Retreating

Sunset on the cathedral Originally uploaded by goforchris.

How do I convey the essence of a Holy Week retreat to a world which barely recognises either retreat or holiness? And how do I convey the miracle by which a small island very close to the central belt of Scotland can feel like another world, so that the return to the mainland yesterday was a painful jolt? If I fail to describe adequately the fault is mine.

Begin with the island experienced in the midst of religious focus. I rise on the first day before seven. I have no responsibilities other than to be at Morning Prayer at eight-thirty. The sun is brilliant outside, and the air still and cold. I walk down the lane from the Cathedral of The Isles, two woodpeckers drumming impeccable seven-beat rolls in stereo from the cathedral woods. The seafront is deserted, the sea a glassy calm. The hills of Arran, snowcapped, beckon temptingly, but that is another kind of delight to which I shall return another day. This tiny island of Cumbrae, this little town of Millport, are transformed by a radiant morning and my own sense of growing peace. I realise I have no need, for now, of the usual distractions. And this is retreat.

And what manner of retreat am I undertaking? Not, I think, the conventional one of addresses, contemplation and prayer. Because I am there as a musician, and while others read and listen to talks, I am with my fellow-musicians in the choir stalls, rehearsing for daily Evensong. We sing, we analyse, we criticise, we sing again. And sometimes it is perfect, just for a moment, and we are satisfied, just for a moment. When we sing, it is to a gathering of no more than twelve, including ourselves, and at this time that number seems fitting. We all sit in the choir stalls, and share with and in something beyond our understanding. It is completely absorbing, so that all sense of self is vanished. It is magical. And this, too, is retreat.

Each day there is a celebration of the Eucharist. It is very simple, said apart from one hymn, sometimes including a brief address. And each day, by some chance, there are twelve people present, and not always the same twelve. But by the end of this three day period, I am aware that we are becoming a community, and that our number is somehow ideal. The rhythm of worship, meals, work and recreation seeps into my soul. And this, too, is retreat.

The day ends with Compline, the ancient service of the church, sung entirely in plainsong. We meet again in the choirstalls – singers, gardener, Warden, priest, bishop, visitors from near and far. For at least one of these, it is the first “authentic” compline he has ever experienced. The singing is quiet and totally relaxed, as the novices rely on the singers to lead and support. The rest of the church is in darkness as we pray in a pool of light. And then, insanely early by my usual standards, we go to bed.

And for the rest? In such a busy schedule, there are precious moments of sharing, laughter, hilarity even. Mealtimes, where everyone sits at long refectory tables, provide a setting for conversation that can switch seamlessly from narrow-gauge railways in Wales to our perceptions of Judas Iscariot to whether or not one of the clergy present ever cooks. (The answer is no, and he tucks into his beef cobbler with gusto). And throughout all the interaction, the rehearsing – even the moments of tension when something is not as it should be – people are so gentle with one another that I realise I cannot bear to leave.

Perhaps we are all simply frayed by everyday life. Perhaps it takes the liberation from normality to free us to be thoughtful and kind to one another, to take the time to notice what someone has done well, to read and to talk and to be aware. It would be good if this is how we could live among the pressures of ordinary life, but for now, this is what retreat can do.

Forming a community

It’s good when you sit listening to a sermon on a familiar passage and instead of beating yourself up about the improbability of ever attaining the desired outcome you find yourself saying “Yes! This happens!” Good, but rare. That’s what I felt yesterday, however, listening to a sermon on the Good Samaritan. Firstly, there was the delight of yet another new take on this familiar story – the familiar ones must surely be the hardest? - which filled in some more background to the “bad priest” idea to make us see that it wasn’t as simple as we might have thought. It’s interesting to contemplate that the human interpretation of what God requires of us might prevent us from making the instinctive human response to a fellow-human in need – does the church itself do that to us? Do we use the excuse of our human edifice to justify lack of spontaneity?

Because we had a clever wee link here to the business of what we do in the liturgy at the Peace. Some people don’t like it, for a variety of reasons – it breaks concentration, they’ve already said good morning, they don’t like to get too pally because we’re Scots and Scots don’t do this sort of thing (OK – I made that bit up). And after being told that it’s God’s peace we’re giving to each other, we heard that we’ll be doing it on a regular basis from now on and we’d better learn to like it. (You can tell there’s a bit of free interpretation going on here – I wouldn’t last a day as a parish priest.) It’s a matter, you see, of rethinking who your neighbour is, and loving them. Just like that.

But on Saturday I was at a team meeting for a Cursillo weekend. The very nature of these teams means that, in this case, 19 people come together to prepare to serve others – and to pay for the privilege of so doing. In the case of this team, many of them had never met before the first meeting. Their link was me – every one of them had met me before, and some of them are close friends. But by the end of that meeting, I knew that we had become a family. These people had eaten together, shared hopes and failures in conversation of considerable depth, and had learned from one another. This last took the form of learning how to give a ten-minute talk, and then submitting to constructive criticism of content, structure and delivery – all in the setting of the group. That’s easy for people like me (fill in your own description) but quite an ordeal for someone who’s never spoken in public before.

And by the time we came to the Eucharist, which more or less began with the exchange of the Peace, I watched my team embrace with all the ease and spontaneity that is often lacking in Scottish churches. The barriers are down among these people after 10 hours together. National reserve, inhibition, self-consciousness: gone.

I think it’s magic.

Go here to see pic in original context.