BENEDICT, that appears in my email each day. And though Benedict never visited the Emerald Isle, I found that they practice in a most charming way his admonition of welcome to strangers and pilgrims. Though I’ve read this part of the Rule dozens of times before…today it made me smile in a new way and was again confirmed in my soul as a way pleasing to God.

In my meditation on this reading, I wondered about the welcome without words my home extends. And more personally, do people who approach me feel welcomed into my presence? Are there ways that I can do a better job of extending a reception to people around me? Or, who are the strangers and pilgrims I can be more intentional to include?

When I get home, I’m going to take a good hard look at that door to see if I can’t do something to help people experience grace even as they approach. But I don’t have to wait to get home to be gracious to strangers and pilgrims. They are all around me, even now. BLESSINGS AND JOY, KATHLEEN BRONAGH

P.S. Don’t forget to join me for prayer on the webcam of Holy Cross Monastery, Rostrevor County Down, on Saturday and Sunday. (Noon and 3:30 Eastern Daylight Savings Time)

I’m within hours of beginning my journey to Ireland but in many ways it began long ago. I don’t really remember the first time I recognized a desire to travel there, but it was as a child. In my teen years, my aunt and uncle traveled there with my grandmother, taking her back to County Mayo where she was reared and I remember thinking: “I’ll go there one day.” As recently as 2006, I flew over the country on my way to Tel Aviv. The pilot interrupted the darkness of that flight by pointing out the Emerald Isle to those of us on the left side of the plane. I woke up for only a few minutes but remember thinking “I’ll be back.” So here it is.

My first four days will be spent in Northern Ireland (NI) in County Down and the small town of Rostrevor. There, five Benedictine monks established a monastery as an ecumenical witness in 1998. They have welcomed me for these first days of my trip.

I learned this week that the monks website has a webcam of the chapel[very modern monks]. On Saturday, August 6th and on Sunday August 7th both at 12:00 Eastern Time and 5:30 Eastern Time — I’ll be in the chapel for Vespers and Compline. I’d be pleased to know you are joining us for prayer at those times.
Their web address is: http://www.benedictinemonks.co.uk/ The bottom tab on the left is for their web cam. These French monks, in Ireland, pray, chant and read in English.

The monks are situated in the Kilbroney Valley and if you’ve been following my blog, you’ll remember that Kilbroney is an anglicization of cill (church)of Bronagh. During my stay I’ll visit the ruins of Bronagh’s church, a well that bears her name, the bell released from its hiding place by a storm in the 9th century, and the church where the stained glass window with her image resides. I have to remember to breathe when I think about it.

My trip will then take me south to Limerick, County Mayo, and finally Shannon in County Cork. I’ll spend three days of retreat with Fr. Laurence Freeman of the World Community of Christian Meditators and conclude my trip with four days at a conference with Timothy Radcliffe,OP who was the Master of the Dominican Order from 1992-2001. He currently resides and writes from his home in Oxford.

I hope you’ll journey with me vicariously, over the next two weeks. I’ll both post to FB and blog when I can. Until we meet again, BLESSINGS AND JOY,Kathleen BRONAGH

In Kilbroney Valley in Northern Ireland are ruins of a church, a holy well, a shrine and a graveyard which legend and lore relate to Saint Bronagh. As the story goes, Bronagh and her brother each founded a religious community in that region. Her brother becoming a bishop, Bronagh’s ministry was taking care of the sailors whose shipwrecks caused them to wash ashore. When her brother was near death, he gave his sister his crozier (a bishops or abbots staff-and symbol of their office). She is one of very few women saints to be pictured with this symbol.[Look closely at her window to the left.]

In the 9th century after a violent storm caused a tree to crash through a building in Kilbroney, a bell was found on the ground. [See the bell in Bronagh’s other hand]. It’s believed that during penal days, this relic of the life of Bronagh was sealed in the buildings wall to preserve it from destruction. Today, the restored bell is displayed in the Catholic Church is Rostrevor.

Kilbroney Valley seems to be an anglicized name for Cill Broney; ‘cill’ meaning church, ‘broney’ meaning of Bronagh. Within Kilbroney Valley in the town of Rostrevor, is the home of Holy Spirit Benedictine Monastery. The monastery was founded in the 1960’s by four monks sent from the French abbey of Bec. It is a place of ecumenical witness-inviting catholics and protestants into dialogues of peace.

This is now the second time in my life that as a religious rite I’ve been asked to choose a new name. As a fourth grade student making my Confirmation, we were directed to choose the name of a saint which the archbishop would use in our blessing. I had recently seen the movie, The Song of Bernadette, about a young girl who saw visions of the Mary the mother of Jesus who shared a message of peace for the world. I chose Bernadette as my confirmation name.

My certificate of final oblation lists my name as Kathleen Bronagh Weller. I was attracted to her at first as my intention was to search for a saint from Ireland. But then added into my choice was the fact that she carried her brothers crozier, which I related to my own ordination as a minister of word and sacrament. And finally her ministry on the fringes of society. Peace River Spirituality Center is also a ministry of the fringes offering ancient rituals (meditaion and silent retreats) and ancient practices (spiritual direction and teaching on classic disiplines) to folks who may feel as though they are tossed to and fro in their spiritual life.

Even now I have the sense that I’m living into this name which though I chose it, feels more like it has chosen me. When I travel to Ireland in August for the WCCM (World Community of Christian Meditation) conference, I’ll be spending a few days with my brother monks at Holy Spirit Monastery in Rostrevor and walking where Bronagh walked. “Blessings all mine with ten thousand besides; Great is God’s faithfulness” IN HUMBLE JOY, THE CELTIC MONK

Last evening at the Service of Saturday Vigils I spoke my final vows as an Oblate of Saint John’s Abbey, in Collegeville, Minnesota. After my fellow candidates and I answered the appropriate I do’s the Abbot’s turned to the monks and asked them if they intend to welcome us into their community. With their affirmation, the Abbot handed each of us a copy of our vows and invited us to the altar individually, where the director of the Oblates Fr. Michael Kwatera stood with a pen at ready. We signed our vows as an act of worship. After the service, we gathered for a banquet of celebration.
My thoughts this weekend have been about divine serendipity. The choices that led to this night did not have this moment as a goal-rather I feel I was being drawn to it by an invisible hand. Surely I listened and was open, but the events were like crossing a swiftly running stream by jumping from one rock to another. I wasn’t looking to the other side as much as just looking for the surest place to put my foot to keep me from falling in!

I had a conversation immediately before the service with Katherine, an Anglican clergywoman from Canada, who has been an oblate at Saint John’s for over 20 years. In the course of our conversation, she said that her experience is that she didn’t realize at the beginning, what being an oblate would mean in her life and her ministry. I hope I can say the same thing 20 years from now.

I find now that in crossing the river not only did I not fall in–but I arrived at a pleasant place of peace and beauty. Saint John’s is one of three places in the world I experience as a ‘thin place’ where God’s Presence is more palpable than anywhere else. I am so very grateful to God, for each sure stone that led me here. [Some of them didn’t look so promising at the moment I stepped on them!] I am so very blessed.

As part of the ritual of joining the Benedictine community, we are invited to take a new name like the monks do in their formation and ordination. I’ll tell you more about Bronagh soon. BLESSINGS AND PEACE, THE CELTIC MONK

Greetings and peace to you from St. John’s Abbey, and the annual Oblate Retreat in Collegeville, Minnesota.

As you know, I’m here for an ending and beginning. Late this afternoon 50 or so monks, 70 oblates and numerous family and friends will gather in the Abbey Church, for the Vigil of Sunday with the Rite of Final Oblation. At that worship service, I will end my time as an oblate candidate which began in September of 2009 and be received by this community as one of their own.

In the opening conference last evening, the short list of folks making their final oblation was read and we were greeted by the gathered community. While oblates have traditionally been lay people who desire to affiliate with a particular monastery the list read told a different story for the 21st century oblate. Rev. Dr. Teresa Roberts, Rev. Dr. Kathleen Weller, Rev. Dr. Steve Arnold. Hmmmm.

When the social time began, those of us who will make our vows today sought out one another where we learned that the oblate class of 2011 consists of two Presbyterian pastors and one Lutheran pastor emeritus. What is, is something quite different than what folks expect to be. I could hear God laughing. Surely there is a joke in a story that begins: two Presbyterians and a Lutheran meet in a bar!

St. John’s is a very open and welcoming ecumenical community that betrays most sterotypes that any of us born before the 1960’s have of the Catholic Church. Like most Protestant churches it’s changing; holding on to what is vital to its existence and letting go of the ‘oughts and shoulds’ which at one time seemed important. The oblate class of 2011 is one small example.

One of the things vital for its life is inviting folks to join them in their long faithfulness to The Rule of Benedict and a life shaped by it. As Fr. Eric shared last night: “The world and culture are forceful places, they intrude and try to re-direct our lives, we live in a bombardment of the material world — and we need to set aside time to confront ourselves, to get back to ourselves, to come back from our drift, to look for the intensity God has placed in our lives, to find a sense of awe in God and neighbor.” This is done, Eric contends, by living the Rule which saturates us in Scripture, prayer and compassion for our neighbor and through it we see Christ and we are changed by the experience.

What is it that helps you through the bombardment of the world, each day? How do you come to yourself? Late this afternoon three Protestants (for heaven’s sake) are going to agree that we can best do that by living in accordance with a 6th century document called The Rule of Benedict.

Blessings and peace to you, my brothers and sisters. THE CELTIC MONK