Ultimate  Questions
 
 

I have been one acquainted with the Night
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street

But not to call me back or say goodbye.
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
                                                    — Robert Frost

This poem by Robert Frost expresses in great language the human scene for many. His own, to be sure, was touched by sorrow: one son a suicide, one daughter afflicted and had to be committed. And, as poet, he speaks for everyone. Most of whom—all of whom, really— deal with sorrow. How adequate his piece, it depends.  For a Christian, it would seem a bit short of the mark.

Why do men become monks? I daresay monks themselves often ask this question. Why did I become a monk?  All have a reasonable answer when the question is placed, but the answer may simply be what is expected and acceptable.  The real reason in a case may be deeper than one realizes, more hidden and inaccessible than even the monk himself guesses.

Since I brought the matter up, I’d venture the notion that love of quiet enters into the matter early on. The monk is fascinated by silence. Early or late, he senses in quiet a beauty of great depth. And he drifts by design or by instinct to the monastery as a haven of quiet.

And against that background he would build his life. For as you know, all of you, that it is in quiet we face the ultimate questions. And, hopefully, in silence find the answers.

Somewhere along the way the monk has been made party to this knowledge. And a taste of it would not do. He’d make it the country he lives in.

For then the great questions can be responded to. The questions put to all, but by most dismissed. What we call the ultimate questions.

Which are put to all, since all are exposed to life and its mysteries. For many, maybe most, the questions go unanswered.  Why?  Why?  Why?

For even if in faith we know the answer, the answer may not mean much if not entered into—in quiet.

Is not the great enemy of faith today the matter of noise? Of no quiet? No pondering? No musing?

How grand it is to live in a house of quiet!

Which is but half the story. For if I have in grace and quiet some sense of meaning, I do not hide that in my heart. Or in my head. Or in my journal.

I live it out in a community of men vowed to love, to building a center of peace and love, and of mercy. Of sweet discipline, real work, real prayer. And so my theoretical entry into the depth of life does not end there, but insists on putting your life where your talk is. I do something for my brother rather than think about it. I build with the brothers, a city of joy, a haven of peace, an oasis of hope.

So the plunge into darkness is indeed solitary, but it turns out to be a social solitude, for the sake of others.

I not only feel bad for people. I put that feeling to work and come up with a positive witness that is a most powerful form of love.

Hence my quest for quiet turns out to be a quest for answers for me and for my brothers.

It’s thunder, all right, as Bishop Sheen said, but it is a great deal more than mere thunder. Mere noise. It is the power of grace in the world.

Here’s where Robert Frost could find his answer to the question the world faces. It is a gift indeed to have this, greater still being able to share it, best of all to do it for the love of God and every man alive.

Without the night, one does not see the stars.

1- This is a talk Fr. Matthew gave to his community of Gethsemani in their Chapter room, Sunday, August 28, 2005, at the request of the Abbot who was absent on business for the Order, and thus not available to give his own usual Sunday Chapter talk to the monks.