Tuesday, December 10, 2024

The Funeral of Br. Laurence Harms - December 10, 2024

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Robert Leo Sevensky
The Funeral of Br. Laurence Harms OHC, December 10, 2024

Click here for an audio of the sermon


Our brother Laurence Arthur Eugene Harms had a rich and productive life but not, I think, an easy one. He was born into a loving family in Rock Island IL but at age 8 developed a neurological disorder for which he had no name. It was of course narcolepsy, a condition which both limited him and shaped him for the rest of his life. It wasn't until he was 20 years old that the condition was diagnosed and given a name.  Medications were made available to help keep him awake during the day, though he never enjoyed a full night’s sleep. But despite this he was a man who was intensely interested in the natural world and it how it worked. He loved the sciences--chemistry, physics, biology and later, as we all know, astronomy--and studied at Augustana, a small Lutheran college not far from home. He had to leave college after two years to work in a factory for a year to raise funds to pay for his education. He returned to school with enough money and the new medicine which allowed him to attain his bachelor’s degree and to begin a seven-year period of teaching sciences throughout Illinois. He loved the teaching, though he often had difficulties with managing the students. So when he turned 30, he and a friend set out for California for a summer job which turned into much more than a summer job. He first went door to door selling Watkins spices and then began working with the International American Tuna Commission where a great adventure took shape: he spent three months at sea on a tuna ship during which time they caught 200 tons of tuna.

Always a devout High-Church Episcopalian, Laurence--or Gene as he was then known--heard that a monk would be in the San Diego area speaking about missionary work in Liberia. That monk was Brother Raymond Gill, OHC, who explained to the gathered crowd that they desperately needed a science teacher in West Africa. At the end of the presentation, Eugene went up to Father Gill and said: “Father you have your science teacher.”  And off he went to Liberia teaching for two years at the Holy Cross school there. During that time, he became a Companion of the Order and took the name Laurence. Laurence was an amazingly effective teacher under somewhat primitive circumstances. Perhaps because he was himself a bit slow and knew what it was to struggle, he paced himself and his students to the point that many of them excelled in the sciences and in knowledge generally.  Among his students was the future vice president of Liberia along with many who became doctors, nurses, government officials or successful entrepreneurs.

It was also at this time Laurence felt increasingly called to explore religious life as a vowed member of the Order of the Holy Cross.  He entered the community in 1962 as one of only two laymen and made his life profession in 1966.  He had struggled with the question of whether he wanted to be a monk or a teacher, and when he was sent back to Liberia as a teacher and a monk shortly after his life profession, he discovered he could be both. He stayed there seven years and ultimately spent 13 years teaching in Liberia.

Laurence loved the life there and the Liberian peoples and spoke often of the excitement of going out on trek, that is on journey through the jungle to spread the gospel while always, always respecting the variety of both indigenous and Islamic faiths that they encountered. And--those of us who know Laurence will understand this--he often got in trouble. Once while teaching in Ghana, he was expelled from the country as a CIA spy! Laurence also suffered from various tropical illnesses, including amoebic dysentery and malaria, and yet bounced back to continue his teaching, loving his students and being loved by them in return. He was to teach in the Bahamas in the mid-1970s and then again in Ghana in the mid-1980s where he was the novice master, which is hard for me to wrap my mind around except when I remember that Laurence was a man who loved people and who saw Jesus in them and walked with them along the way toward new and larger life.

Laurence loved to travel when he could. He traveled through the Middle East. He traveled to the Holy Land. And when his astronomical interests developed, he travelled around the world to experience several eclipses of the sun. Alas, when he went to the South Pacific on one such journey he totally missed the solar eclipse because he was involved in trying to set up his camera. That, too, was our Laurence.

During these decades Laurence struggled with the burdens that narcolepsy put on him. People often made fun of him when he nodded off or collapsed in a cataplexy. He was embarrassed by this and was often beset by a sense of inferiority. But his transparent welcome and simple acceptance of others helped him overcome this time and again. And he did have his resurrection of sorts. When I lived with him in Santa Barbara, he was offered medication which for the first time in his life since age 8, allowed him to sleep through the night. He said it was like becoming a new person and indeed it was.

Laurence had other challenges and setbacks. Like the other brothers living in Santa Barbara at the time, Laurence lost all his possessions in the tragic fire which burned down the monastery in 2008.  But he persevered, continuing with his astronomical interests. Many were the guests, myself included, who for the first time saw the rings of Saturn through his telescope or the near approach of the Hale-Bopp comet. He was part of the Astronomical Unit at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History and took delight in its presentations and his work in the observatory. And he had a touch with fame. Once a friend of ours arranged a dinner party for him at Cal Tech and across the dining room was none other than the world renown theoretical physicist and cosmologist Stephen Hawking who was, as many of you know, paralyzed and rendered unable to speak by a progressive motor neuron disease. .That didn't stop Laurence who shot across the room to Professor Hawking, told him how much he admired him, then laid his hands on his head and gave him a blessing.  It was the greatest affirmation that Laurence could offer anyone, and I think Hawking, though an atheist, realized that. At least, I hope he did.

Laurence could tell wonderful, often very funny, stories about himself, and our community has its own rich store of sayings and malapropisms that came from Laurence, things like the famous liver-shaped swimming pool or the local tribe  that slaughtered half a cow for a feast. Laurence could also be forgetful. He tells the story of offering  a school of prayer in Bolgatanga, in the northern part of Ghana:

“I remember one time, I had a wonderful village there. I had a number of people, about 20 people gathered together.  I was teaching the Jesus prayer and centering prayer. So I got them all started on that and they were all centering. So then I had to go someplace, go to the bathroom, and I left and I forgot them. Here I was an hour later, and I remembered: ‘Oh my God those people are still there praying’ and I came back over an hour later and the people were still there praying. I hadn't intended more than 15 or 20 minutes, but they were so faithful that they stayed there and prayed. I learned a lesson from that all right.”

 I'm sure they did as well.

It's tempting to reduce Laurence's life to narcolepsy, or teaching, or astronomy or even origami. All of those were important touchstones for him. But behind it all and suffusing it all, transparently so, was a deep love of Jesus. Repeatedly Laurence expressed his certainty that Jesus was with him and indeed protecting him and guiding him. And given some of the places and journeys that he was on and situations he found himself in, the fact that he came through them safely makes me think he was quite right. At the end of the oral history that he shared with his family and his dear friends Karla Marie and Remy, Laurence says the following:

“God was always with me. I never doubted it that even at times when I was not happy, not on the ball, or not employed or something. God was still my friend. Some people have three: the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Some of them find God in…the Father, the Almighty. Others find God in the Holy Spirit; God is closer to them through the Holy Spirit. With me God is friend, Jesus Christ is my friend. I mean the others are as well, but the emphasis is on: he loves me and he cares for me and looks out for me as a friend would. So, you might consider that wherever you may be.”

For Laurence it was always Jesus and all for Jesus. Laurence was not a theologian by any means, but he was a man touched by God’s love who touched others with that same love. He was a man of prayer and compassion and patience and persevering hope…just like his Lord.  And we shall miss him.

Brother Laurence Arthur Eugene Harms, may you rest soundly in peace. And may you rise in glory with Jesus, your friend and guide, your protector and Savior...to Whom be glory and honor, now and forever.  Amen.

Sunday, December 8, 2024

The Second Sunday of Advent C - December 8, 2024

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Randy Greve
The Second Sunday of Advent, December 8, 2024



Every year in early November, a local radio station changes its usual music format to Christmas music.  I know this because when I am driving somewhere, I will occasionally surf the radio and land on this station. I scan the stations based on what is not commercials.  It may just be me, but since the presidential election and in the context of ongoing political division, as the fabric of civility is tearing and many relationships are fracturing, I feel more dread than usual (and I usually feel a lot). When I lit upon this station a few days ago, I was surprised to note that not only was I cheating by listening to Christmas music before Christmas, but I did not even enjoy cheating.  I was actually repulsed by it.  Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole singing to me about mistletoe and tree tops glistening and sleigh bells in the snow made me want to drive the car into a light pole.   It is like having a DJ at a funeral reception.  Perhaps in more optimistic times the themes of abundance and togetherness, peace and goodwill that come through so many of these songs are in harmony with the cultural moment, but not now.  At that moment it all rang hollow and empty. I pushed the power button and turned it off.

Pumped into our blood from every media entry point is the lure of commercialism that promises we can conjure the emotions we believe we are supposed to feel - “be merry”, “celebrate”, “holly jolly”, the songs hypnotize us over and over.  Their prescription for our discontent is that if we are experiencing grief or loss, fear or dread, conflict, strife, anxiety about the future of our families, churches, politics, then another cup of cheer will fix everything - or at least we can forget about our and the world's problems - at least for a while.  And that is the best we can hope for.  The capitalistic system is a dealer in Christmas as escapist fantasy.  Sorry, Bing, but not all our days will be merry and bright, nor will all our Christmases be white.  Life does not work that way.

If we are to faithfully prepare room in our hearts for the coming of God incarnate, and if that preparation can open us to welcome that coming with great joy, then we are in need of something more substantive than nostalgia and sentimentality.  Divine discontent, which is what I think I was experiencing at that moment, is discontent at quick and shallow fixes.  This is a good thing and can actually prepare us for deeper conversion.   Advent is the opposite of escapist fantasy.  That is why it is usually awkward.  Primed as we are for the standard fare of instant gratification, the church sets us unflinchingly inside the tension, the contradiction of the reality of hope and salvation alongside the reality of sin and suffering.  Can joy come from a contradiction?  The proclamation of salvation ought never ask us to cheer up, get over it, feel what we do not feel, deny reality, believe what we cannot quite believe - that is mind control, not good news. What is on offer is the invitation to dwell in Christ with all our thoughts and emotions, our doubts and pains, our expectations and hopes and to be fully, deeply, knowingly engaged in our actual life experience.  

What, then, does joy really mean?  Am I doomed to be Scrooge forever, or could my association with joy as an external mood, mere emotion, be inadequate?  The Collect and the epistle lesson for today give us some profound wisdom on this question.  The Collect for the Second Sunday of Advent asks God for the grace of repentance which prepares the way for greeting with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer.  In the reading from Saint Paul’s letter to the Philippians, which is included for this Sunday because of its mention of joy, Paul writes, “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, because of your sharing in the gospel from the first day until now.”  Both the Collect and Philippians root joy in God’s activity and our choice to recognize and participate in good work blooming in and around us. Joy is the gift of the glimpse of God’s goodness which has begun to set the world right. We receive joy when we stop; stop acting, numbing, avoiding, or pretending and start opening, anticipating, and receiving.

Saint Paul’s joy for the community in Philippi came from his care for them and his trust in the power of the gospel.  What he saw and knew was the triumph of the grace at work in their hearts. No Caesar, no empire, no violence, no persecution or chain or martyrdom (try as they might across the centuries) no division, no scandal, no heresy could thwart the power of God to effect good in willing hearts.  Those things harm and are tragic, but they are no obstacle to Christ.  When he saw that, joy flowed up out of him in the lavish, unbounded love of Christ who will never leave us or forsake us.  He never denies or minimizes his suffering, he is still in prison.  He never presents life in Christ as a program to escape reality. His joy is in the truth that the suffering cannot, will never, quench the power of that presence and mystery. “This present suffering is not to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us”, he writes to the Romans.

Joy is the effect of offering and entrusting our lives and the life of the world to the one who is its source and end. Our source intends our flourishing and growth and our end is bound up in an end to all suffering and crying and pain.  Let not the power of joy be cheapened by its cheap imitations - it is a gift much richer than mere cheerfulness and positivity. It is honest and real, includes melancholy and sadness, grief and loneliness, but gathers up our longing and cries, our blessings and riches - indeed our whole lives - into the promise of the redemption of the world.  The deepest, most soulful peace and fulfillment we can experience is that the unstoppable goodness of God in our lives is more wondrous and beautiful than we can imagine and will be ours for eternity.

So, we may not feel as cheerful this year.  The groanings of the world - in creation, in our bodies, in our care for each other - these groans and sighs and tears last for a time.  We must groan when we need to groan.  But only new creation is ultimate and is our hope and home. In the foretaste of that promise now and to come, we rejoice.  In our patient endurance, in our faithful witness, joy beckons in and over it all.   Grieve, but refuse to despair; be discontented, but continue to bear witness to the gospel; lament, but guard against becoming bitter.  Welcome joy when it emerges in you - do not stifle it. But know that it may come at a time and in a way that does not follow a schedule.  It may surprise you.  Greet it openly and humbly when it appears - it is a precious gift from God. Amen.

Sunday, December 1, 2024

The First Sunday of Advent C - December 1, 2024

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Aidan Owen

The First Sunday of Advent C - December 1, 2024

Back in September I walked St. Cuthbert’s Way, a 63-mile pilgrimage route that starts at the ruins of Melrose Abbey and ends at Lindisfarne, a tidal island off the east coast of England where St. Aidan founded his monastery in the 7th century. Near the start of the trip, one of my brothers who had also walked St. Cuthbert’s Way texted me “You’ll have moments of intense feelings of aloneness that are hard and sweet at the same time. A lot of important stuff will come to you from those. Embrace them, and remember that when you’re done, you’re coming back to your community that loves you and will be very happy of your return.”

The first few days of the trip, I really didn’t understand what he was talking about. The walking had been pretty moderate. Being the UK, the weather was grey and cool, but that wasn’t so bad. I met kind and generous walkers along the way, and I enjoyed my time alone. There really were no difficult feelings—only gratitude and awe for the beauty that surrounded me.

Midway through the walk I had my mountaintop experience. I climbed to the highest point of the route with 360 degree views of rolling hills and the sea in the distance. It was the most perfectly stunning day you could imagine. Clear skies, warm sunshine, and miles of visibility. I was literally singing “The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Music.” This is called foreshadowing, by the way.

The next day couldn’t have been more different. I set out in the driving rain. I could literally see sheets of rain blowing in front of me. Within fifteen minutes my waterproof boots were soaked through, not to mention my pants. As I wound my way through the Cheviots, I kept worrying that I’d miss a signpost because I was staring straight down at the path to keep the wind out of my face. It was a far cry from the mountaintop! Even as I was enduring the rain and the wind, I started to call that day my Day of Affliction.

I found myself yelling at God, literally screaming at the top of my lungs. There’s not much opportunity for that kind of prayer in a monastery, so I took advantage of my solitude to let it all out—all the frustration and the resentment and the fear and the anger and the disappointment that I wasn’t aware I had inside me. At my lowest point that day, my brother’s words came back to me: “You’ll have moments of intense feelings of aloneness that are hard and sweet at the same time. A lot of important stuff will come to you from those. Embrace them, and remember that when you’re done, you’re coming back to your community that loves you and will be very happy of your return.”

Now I understood what he meant. I did feel alone and afraid. I did feel resentful of the circumstances of my day and some of the circumstances of my life—some of which I had freely chosen, and some of which I had not. I was miserably and wonderfully alive, perhaps more alive in that moment than I had been in a long time. I hated every minute of that walk that day, and I was also surrounded by God’s love and the abundant beauty of God’s creation. I was held in my affliction—given the gift of the full experience of my life. I was also held in love by this beautiful community 3,500 miles away.

Advent always begins with a Day of Affliction. Each year we hear about the signs of the apocalypse when “People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world. The powers of the heavens will be shaken.” Nations and temples will fall down around us. There will be wars and earthquakes, and we will be afraid.

This is the context in which hope is born. This is the darkness into which the Light of the World comes to us to save us and free us from our self-destruction. We don’t need hope on the mountaintop. We don’t need light when the sun is shining all around us and the hills glow with the golden beauty of God’s abundance.

Jesus comes to us in the moment of our greatest need, when the light seems to be failing and the world is crashing down around us. That isn’t to say that God is not present in the sunshine. But our need for God draws God to us in a way that contentment and wellbeing often do not.

Writing of the Crucifixion in a powerful essay on affliction, Simone Weil writes that “This tearing apart, over which supreme love places the bond of supreme union, echoes perpetually across the universe in the midst of the silence, like two notes, separate yet melting into one, like pure and heart-rending harmony. This is the Word of God. The whole creation is nothing but its vibration. […] Those who persevere in love hear this note from the very lowest depths into which affliction has thrust them. From that moment they can no longer have any doubt.”[1]

The stance of hope to which Advent—and this historical moment—invite us is first of all perseverance in love. If we can manage not to run from our fear and our anger and our dismay, if we can manage to shout them out into the driving rain and the threatening darkness, we will hear the pure and heart-rending harmony of God’s love echoing back to us, assuring us that we are not alone. Then we can no longer have any doubt that God holds us tight and will never—can never—let us go.

The key is to love ourselves enough to remain awake to our experience, not to dull our inner senses with our drug of choice. We can be numb, or we can be alive. The choice is ours.

Rebecca Solnit writes that “the world often seems divided between false hope and gratuitous despair. Despair demands less of us, it’s more predictable, and in a sad way safer. Authentic hope requires clarity—seeing the troubles in this world—and imagination, seeing what might lie beyond these situations that are perhaps not inevitable and immutable.”[2]

Despair is its own kind of drug, numbing us both to the pain we are experiencing and to the possibilities of new life with which God is constantly seeding the world. Our salvation will not look like whatever we imagine in our limited desire for perfection. Into the darkness of Advent comes, not a mighty warrior to vanquish the violent overlords of the world, but a small and defenseless baby. Salvation comes to us as new life—a life that must be guarded, tended, fed, encouraged—and most of all, loved. This kind of salvation is a far cry from a lottery ticket we can clutch to our chest, sure that our worries are over. But it is so much better for that—for the salvation to which God invites us is the renewal of our own lives in hope and love.

We cannot persevere in love on our own. We need one another to remind us of the light and the love that await us on the other side of the storm. We need to be signposts for each other of the love of God that never lets us go. We need to sing a counterpoint to one another’s songs of affliction—not to overwhelm them but to accompany them on the way, to create together a truer and deeper harmony of the love and affliction that give birth to authentic hope. We need to be that love and that hope for one another.

“The final thing,” Rilke wrote a friend in 1920, giving just this kind of encouragement, “is not self-subjugation but silent loving from such centeredness we feel round even rage and desolation the finally enfolding tenderness.”

My brothers and sisters, in this life, you will have moments of intense feelings of aloneness that are hard and sweet at the same time. A lot of important stuff will come to you from those. Embrace them, and remember that when you’re done, you’re coming back to your community and your God that loves you and will be very happy of your return.

Come, Lord Jesus, and show us the way home to you.



[1] Simone Weil, “The Love of God and Affliction,” in Waiting for God, p. 72.

[2] Rebecca Solnit, Hope in the Dark, p. 19.Before I came to the Monastery I used to go to an Al-Anon meeting on Friday evenings. It was quite an eclectic group of people, the kind you can get in a 12-step meeting in New York City, and I loved it. At the end of the meeting, we’d all gather in a circle in this cramped church basement room, hold hands, and say the serenity prayer. Then we’d boisterously shout “keep coming back. It works if you work it, so work it—you’re worth it!” The last cheer is meant to end the meeting on a high note, an energetic encouragement against despair and a reminder that the program is the solution.