It’s four o’clock in the morning as the alarm sounds this first Saturday of Lent. In a daze, I get dressed and brush my hair while trying to be silent, nevertheless making the floor creak, reminding me that even though I try not to, I am a sinner. It’s part of my identity. As I hasten to Church, I take no notice of the frozen vegetable patch or the icy road. Inside the sisters are ready, silently in their seats. The first words uttered since last night’s Salve Regina during Compline are Herre løs min tunge * så jeg kan forkynne din pris (O Lord, open my lips * And my mouth will proclaim your praise).
The Psalms are recited as the wind endeavours to lift the Church and carry it away. We are here today, five students or young adults, going into the desert to pray like Jesus prayed, to listen to him in silence and love. As we leave Church, still no words are spoken, only a gentle nod and smile as we hurry from the cold wind inside to our breakfast.
A curious scene, really: two young women, friends, usually laughing and talking, having their coffee and bread in complete silence, both encapsulated in the same story: the gospel according to Mark. Usually on top of our assignments, this time is different. The task was set by sister Anne Elizabeth the previous evening: to read the Gospel of Mark slowly, focused, as if for the first time, looking for references of Jesus’ humanity, actions, emotions and the relationship to his father. Completely immersed in Mark’s narrative we spent three hours after Compline, in our own chambers, but are still only half way. Seeing the text with a new pair of eyes, we couldn’t read slowly enough, capturing the details, letting God speak to us with Mark’s voice.
Seven times a day I praise you the Psalm (119,164) says and so our coffee and reading is continued by Lauds first, then Mass, the Eucharist ending the Great Silence. During vigils, the view from the window behind the altar is black. Watch as the light of a single car drives slowly along the road on the other side of the fjord. The yellow light flickers by the curves of the road. Here now, gone now. Now only the black remains. Soon a single tree is visible as the light grows. Then another, and by the time Mass is finished, both the fjord and the mountain across the water is seen. In the same way our Lord is unveiled, first a flicker of light, a star on the heavens, a path is laid and by his teaching, his prophecy and his suffering, the Lord’s plan for us is brought to life and reaches its climax at the foot of the cross and resurrection: the Body and Blood of Christ is presented to us, a gift we do not deserve, but are given nonetheless.
Nourished both in body and spirit, we share a cup of tea, still the voice of Mark sounding in our hearts. Not used to being so quiet and focused, we take a break. A disposable plate quickly becomes a glory behind Andrea’s head, as we take silly pictures of each other. We are children after all, and have let our energy out when sister Anne Elizabeth joins us again.
We share our findings in the gospel, and notice that sister has read it with new eyes over and over again as she pours of her knowledge, explaining any passages we had trouble understanding (Mark 9,43-50). She hands us a list of signs of humanity in Christ and where to find them in the Bible, the perfect companion for when we find ourselves too taken up with our everyday lives to see the greater picture: that God knows us better than we do and still find us worthy of giving his life for.
As the Church bells ring for Sekst, we have an extra spring in our steps, for soon dinner is served. The priest, an Irishman, sings a Norwegian grace as Pole, Italian and Norwegian eat together in silence as we listen to classical music, thus having our bodies and spirits fed at the same time. At first the silence may feel pressing, awkward, then becomes a relief: nobody is forced to fill the silence with interesting or uninteresting conversation. The gospel of Mark and the Psalms are still heard in our hearts.
We are encouraged to leave our cell phones and iPods untouched for the duration of our stay, but there are nobody to check. Nobody will know if an iPod is played during the Great Silence. Our refrigerator has meat inside, but nobody is there to check if it is eaten on Friday. We are told we are welcome to celebrate Vigils at 4.20 in the morning, but nobody will wake you up, in fact they are astonished if you come. And that is the wonder of being on retreat, and also of Christ’s sacrifice: it is his to give and it is given freely.
We gather to talk about the psalms. These 150 songs for every occasion speak of every human emotion, even though they are up to 3000 years old. For learning, for complaint, for joy and celebration. Parts of them are perfect as short one-line prayers for strength, perseverance, comfort and praise (“Create a clean heart in me, O Lord” – “For God alone my soul waits in silence” – “Let everything that breathes praise the Lord” – “Bless the Lord my soul, and all that is within me”). We are encouraged to stay with those that touch us.
Showered with hospitality, friendliness, encouragement, smiles and advice, our time is up. Outside the monastery walls Norway has won one olympic medal and lost another to the Swedes, us none the wiser. It matters little now, for our weekend was ours to give and was given freely to the Lord. I hope we’ll be back soon!
