The Celtic Monk Musings

I’m feeling a little torn, as we approach this weekend and the Remembrance of what has come to be known simply as 9/11. Many newscasts and some radio stations have broadcast or rebroadcast stories of that terrifying and tragic day all week. It was sad then, it is sad now. There’s nothing that can change what happened, or bring back those we lost, or erase the scar from the wound on our national conscience. And so we grieve together, again, these 10 years later.

But in my little corner of the world, we’ve been working hard this week to plan RALLY DAY for the children of our church. Rally Day is the day our Sunday school classes begin again in earnest. We’ve ordered curriculum… shined and polished classroom spaces…lined up teachers. This Sunday, September 11th, is a day to celebrate the lives of little ones who are just beginning to grow into the love and likeness of a Gracious God; most of them were not even alive when the Twin Towers fell.

I’m sure there were babies born on 9/11/01. I’m sure there were some who married on that day. Maybe others started a new job. Still others heard for the first time
that someone loved them. Amid horrible sadness… love survived. Amid the tragedy… hope was born.

These incongruous themes of RALLY and REMEMBRANCE remind me of another tragic day, one on which a Lamb was slain–and the world was changed. On that day that which we also remember each year, an Innocent One won for us all a salvation we could not grasp on our own. His also seemed a senseless death, a horrible waste. Those who loved Him stumbled around in grief and yet–beauty came from those ashes.

So though I will not forget where I was and what I was doing on the morning of 9/11/01 – this weekend I choose to celebrate the young lives given to 1st Presbyterian Church as a sacred trust…to nurture in the love of God. As part of
the RALLY DAY CELEBRATION, one of my jobs in worship will be the “Blessing of the Children” and I will pray for them with all the grace God has given me, for a future
full of hope.

RALLY and REMEMBRANCE. Sunday, September 11, 2011 will be a good day to gather as the Body of Christ, to pray for those who still grieve, and to seek God’s blessing for our little ones. In your house of worship, please remember to pray for those who mourn and also for the children of the world.

IN PEACE AND JOY, Kathleen Bronagh Weller, THE CELTIC MONK

LAURENCE FREEMAN, OSB – DIRECTOR OF THE WORLD COMMUNITY FOR CHRISTIAN MEDITATION
Have you ever met one of your heroes? I’m not talking about someone who saved your life, or won the game, but someone who you’ve admired from afar. Maybe it’s an author or a public figure who you’ve grown to respect more than simply admire. Who are these people who loom large in your life?

Laurence Freeman (above) has been a hero of mine for some time. Over the past three years, I’ve read everythng he’s written on Christian meditation and have listened to CD’s of talks he’s given around the world. He was chosen as the spiritual guide for WCCM, after the death of its founder,Fr.John Main. While in Cork at the pre- conference retreat of WCCM, I had the opportunity to listen to six presentations by Laurence and the photo above was taken by a Canadian participant as I was talking to him following one of the sessions.

Freeman’s topic was living in times of crisis. Looking around the world, he named the crises in their many forms: economic, social, personal, spiritual. Crises affect individual lives, families, communities [including the Church] and nations. While his hope was that Christians would be doing more than cursing the darkness along with everyone else. But Freeman voiced his fear that along with people of no faith, believers too have lost their way. Too many have naively believed that like for other dilemmas we’ve acted as though we can just Google an answer and it will come… or we can read the latest book by a guru, or just keep our heads down until the crisis passes. It’s unfortunate that we’re only slowly coming to realize that our past coping skills are useless in a worldwide crisis that even experts are loathe to predeict how long, how much worse or how to get out. The best thoughts, plans, experiences, have not helped us to crawl from the havoc. And they never will.

In times of trouble, in times of uncertainty, in times of small personal crisis as well as worldwide crises the scope of which has beset us over the last few years, our hope is found in the same place, in the same person, in the same way. Hope, like peace is God’s gift and the way to the other side of trial is through the very heart of God–seeking, abiding, cleaving there.

Most of us have found ways to adjust to the fragility of the economy, our smaller portion of all we’d become accustomed to and the lowering what we see on the horizon for our future. But coping is no way to live the abundant life. Coping is not the same as living in hope, peace or joy. Do you know how to access the place where these treasures reside in the heart of God? Is it your practice to spend time there? Are these golden lights part of your daily expereince?

While the lectures, writings and insights of Freeman have been important to me… they’ve never been an end in themselves. Freeman’s work relentlessly points beyond himself to the One Who is, Who was, and is to come. He writes and speaks to help others (now around the world) learn how to find the One who holds eternal treasures.

Crises come to all of us and our loving God desires to help us meet even the ones we’re likely to think we can handle on our own. May you find your way to the heart of God this week. I’ll see you there. BLESSINGS AND JOY, Kathleen Bronagh Weller, THE CELTIC MONK

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