Trappist Tales

By John Richard Sack

In 1955, a group of Trappist monks set out from their motherhouse in Kentucky to found a new abbey in Missouri.The stories of their struggles and successes describe an era of American monasticism predating the reforms of the Second Vatican Council. The canonical hours and other services were still sung in Latin, and the monks were divided into four groups: the choir monk priests, choir monk novices and scholastics, and lay brothers. The daily routine of the choir monks involved primarily chanting and study, with a few hours of physical labor, while the lay brothers tended to most of the farm chores. These distinctions were blurred after the reforms, and services were thereafter conducted in the predominant language of each country, English in the case of the United States.The fictional Abbey of Our Lady of Saint Bernard is situated in the state of Missouri, during a time when Jim Crow still flourished and where, in the Bible Belt, Roman Catholicism was viewed with deep distrust.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Richard Sack
• Release date: Aug 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465995698

John Richard Sack

John Richard Sack was born in Springfield, Ohio. He earned a BA in English from Yale University and an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Washington. As a young man, John spent two years as a Trappist monk under the tutelage of Thomas Merton, his novice master at Our Lady of Gethsemane Abbey in Kentucky. In the 1970s, he trained in a Hindu ashram in Ganeshpuri, India. Spiritual transformation is a common theme in both his fiction and nonfiction books. He is the author of the internationally acclaimed novel: "The Franciscan Conspiracy" and a companion work, "Angel's Passage." "The Wolf in Winter" is a fictional tale of the early career of Francis of Assisi. His nonfiction "Yearning for the Father" and "Mystic Mountain" are guides to contemplative prayer, the culmination of years of research and reflection and his exploration of numerous spiritual traditions. "Trappist Tales" is a collection of short stories loosely based on his years at Gethsemane Abbey. He now lives in southern Oregon with his wife, Christin Lore Weber, author of many books related to spiritual growth. Their blended family includes Bjorn Kristian, Jeff & Karen, and Bryana & Patrick.

Book preview

TRAPPIST TALES

Short Stories

by

John Richard Sack

Copyright 2014 John Richard Sack.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

Published by Cyberscribe Publications

9700 Sterling Creek Road

Jacksonville, OR 97530

For information contact:

[e-mail]

Earlier versions of Stonewalled, The Blues, Molto Allegro, and The Twelfth Degree appeared in Ave Maria Magazine, Notre Dame, Indiana.

Preface

These Trappist Tales, set in the mid-to-late 1950s, describe an era of American monasticism predating the reforms of the Second Vatican Council in the 1960s. The Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance (also known as Trappists) still chanted the canonical hours and other services in Latin. The male communities consisted of four groups: the choir monk priests (called Father in these stories), choir monk novices, scholastics on the path to priesthood (both called Frater), and lay brothers (called Brother). The daily routine of the choir monks involved primarily chanting and study, with a few hours of physical labor, while the lay brothers tended to most of the chores. These distinctions blurred after the reforms, following which each community could perform its liturgical services in the predominant language of its country, English in the case of the United States.

The Abbey of Our Lady of Saint Bernard is a fictional monastery situated in the state of Missouri, during a time when Jim Crow still flourished and where, in the Bible Belt, Roman Catholicism was viewed with deep distrust. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either imaginary or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

Stonewalled

August, 1955

When the dog days of August curl into the Ozark Mountains, the locals mostly sit and sweat and hunker down into what water and shade they can find. The heat positively crushed Dom Vincent, who had never lived further south than Kentucky. Wave after humid wave beat down upon the metal construction shack that served for the time being as his office. He sucked his breath in short gasps as he read through the last of the day’s mail.

The nearest farm supply outlet had refused his order for equipment. The next nearest had not yet bothered to answer his letter. We’ll have to ship our tractor all the way from Springfield or maybe even Joplin. He could feel his chest slump at the thought. Just like the building materials. Just like our food. You’d think they’d be used to us after six months.

The phone rang on the wide table that doubled as his desk. His grip tightened around the receiver when he recognized the voice from the county fire tower.

"Where is it this time?" he asked.

Out’n your west property, the voice answered casually. Back of Jether’s Knob. You better hustle. It’s been goin’ a spell, but ah been occupied and couldn’t call right off.

Dom Vincent went silent to keep from saying anything he’d later regret.

Say—when you fellers gonna stop bein’ so careless? the man added.

I can’t talk now. Have to get on it. He bit off each word. He replaced the phone gingerly to keep from slamming it onto its cradle. He dropped his breviary into the deep pocket of his denim work robe and ran from the building towards the pickup. It was already loaded with firefighting tools. The monks had put out two fires each week since the dry spell had set in the month before. The local fire marshal had come out to do an inspection and complained loudly about the sorry state of their equipment and the fact that they didn’t even have proper clothing for fighting fires. Given the choice between better gear and a tractor, however, the tractor was the abbot’s higher priority.

It was nearly 3:30 and he knew most of his monks would be returning from work on the new chapel to clean up before Vespers. As he drove toward their converted-barn home, he saw several ahead of him, trudging single file, their cowls pulled up over their heads. They kicked up little clouds of dust as they shuffled forward.

Father Philip, Father Felix, Brother Linus, Frater Anselm, come with me, he called.

The four stepped from the line, bowed to the abbot, and clambered into the back of the truck.

Father Arnold, you’d better come too. He swung the truck door open and an older, bent priest climbed in beside him. Another fire, he said as he hit the accelerator. The other monk only nodded at the obvious.

Dom Vincent glanced into his rearview mirror. They’re exhausted, he thought. We all are. These firebugs may not burn us out, but they could wear us down to nubbins.

For more than a mile the road wound through grassy, rock-strewn fields. I hope to have corn over there next year, Dom Vincent said, mostly to himself. The other priest turned towards him, his eyebrows raised in question.

The words seemed oddly out of place to Dom Vincent too against the drone of the pickup—almost as though they had dropped from the engine. As abbot, he could ignore the Order’s custom of silence, but he tried not to abuse the privilege. His wish for corn probably fit that description, though.

Apologies, father, he sighed. "I had to get something out before I simmered over. Sometimes I feel too young for this job. I asked you to come along because … well, you’re a stabilizing influence and I need that just now."

Father Arnold nodded. He understood. They’d all grown edgy this past month.

The truck skirted their property boundary. The road on the driver’s side bordered a public lake. Dom Vincent saw only one man fishing on the far shore. The bathers, who used the beach closest to the road, must have headed home to their dinners. Or maybe it was just too hot to be outdoors, water or not.

At least there’d be no heckling while they drove past. The women seemed to be the worst. They knew the men were celibate and made a game of taunting them, but of course the monks couldn’t answer back, which diluted much of their fun.

In his worst nightmares, the abbot worried that their neighbors might one day turn violent. So far, there’d been only the fires. How would they handle a direct attack? Turn the other cheek? That would be suicidal. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but four monks had been flayed to death in China just a decade before.

And then there was Austin Pickett, the cantankerous neighbor whose property bordered the abbey. The man had threatened to turn his place into a brothel if the monks stayed on, but so far hadn’t followed through on his bluff. At least he recognized that this would upset them.

Dom Vincent glanced at Father Arnold, sitting silently beneath his cowl, which recalled the craziest of the rumors being spread—that the monks covered their heads to hide their horns. He suspected some fire-and-brimstone preacher had started the rumor, which would be proof enough for his congregation. Just like when the smallpox vaccine first came out, along with the posters that showed the kid just vaccinated sporting a cow’s head and tail. People believed that too, so it seemed only probable that the monks had to be hiding something bizarre, maybe even something sinister, under their hoods.

He spoke again, as though the old priest next to him had been privy to his thoughts. "I hear that this Stonewall Jackson, who was some sort of local war hero on Okinawa, saw some of us at work with our cowls pulled back. Not until he confirmed it, would anybody believe we’re not demons, or at least not demons with antlers."

He managed a weary chuckle. The priest smiled his support and quietly added, Perfect name for a war hero.

The truck left the paved road and followed a dirt track to the top of Jether’s Knob. Father Arnold pointed down to his right where the smoke was thickest.

They moved slowly down the backside of the hill. The trail narrowed and Dom Vincent had to bounce the truck through