Magdalenbrother
January 11th 2005, 05:30 AM
It all happened two years ago. I was again looking for the Christian five-feet sheep, I mean a place where real Christianity is practiced and where the spirit of Christ is alive. This time I had been directed to a small French Orthodox monastery near Manosque in South-East France, a land of rather arid mountains, the homeland of French novelist Jean Giono.
The monastery was small indeed: no more than two or three two-storey buldings, indistinguishable from the farms and isolated houses that dotted the landscape. The view was breathtaking, the air crisp and invigorating, the sky perfectly blue and almost no noise from oveflying planes or the nearby road. The monastery had no heavy machinery, just a few hectic hens and a small rusty car.
All the monks, seven in total, were lean, tanned and bearded. The longer the beard, the higher one's place in the hierarchy.
The higoumene, Father Victor, granted me an interview on the day following my arrival. We walked for about an hour around the monastery. Among other things, we talked about homosexuality. He told me that man was originally an androgyne and that being a gay, specially a passive homosexual, could be an aid in prayer since the soul is supposed to play that role vis-à-vis the Deity. "Anyway, what's the difference between a gay and a man who lusts after women? Both have to sublimate their sexual instincts if they want to become monks." I remember that the words he used for "lust after" and "women" in French were quite vulgar and I wondered what I should make of such lapsus linguae.
Life in the monastery was very strict: one needed the permission of the higoumene for e-very-thing. I wanted to give a phone call? Immediately a monk would interpose himself between me and the only old style black telephone of the community and ask me with penetrating eyes: "Did you ask special permission from Father Victor?" I wanted to eat a piece of bread? Another monk would rush to wrest the loaf from my hands and ask the same question. I soon made up my mind not to do anything that would require Father Victor's special permission, which means that I became really hungry after two or three days...
The meals were meager and one wasn't allowed to take a second, let alone a third serving. You had to accept what the monks put in your plate. Never mind you had done heavy manual labor outside during the whole afternoon: you were given exactly the same amount of food as the monk who had spent his whole day quietly painting icons in his cell. The monastery was apparently quite really poor and couldn't afford the copious meals of other, more lucky religious communities. Because food was scarce, the monks had the guests do most of the heavy manual work...
Among many other things ( "I can't believe you have already made many retreats in other monasteries"), the higoumene reproached me for standing in the small chapel while others were seated. I objected that the stone seats were icecold and that I preferred to stand. He laughed disdainfully and started telling me the heroic feats he had accomplished when he built the monastery alone with his own hands: the cold, the hunger, the fatigue. I wanted to tell the old man that I was prone to bouts of flu and rheumatism, but in view of his ascetic fanaticism I gave up...
Finally, the last day approached. The night before my departure, the monks told me to pack up my things immediately after Complines. As it happened, I was very tired that evening and I didn't obey the orders. On the next morning, I left Matins in the middle of the prayers to finish cleaning my room and collecting my clothes.
No sooner had I started doing this than I heard the furious voice of Father Victor's assistant:"What on earth are you doing in your cell? Don't you know that attendance of Matins is compulsory?" I objected that I hadn't finished packing up and wanted to eat my breakfast. Thereupon the monk walked into my room (I had no key to lock it!), forcefully took me by the arm and literally dragged me outside. Hadn't I been so starved by the monastic regimen, I think I would have resisted and maybe punched him in his face for such a lack of charity and respect, but as I was exhausted I let him have his way. One can imagine in what state of mind I attended the rest of Matins. The guy warbled his Orthodox prayers away as if nothing had happened...
Because I was busy packing up my things, I missed the Gandhi-like breakfast and had to take the road with an empty stomach.
Before leaving I gave them 60 Euros for their wonderful hospitality (I must have been in a state of trance when I did that). A slightly disgruntled Father Victor reminded me of the great truth of Orthodox monasticism: "Remember, we are all Basilians, we are not divided into different orders like the Catholics!"
Amen, amen!
The monastery was small indeed: no more than two or three two-storey buldings, indistinguishable from the farms and isolated houses that dotted the landscape. The view was breathtaking, the air crisp and invigorating, the sky perfectly blue and almost no noise from oveflying planes or the nearby road. The monastery had no heavy machinery, just a few hectic hens and a small rusty car.
All the monks, seven in total, were lean, tanned and bearded. The longer the beard, the higher one's place in the hierarchy.
The higoumene, Father Victor, granted me an interview on the day following my arrival. We walked for about an hour around the monastery. Among other things, we talked about homosexuality. He told me that man was originally an androgyne and that being a gay, specially a passive homosexual, could be an aid in prayer since the soul is supposed to play that role vis-à-vis the Deity. "Anyway, what's the difference between a gay and a man who lusts after women? Both have to sublimate their sexual instincts if they want to become monks." I remember that the words he used for "lust after" and "women" in French were quite vulgar and I wondered what I should make of such lapsus linguae.
Life in the monastery was very strict: one needed the permission of the higoumene for e-very-thing. I wanted to give a phone call? Immediately a monk would interpose himself between me and the only old style black telephone of the community and ask me with penetrating eyes: "Did you ask special permission from Father Victor?" I wanted to eat a piece of bread? Another monk would rush to wrest the loaf from my hands and ask the same question. I soon made up my mind not to do anything that would require Father Victor's special permission, which means that I became really hungry after two or three days...
The meals were meager and one wasn't allowed to take a second, let alone a third serving. You had to accept what the monks put in your plate. Never mind you had done heavy manual labor outside during the whole afternoon: you were given exactly the same amount of food as the monk who had spent his whole day quietly painting icons in his cell. The monastery was apparently quite really poor and couldn't afford the copious meals of other, more lucky religious communities. Because food was scarce, the monks had the guests do most of the heavy manual work...
Among many other things ( "I can't believe you have already made many retreats in other monasteries"), the higoumene reproached me for standing in the small chapel while others were seated. I objected that the stone seats were icecold and that I preferred to stand. He laughed disdainfully and started telling me the heroic feats he had accomplished when he built the monastery alone with his own hands: the cold, the hunger, the fatigue. I wanted to tell the old man that I was prone to bouts of flu and rheumatism, but in view of his ascetic fanaticism I gave up...
Finally, the last day approached. The night before my departure, the monks told me to pack up my things immediately after Complines. As it happened, I was very tired that evening and I didn't obey the orders. On the next morning, I left Matins in the middle of the prayers to finish cleaning my room and collecting my clothes.
No sooner had I started doing this than I heard the furious voice of Father Victor's assistant:"What on earth are you doing in your cell? Don't you know that attendance of Matins is compulsory?" I objected that I hadn't finished packing up and wanted to eat my breakfast. Thereupon the monk walked into my room (I had no key to lock it!), forcefully took me by the arm and literally dragged me outside. Hadn't I been so starved by the monastic regimen, I think I would have resisted and maybe punched him in his face for such a lack of charity and respect, but as I was exhausted I let him have his way. One can imagine in what state of mind I attended the rest of Matins. The guy warbled his Orthodox prayers away as if nothing had happened...
Because I was busy packing up my things, I missed the Gandhi-like breakfast and had to take the road with an empty stomach.
Before leaving I gave them 60 Euros for their wonderful hospitality (I must have been in a state of trance when I did that). A slightly disgruntled Father Victor reminded me of the great truth of Orthodox monasticism: "Remember, we are all Basilians, we are not divided into different orders like the Catholics!"
Amen, amen!