#21: 5 days of Taizé

An account of thoughts and prayers from this week.

Hello, my gorgeous, grand, good readers. Faithful you are, faithful you have been! I am delighted that you’re reading still, and always so grateful whenever you reach out to say you enjoy following along. How amazing it is to have you with me on this journey.

As you may know, I have just finished a week at a monastic community in France called Taizé. I arrived Friday evening before the program officially began (on Sunday) and for that, I am very glad. I needed a few days to get over myself (but really, get over the fact that I was not prepared at all), and by the time Monday arrived, I was settled and ready. An actual angel (a Portuguese traveller who deserves a story of her own) gave me her towel Sunday, so being able to shower after a few days was an absolute treat. Also, I no longer needed to dry my face with toilet paper.

Each day of the program, I wrote down small accounts, thoughts, and stories. It’s not intended to have any particular thread moving through it, but I’d say there are some common themes: neighbourliness and belonging, a community of acceptance, and finding my place in this great family called the body of Christ.

I have left out thoughts from Saturday and Sunday, because they were really just hard days of finding my rhythm and bearing the cold. Obviously, a lot happened, and I can’t write it all down for one email, so I hope you enjoy the small excerpts from the 5 days of the program, Monday to Friday.

lvs

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Monday, Day 1

Incredible snoring has kept us all awake during the night, but I awake to two lively, wonderful Swiss women advocating for sleep. I hear them both speaking to the snorer passionately in German, the only words I can determine are: “so loud! so loud!” I am hoping the woman is not embarrassed, but equally so grateful I am not the one having this conversation.

They tell me after that the German woman is moving to another room. She is not embarrassed — she understands completely. 

As it’s the official beginning of the program, we are assigned readings, groups and work. It’s a fresh start and I feel most ready to begin and go deeper with these people. 

Brother Pedro reads from the gospels, discussing the parable of the Good Samaritan. “The Samaritan touch is to enter the wounded’s life,” he says in a thick and slow Spanish accent. This is the mission of Jesus. He doesn’t think about the cost or the consequences — who the person is or where they’re from. He asks us who has been a good neighbour to us. Joana is the first person to come to mind. She eliminated boundaries and distances, leaping across language and culture, to extend a hand to me. Sharing what she had freely, she “puts into practice the little bit she understands about the gospel.” Words from the Brother. I aim to do the same. 

Doing the dishes after dinner, my Swiss roommates — who also happened to sign up for this job — ask me what my favourite song is. I say “Bleibet heir.” They proceed to sing it for 15 minutes.

Song #3: Bleibet heir und wachet mit mir. Wachet und betet. Wachet und betet.

Tuesday, Day 2

A new day, a restful sleep. The first since I’ve been here. I remember, on my way to the bathroom that I’ve made friends and established depth already with the group “under 40.” We are young in this area of Taizé. I’m still finding my language, I find, and remind myself to speak with softer, more mindful intention. Listen more, speak less. You’ve come here to listen, not teach, not impose a methodology, not insist on an interpretation. This afternoon, I’ll go with Lena, Maron and Simon to Cluny (we’ll call them the Cluny Group). I’m overjoyed at the way the week is already unfolding — this group feels like the right people for right now. Since I arrived Friday night, in between groups and programs, I can see the difference between the groups that form. And I’m actually surprised at how delighted I am now. Actually? Yes, I am surprised. I’ve been here four nights, and I went from “there are prisons better than this, I am sure” to “what beautiful simplicity and extraordinary grace.” 

There is a more somber feeling around the community today. A fog in the air. Both visibly in the morning and metaphysically in the spaces we occupy. 

The Brother reminds us: we can make a beautiful collage with the broken pieces of our lives. He pronounces “collage” like “college.” 

Addendum: We went to Cluny, and though the abbey and church were wonderful, we were thoroughly fascinated by the students of an engineering school there who wear intricately decorated robes everywhere. We stopped a student to learn more, and he said that second year students get to add things to their robes — whatever images or statements they want. On the drive back, we discussed what we would put on ours. I decided a few provincial flowers, at least, and a latin phrase, like sic itur ad astra, or something else very nerdy.

Wednesday, Day 3 

I sleep in today; the cold has descended from the foothills and I have awakened with a headache, sore throat, and congestion. My Swiss roommate offers me vitamins, and gets me a plate and spoon so I can have my breakfast in the room. I bought a loaf of grain bread at the bakery in Cluny yesterday, as well as some blueberry jam, cheese, lemon, and honey. She also gives me a large thermos to use.

In the grass, after listening to the morning teaching with Brother Pedro, we split our large group into two: English speaking and German speaking. Our English group finds itself in a passionate discussion about socio-economics, sustainability, and our responsibility to people on the other side of the world. There’s a tension, though I must remember I cannot trust how my body feels today. 

After group, I take a blanket and walk down to pond and fall asleep in the sun, listening to a worship album. For all the singing we are doing, my heart desires words it understands. Stephanie finds me — a soft-speaking, soul-searching ex-feminist — and asks me how to hear the voice of God. I keep bringing it up nonchalantly in our groups, making the assumption that as followers of Jesus, we all can discern what God is asking of us. I am stunned and humbled by the questions my German friends ask. What is discernment? How do you hear God? I don’t think I have ever heard God. Can you explain how you do?

What is easy and clear to me, is foggy to others. I am conflicted, because I don’t want to teach, but compelled to offer whatever wisdom I have to those who ask. 

In the grass, Stephanie and I go through a simple exercise. I encourage her to believe that she already hears, and all she has to do is trust that she does. She nods and smiles, saying this is exactly the situation she finds herself in. Trust.

Thursday, Day 4 

I wake and remember not to create spiritual truths out of human experience. Just because we experience God, or life, in one way, doesn’t mean it’s a universal truth. My experience may be true for me, but it is not truth.

A conversation with a French woman from the day before comes to mind. I explain to the group — or at least those who ask — that I fundamentally believe God speaks to everyone. The goal, then, is to find out how God speaks uniquely to us, whether through intuition, imagination, dreams, other people, etc. The French woman agrees and disagrees, saying God speaks more to us when we are new believers, and less when we are older, because we don’t need as much guidance as we mature. I agree and thank her. But do I agree? No. Though her experience may mirror many others’, it is not a truth, nor is it what scripture promises. I ask God if I should follow-up with her, to discuss other texts. I feel like I should not. Leave it. Those who want to hear, will hear.

I can tell there are many who yearn for clear teaching. The thing I hear the most from my group is that I have so much clarity. I can see that they long to know and understand God — to hear that wonderful voice.

I am reminded of Paul’s instruction to the church of Corinth. “Follow the way of love and eagerly desire spiritual gifts, especially the gift of prophecy.” I hold onto this truth — that we are meant to prophesy, to build up, encourage and strengthen others with words higher than our own. I wonder: How did we lose the prophetic tradition? Why has the mysticism been eschewed from these European churches?

In my conviction, I am equally confused. Am I bringing a North American interpretation? Am I imposing? Should I say anything at all?

God nudges me again: Be clear. Speak truth. They know and hear truth. You don’t need to explain. Let them wrestle with it.

Taizé, I am realizing more and more, is a refuge for searching souls. A sanctuary of peace when the world feels chaotic. A place of connection when all feels at odds. The people here are from various backgrounds and lifestyles, different faiths and denominations. Here, they feel called to drink deeply from a place of rest. It is their place for reorientation; recalibration. I have gathered, throughout the conversations, that churches don’t feel like safe places anymore — they have lost their spirit, their love, their inclusivity, their acceptance. They have become political, using jarring language and fine lines. Here, at Taizé, they escape the walls the world has built up.

Song #127: I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Yes, I shall see the goodness of the Lord. Hold firm, trust in the Lord.

Friday, Day 5

Last night, a German man asked me a question as we walked back to the dormitories. We had been drinking wine in a field, accompanied by another German and a South African man, discussing theology under the bright light of the moon. He turned and asked if I had problems falling into Jesus. I didn’t really understand what he meant, but I have noticed and sensed that he is a prophetic person, so I decided to just agree. I wonder aloud if he means like a trust fall. He says not quite, but he will share more with me later.

But now, in a time of silence, as I walk through the fields and the paths around the community, I turn my attention to the source. How do I fall into your love, God? He replies simply: by allowing me to love you. How do I allow you to love me? By allowing others to love you. The smell of the dew-damp field and the warmth of this moment reminds me of times I had in Redding, when I would go for walks and wonder, talking, thinking, asking. I am reminded of how it felt to experience the closeness of God’s love, while still feeling closed off to love, especially the love of others. It was difficult to accept love — it still is. But every person broke down my walls a little more than the last, and the hardness of my heart softened. It has been a long, enduring journey, to allow the truth that I am loved to permeate me deeply.

And suddenly it all makes sense — God allowed me to come here unprepared, lost and sick, so that I could receive love. And I have felt such wonderful love, from perfect strangers no less. Given toothpaste and a towel, vitamins and a thermos, cucumbers and marmalade, long hugs and tears, space to speak, or not to, kindness, tenderness, understanding. I am the wounded traveller, and here I have received the “samaritan’s touch” from a multitude of others passing by, on their way to somewhere.

As of today, I have been here one week. I have been crushed by the (and a) cold, awakened by teenagers in the night, and have felt restless in the unknown. I have felt both physical and spiritual hunger, and have fed on every kind of bread. I have been blessed by song and silence, challenged and soothed in conversation, and met with acceptance. I arrived a stranger, a foreigner in the land, and I leave as part of the family. Here, I have experienced the wonderful truth of Heaven on Earth.

At the foot of the cross, I am bathed by my own tears, the sound of hundreds of people from every place and every language softly singing over me.

Song #37: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.