Pilgrim’s Gait. David Craig
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a small fugitive flag.
At least four inches had fallen overnight; the trees were caked with luffs of snow, and the clear, cold pale blue early morning sky seemed, itself, frozen, breakable.
When we got to the main compound, the van backed up to the kitchen door. The guys formed a line, and into the vehicle went cold, empty milk containers, a myriad of plastic buckets, wooden shelf beds for bread, two egg baskets, jugs and bottles.
An attractive young aproned woman helped with things on her end. And judging by how cleanly both male and female embraced the new day, the humor that passed between them, I didn’t see any strain between the sexes. What had Jean-Michele been talking about?
That finished, Greg, an artist, came over from his place in line, introduced himself.
“Day one, eh? So how do you like the place so far?” he laughed. “Has anyone suggested the priesthood to you yet?” When I said no, he responded, “Just wait. I’m taking bets. We’ll keep track. If someone mentions it within three weeks, I win a buck.”
“On you like a Woolworth’s suit, huh?”
“My mother should be so persistent. Three different people this last week alone.” He lead, walking away from the house, into a brisk wind, tears forming, running horizontally on our wind-swept faces. Ice began forming on his beard.
“What’s up now?” I asked, clapping my huge deerskin mitts.
“Lauds.”
“Does this mean we have to pray. Will people be watching?”
“Yeah, can you believe that? Praying. Next thing you know, they’ll be telling us where to work, what we can eat. How did I get here? I don’t remember.”
Walking between St. Paracletus and the orchard, we found ourselves joining others as we eventually turned right, past some outhouses, garages, a compost heap, shuffling our feet through the newly-fallen snow in the process. And at Greg’s pace, we passed a good deal of them, most of whom had smiles, a good word for him.
“Geez, these people actually seem to like you. Have they talked to you yet?”
“They see the collar,” he said, smiling grimly.
Soon we came to the chapel. It was beautiful, out in the middle of the woods, evergreens, limited undergrowth on all sides. Made out of huge square logs, coated a rough brown, it was built out of almost as much mortar as wood. Constructed by someone who was a real craftsman, it had a bright golden dome, a Byzantine cross on top: simple, with all the beauty that can come with that.
We opened a wooden door with horizontal fleur-de-lis metal supports, and stepped inside. I was surprised. There were no pews, just a highly polished floor where the younger people knelt in their socks. Older staff members sat on benches that were built into the walls along the back sides, left and right. Up front was a simple Western altar, with cross-slatted gates and a partitioning iconostasis behind it leading to the Byzantine sanctum, a silver dove hanging from a chain above the deeper altar.
Icons of Mary holding a baby Jesus, and Jesus, full grown, his sandal strap unfastened, each hung on one of the partitioning walls. Smaller pictures of the Apostles dutifully hung along side of those. The pictures, icons, like the chapel itself, were executed by someone who knew what she (as it turned out) was doing.
On the left side of the chapel, above a side door was a carved wooden relief of the Infant, in swaddling clothes, with the words underneath: “Lord, give me the heart of a child and the awesome courage to live it out.” I was dumbfounded by what I could only call the devotion of all these normal-looking people. Some of the young ones in the middle prostrated themselves in their socks, on forearms, forehead, Jean-Michele included.
Some of the others knelt straight up, some sat crosslegged, hands, palms up, at their sides. What was I doing here, I wondered? Insulting Martians, what they believed in, basically. They didn’t deserve this, that much was clear, but I didn’t want to go back to where I had been either. I’d just have to be respectful, play things off as best I could until I could figure out a next move. Maybe I’d get turned on to something up here, get wind of a good job down south, an opportunity.
Everyone, I noticed, had taken a book of Psalms and folder of songs from the shelves near the back door. So I retreated and did the same. And sliding down next to Greg, who was among those kneeling straight up, I couldn’t help but notice that he was quiet and rapt, his hands folded in front of him. I sighed, closed my eyes, sat there cross-legged, tried to become invisible.
Brought to attention by a tuning pipe, I rose with everyone else, fumbled as they did, with my Psalm book and listened as the singing commenced. Each side of the chapel alternated, sang the basic tones of what must have been the Gregorian chant, call and response. It was extraordinary in its simplicity, took me somewhere else. To feeling, but not to me feeling. I wondered why I had never heard anything like that before in my life. It made me feel like I was waking up on some new morning road, surrounded by a fading mist.
It went on for three Psalms, then we sang a few hymns from the folder. These too, simpler, and yet at times more complicated, riff-wise, than any hymns I’d ever heard before. More haunting notes that moved me to the spiritual reality that held things together, that sang through them.
At least it seemed so to me, for the duration of that song anyway. The schola, as they were called, led the singing. I edged over closer to them. Who were these guys?
Some readings followed, and then, after some silent sitting I wondered, was it time to leave? I couldn’t tell right away, grew a little anxious. Some people scurried out of there as if they had somewhere to get to. The kitchen staff perhaps. But most stayed on, informally visiting the icons. People lined up to stand in front of these pictures, touch them with their hands or lean into them bodily, foreheads against the paint. It was odd all right, but quiet and reverent; no one seemed to be putting on a show. No P.R., high hair and fancy t.v. sets for Jesus the winner.
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