Here’s a page out of my pilgrimage journal, from my time at Holy Cross Monastery in West Park, NY:

“Hymns to the Silence” by Van Morrison

“I want to go in the countryside

Oh sit by the clear, cool, crystal water

Get my spirit, way back to the feeling 

Deep in my soul, I want to feel 

Oh so close to the One… 

And that’s why I keep on singing baby

My hymns to the silence” 

I experience this Van Morrison song as a dialogue with God, a yearning for communion. Sure, maybe the object of his affection is a woman he refers to here as “baby,” but I have no qualms hearing this 10 minute track as a prayer. Knowing what mystical union feels like, the rest of life spent remembering that precious taste becomes a string of “hymns to the silence.” We know deeply that God abides with us– we abide in God– but it is the passion and beauty of our human condition to long for this knowledge in an evermore experiential way. As Van Morrison sings, “I want to feel oh so close to the One.” 

I’m at Holy Cross Monastery in West Park, New York, along the Hudson. My musical experiences in this first 36 hour period have been fueled by this Van Morrison track and the chanted offices of the monastic community here. After Matins (morning prayer) and a silent breakfast, I ventured down the snowy hill to the bank of the Hudson. “Oh sit by the clear, cool, crystal water,” Van Morrison crooned in my ear as I giddily reached the overlook just above the water. The sun illuminated purple clouds in the distance as sheets of ice floated by. 

As I make my way through Thomas Merton’s classic No Man is an Island and attend the five daily prayer services with the brothers, I am struck by the stability of the Benedictine spirituality here. Unlike other religious orders where movement from one community house or job placement to another is typical, Benedictines commit not just to a way of life but generally to a particular place. They are rooted in their daily prayers, cycling through the same psalms and scriptures week after week, year after year. Their care for their common home and grounds (and often guests!) is a major part of their spirituality. 

Here at Holy Cross, this stability is palpable. Returning from a walk along the main road this afternoon, I rounded the corner into the monastery driveway and was hit by the feeling of home and welcome. It is the tangible presence of prayer soaking in these grounds for over a hundred years. 

This constant presence of prayer illuminates my exploration of No Man is an Island. Merton describes a spirituality grounded more deeply than the ups and downs of emotion. It’s a mature faith of accepting oneself, weaknesses and all, and remaining unattached to the results of our efforts. It is a spirit of equanimity, of seeking the divine purpose in all of life without confusing our interpretation for God’s interpretation. The balance of work, prayer and rest in the Benedictine lifestyle seems to me conducive for such even-keeled relating. 

Just when things are cohering, in pops Van Morrison with his passionate longing. “Oh my dear sweet love, it’s a long, long journey / long, long journey back home.” This hymn to the silence meanders in stillness at times, but also finds sticking points in passion. As a non-Benedictine, I must confess that this song helps me understand the desire and intent that illuminate the monastic lifestyle. 

All of creation is invested in singing these hymns to the silence until the silence overtakes and there is no need for the song. It is always a back and forth between sound and silence. The grass, the wind, the bells tolling time for prayer…the sunlight streaming into the room for noonday prayer. I just wanted to sit there in the stillness of the illumination, in the stillness of that hymn to the silence. 

Before my friend Val passed away last June, she gave me a book about the healing power of sound. Val had battled cancer for 14 years, and she was interested in exploring more with sound therapy. She had already had profound experiences with chant, but I know she was keen to try more. 

I’m sad I couldn’t bring more of that into her life, but I see that wish of hers as a final benediction upon my life. She helped me find my mission of bearing witness to the giftedness of all things, through contemplative practice of sound and silence. I know that Val’s generous spirit, in equanimity with the ups and downs of life, is with me. 

In that book that Val gave, the first story I remember was about a community of monks in France who got very sick and fatigued for no apparent reason. Finally, a doctor discovered it was because they had stopped singing. This chanted sound permeating their way of life for centuries had supported them. When they stopped singing and merely began speaking the prayers, their effort to conserve energy backfired. 

I feel that palpable energy of chant here. I close my eyes and feel the chapel fill with the unified resonance of the brothers’ voices. 

It is a different type of listening that I am on this pilgrimage to discover. The world of western classical music in which I grew up is, technically speaking, based on tension and release. The sense of pitch relationships (tonality) that makes this music tick is the creation of desire and either the fulfillment or frustration of that desire. 

Chanted traditions present a different musical world where the emotional experiences of tension and release do not hold as much power. Yes, there is a sense of wanting to return to a particular resting point, but the relationships between pitches are freer, less hierarchically structured. There is not as much of a teleological goal as in the closing of a phrase by Mozart or Beethoven. 

Here I am, shaped by this western classical sense of passion, but wanting to experience Merton’s equanimity. What to do. Ah, Van Morrison. In his simultaneously peaceful and passionate expression, I find resonance. He reminds me that this is all a hymn to the silence.