Pentacostal Pilgrimage

Sunday morning in Bardstown, and I didn't have anything to do.  I usually do not visit the cemetery while I am in Bardstown but for some reason this time I wanted to somehow make a connection with my parents who have been dead for many years.  It brought back memories, one of which was how my father would take me here when I was a teenager to practice driving.  It's not like you can run over and kill anyone.

This is the grave of my parents' first child, Mary Linda, born on August 30, 1947 and died on October 27th, 1947. 

 It sits off to the side of their own grave marker.

I remember my father telling me about when that first child died and he had to buy a cemetery plot he bought a big one.  Perhaps he was envisioning many children who didn't make it?  I think that there is room for about 8 more people there, surrounded by the graves of KY pioneers from the 1700 and 1800s.

The cemetery visit took about 10 minutes.  It was only 9:30 in the morning and the reunion wouldn't start until noon.  Considering my options (not many), I headed over to Gethsemani where I knew that the monks would be chanting Terce at around 10, followed by Mass.  That was a good decision.

As a child I often came to Gethsemani with my father.  It is a quiet place.  Palpably quiet, making everything feel sweetly mysterious and peaceful.  The entrance way and Church look a little different now but it is still simple and stark.  There is a new retreat house on the left.

When I was a child the lay people had to go upstairs and watch the goings on from up there.  But now there is a little place downstairs in the back of the Church.

The Church was redesigned in the late 60s by artist, William Schickel.  I love the simplicity of it, and the way the light plays throughout the space.  Harry Bill tells me that the colors of the stained glass are supposed to reflect the colors of the Trappist habit.

I watched the monks slowly file into the choir stalls for the chanting of Terce.  There were more young monks and monks-in-training than the last time I was here about 5 years ago.  After Terce, I was surprised when the monk came back to the place where the lay people were sitting and opened the gate.  We all (all 15 or 20 of us) then went up to the main alter to join the monks at Mass.

I felt so honored to be up there that I didn't take any more photos.  Being Pentecost, it seemed impressive to me.  The celebrants - all the monks who were priests, I guess - processed in with red stoles, followed by the main celebrant who was dressed all in red.  This priest didn't look a day over 25 years old.

And yet the liturgy was very slow, deliberate, simple and above all, humble.  The radical Pentecostal insight was one of forgiveness.  During one of the prayers the monk said: during this weekend (Memorial Day weekend) we remember those who die in war, those who are fighting for us and those who are fighting against us.

The Mass lasted 1 1/2 hours.  I loved all of it.