Of Nuns and Monks

 March 31, 1990

Of Nuns and Monks

Sad, but just about the only time the cloistered variety make the news these days, it sems, is when they get involved in a scandal. For instance:

Eight Poor Clares in Bruges, Belgium landed in the April 2 edition of Newsweek by providing handsomely for their retirement. They sold their convent for $1.4 million, bought a $110,000 Mercedes limo, a farm, and a string of race horses, and relocated to a chateau in the south of France. Agence France Presse, on the other hand, reported the other day that “A mother superior and an abbott in charge of neighboring religious establishments in Normandy, Northwestern France, have resigned after falling in love. It quoted the local bishops as saying the two had given up their posts “for sentimental and emotional reasons>”

Now such stuff may give some of our born-again brethren a rise, but those of us less given to passing judgment on other people’s faith should find therein an opportunity to reflect on the meaning of the monastic vocation, on the joys and hardships of living the gospels in common.

Nuns and monks turn their backs on the world and embrace poverty, chastity and obedience on the Lord’s assurance that between Martha and Mary, the sisters of Lazarus, it is the latter who has chosen the better part. While Martha busied herself with running the household, Mary merely sat and listened at Jesus’ feet. She was the first contemplative.

To those who follow her example, leaving mother, father, brother and sister behind, Christ has promised a hundredfold in this life and everlasting happiness in the next. So why are the Poor Clares feathering their nest, and why are these superiors abandoning their respective communities, the religious families of which they are both father and mother, to take solace in worldly love? The answer, of course, is human frailty.

We seculars who live in an over-stimulated environment normally equate human frailty with lust, the weakness of the flesh. Contrary to lore, however, not all problems inside the cloister are reducible to sex or the lack of it. The young and hot of blood doubtless find celibacy a major stumbling block, but the more advanced in religious life frequently find the other two vows even more problematic.

The nuns in Bruges, for instance. The eldest, who is 93, can neither see, hear nor walk. The others can’t be that much younger or better off health-wise. What you have here is eight retirees living by themselves in a convent probably built for 50, with no one to take care of them or help out with the housekeeping chores.

Being Poor Clares, they presumably have no regular source of income. Mostly they must rely on donations to subsist, but in most places the days of generous benefactors is long gone. It should be struggle enough for these sisters to feed themselves regularly and pay for the heating on time. Where will they get the funds to repair buildings more ancient than themselves? And what happens if one of them gets hospitalized or requires major surgery?

With the old, it is insecurities, rather than urges, that are a problem, but what about those in between like the two superiors in Normandy? We do not know about the lady but the gentleman is a Benedictine abbot of 49. Normally abbots are not appointed, but elected by the members of the community themselves. Presumably, therefore, we are dealing with a person of considerable maturity, talent, and leadership abilities. What happened?

The simplest explanation would seem to be that the fellow fell madly in love. But in most instances, we know that love is only the symptom, rather than the malady itself. In this case, perhaps we’re looking at a classic case of what students of human behaviour call a mid-life crisis, from which not even men and women of the cloth are spared.

Quite simply, a person wakes up one fine morning feeling empty and unhappy, troubled that his or her existence is meaningless, and that everything is for naught. Accedie, ennui is what the old monks used to call it, to cure which spiritual demon they took cold showers early in the morning, fasted on  bread and water, and spent many hours on their knees.

For many that harsh penance worked, but now that we enjoy, post Vatican II, the so-called liberty of the children of God, we are inclined to be more gentle on ourselves, and therefore also less rigorous in our observance of monastic discipline.

All right for our nuns and monks to be human, I guess, but isn’t the Lord and Master they serve a jealous one? Then and now, I’m afraid he doesn’t look too kindly on half-measures.

 

Hermandad de Semana Santa

 March 30, 1989

Hermandad de Semana Santa

I’ve come from my Malaybalay hegira to an empty house, what with the family off to the beach in Bataan for the remainder of the week. Just as well, because reentering city clime after five days of awesome silence amidst pines, fog, stars and fireflies is daunting enough without the bustle of working parents and the racket of restless children.

Earlier I had wanted to join them on a trip to the old town in Sorsogon to observe the traditional Lenten rites, but plans changed overnight after word came through that the south road has become a virtual obstacle course, unsafe at any speed.

So I find myself marooned with the usual options: Visita Iglesia on Maundy Thursday, the Good Friday procession in San Pablo, San Fernando, or Bacolor, and the vigil at San Beda towards midnight of Holy Saturday. In between, there will be time aplenty to read, update my journal, write letters, clean out files, and spruce up the house for Easter.

Aurora Cruz was right the other day, of course, when she lamented the passing of the Christian Holy Week of our grandparents and remarked that, “When one social web disappears without an adequate surrogate, an uncomfortable vacuum ensues.”

But not, she bears reminding, in Agoo up north. There, this past decade or so, her old friend Joe Aspiras has been trying to revive all the rituals of Semana Santa, largely succeeding in restoring their religious character  and involving the entire community, patriarchs and urchins alike, un a colourful and moving panoply of ancient customs and traditions.

Literally the whole town is in ferment and flux the whole week as people from the furthest-flung baranggays converge on the Basilica de Nuestra Señora de la Caridad and the adjoining Plaza de la Virgen for the various events.

Kicking off the festivities is the traditional blessing of the palms on Palm Sunday, followed by the Estacion General and Via Crucis through Agoo’s main streets on Holy Tuesday. The public chanting of the Pasion at the public plaza begins on Maundy Thursday, immediately after the re-enactment of the Washing of the Feet and the Procession of the Blessed Sacrament inside the Basilica.

After the Siete Palabras in the afternoon of Good Friday comes two processions: that of the Santo Entierro at six, participated in by all the carrozas or statuaries depicting the various scenes and personalities of the Passion, and at eleven, of the Soledad.

Both are spectacular, but though the first is the more lavish production, the effect of the second is more dramatic.

When Joe first stepped into the picture, most of the old carrozas were either in a sorry state of disrepair or had simply disappeared, and the procession was a puny, half-hearted affair. Today, there are 27 of them, most life-sized and refurbished or crafted by the best artisans of Betis and Paete on commission by scions of Agoo’s principalia or Aspiras’ many equally devout friends from elsewhere.

Bejewelled, brilliantly illumined and enthroned on banks of massed fresh flowers, the images take nearly all of three hours to traverse the poblacion. That is because behind each carriage walk whole baranggays, brass bands and religious, civic and school organizations, making the town glow ethereally with thousand of lighted tapers.

The second procession is vastly more subdued and solemn. Only the statue of the Sorrowful Virgin, the Dolorosa, is borne aloft. Solitary, she goes round looking for the Dead Christ, accompanied only by women garbed from head to toe in mourning black. There is no music. The only sound heard is the shuffling of unshod feet, both tender and calloused, on the pavement.

The Soledad, I like to think, is my own personal contribution to Agoo’s religious festivities. Four or five years ago, I remarked casually to my old boss that, of all the features of Holy Week in Bicol when I was growing up and sideways, it had left the most profound impression. Aspiras introduced it in Agoo almost immediately after.

This is the reason why, I imagine, he has now recommended membership in a unique new feature of the sacred rites in that town, the Hermandad de Semana Santa, which entitles me to wear a special medallion and scapular and binds me to certain duties and responsibilities, among which are as follows:

   ..partic ipation in, as well as support for the liturgical rites of the Holy Week such as decoration of the Basilica, sponsorship of masses and other religious events, the feeding and housing of participants in said events when necessary and possible…

The membership also envisions that I will one day look after a carroza of my own in Agoo. It is for life, to be passed on to my heirs on my demise. I hope they will be as exceedingly proud of this rare honor when their turn comes, as I am, because it endeavours to keep a most precious heritage of our people alive for all time.