Chapter 36
Brother Armagh parked his rental car in the church lot, climbed out, and looked around with curiosity.
Saint Mary’s was a pretty little church of whitewashed stone, set against a backdrop of mountains still patchy with snow.
Evergreen trees climbed the slopes above town, perfuming the air with a piney scent.
Armagh breathed deeply of the high mountain air.
This was a lovely place, he thought, to worship God and His creation.
Armagh had tried to get in touch with Father Moore, the parish priest, but apparently, the good father did not have a cell phone—-that, while inconvenient, Armagh couldn’t help but approve of.
While waiting in Eagle for developments in the Castillo murder case, aside from his usual church attendance, he had found time hanging heavy on his hands and decided to call on some of the far--flung parish priests in the area. Burns had especially interested him.
He took another breath and climbed the steps to the church’s doors, which stood wide open and welcoming.
As he went inside, he appreciated the shift into the natural coolness of a stone church.
He paused in the aisle, looking around. The sanctuary was empty.
It was a simple church, no fancy embellishments, frescoes, or decorations beyond some stained glass depictions of the Stations of the Cross.
This was very much to Brother Armagh’s taste.
He often found the ornate Baroque embellishments of the churches in Rome to be tiresome and not in keeping with the simplicity of belief that he valued, not to mention the vow of poverty he had taken when he became a monk.
He made his way down the aisle and spied the door to the sacristy.
He advanced to it, raised his hand, and gave it a timid couple of raps.
He heard a rustle, and the door opened to reveal a most impressive figure—-a monk in black Benedictine robes, well over six feet tall, a powerful figure of a man with a craggy face that looked not unlike that American president, Abraham Lincoln, only without the beard.
“Father Moore?” Armagh ventured, surprised that the priest also appeared to be a member of the Order of Saint Benedict.
“Ah, I’m sorry, no,” the monk said, his face breaking into a broad smile. “No, no. I am Brother Gregory. Welcome!” He extended an enormous hand, and Armagh enthusiastically took it—-surprised at its gentleness in enveloping his own.
“Brother Gregory, how good to meet you. I’m Brother Armagh, Niall Armagh, of the Pallottine Brothers in Rome.”
“Ah, from Rome! Please come in,” said the monk. “What a wonderful surprise.”
Armagh followed him into the sacristy, another room of divine spareness. They passed through it to a small office in the back. The monk offered Armagh a chair and took one of his own, seating his powerful figure with grace, deftly arranging his robes as he did so.
“Brother Niall,” asked the monk, “are you a friend of Father Moore’s?”
Armagh was pleased by the warm reception and curious about what a Benedictine monk might be doing in such an out--of--the--way place.
“I was in the area and thought I’d pay a social call.
I don’t know him, but when I travel, I like to visit my fellow religious, and I couldn’t help but be curious when I heard about Burns and the little church here.
I couldn’t get hold of Father Moore by phone, so I thought I’d take a chance and drop in. ”
“Ah yes. I’m here on a visit to Father Moore myself.
He kindly puts up visiting religious in the presbytery next to the church.
Modest but comfortable accommodations.” The big monk shifted in his chair, which creaked under his great frame.
“It’s unfortunate that Father Moore is not here.
So, what brings you to our side of the Atlantic? Vacation?”
Armagh had been ordered not to reveal, even to a fellow religious, the purpose of his mission except where necessary. As a result, he was well prepared for the question and answered it smoothly.
“As I’m sure you can tell from my accent, I’m Irish, as all the Pallottine brothers are. And yes, I am here on a wee vacation, visiting family and taking a breath of fresh mountain air.”
“Wonderful!” said the monk. “Family, you say? Here in Burns?”
“No, in Eagle.” He redirected the conversation. “And you, Brother Gregory—-what is a Benedictine doing out here? Is there a monastery in these parts?”
“There is indeed—-Saint Benedict’s of Aspen.
We’re a small community in a scenic mountain valley northwest of Aspen, in the heart of skiing country.
Sadly, there are few of us left to carry on the Cistercian tradition, and I’m afraid the monastery is slated to close.
We just can’t keep up with the expenses. ”
“I’m terribly sad to hear of it. Where will you go?”
“Most of us are heading to Christ in the Desert, in New Mexico. It’s a beautiful monastery, but I have to admit, I will miss the skiing!”
“Do you ski?” Armagh asked.
“I do. And I must say, in all modesty, I cut quite a figure on the mountain, shredding fresh powder in my black robes.” He tipped back, laughing a deep, sonorous laugh.
“There are many ways to bring people to God, and I find skiing to be one of them. When people ask me, ‘Why do you ski?’ I say, ‘I’m skiing for God! Because everything we do, we do for God.’ ”
“How very true.” A skiing monk. It was certainly unusual, but Brother Armagh thought, Why not? The Order of Saint Benedict was known for mixing with the world more than other orders. You could save a soul as well on the mountain as at the altar.
“And I’ve had some interesting conversations on ski lifts,” the monk continued. “Being cloistered to contemplate the love of our Heavenly Father
is fine, but getting out in the world, uplifting the poor, tending the sick, and doing good works is better.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Armagh approvingly. “I spent nine years in a prison ministry in Chicago.”
The monk paused and looked at him with even greater interest. “I’m so glad to hear it.
That’s exactly what I mean. Sometimes I feel the church focuses to its detriment on censuring and judging people over issues like homosexuality and abortion, when what truly concerned Jesus was greed and poverty. ”
Armagh was considerably surprised by this statement, which meshed with his own, rarely expressed private thoughts. “I have often felt that way myself, Brother Gregory,” he said. “Are all the brothers of Aspen so liberally minded?”
“We are, and we find ourselves rather on the outs these days with some of our more conservative brethren, such as my dear friend Father Moore. He’s a bit old--fashioned and limited in his views—-and he has that rather odd collection, but he is a man of God with a good heart.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
The monk leaned forward. “The Pallottine brothers … Now aren’t you the order in the Basilica of San Silvestro?”
“Indeed we are.”
“Ah, how interesting! It’s been so long since I last visited Rome.”
“It’s the beating heart of our faith. I hope you get the chance.”
“I hope so too,” he said. “Say, isn’t San Silvestro where the most holy relic of Saint John the Baptist can be found?”
“Indeed so.” Armagh was suddenly watchful.
He wondered if, somehow, word of his mission might have gotten around.
It seemed impossible, especially in an out--of--the--way place like this.
But to his relief, the skiing monk continued on, unaware of the vandalism.
“I’ve sometimes thought we Catholics overdo the relic thing.
It’s not so different from worshiping a graven image. ”
Armagh felt slightly offended at this. “People need objects of faith. Holy relics inspire them—-and remind them of those who’ve suffered for the sake of our Lord.”
“You make a good point, Brother,” said the monk, slapping his knees. He rose. “I’m afraid I have to get back to Aspen for Compline.” He once again enveloped Armagh’s hand in the warmth of his own. “It’s been lovely speaking to you, Brother Niall.”
Armagh said his goodbyes and left the church. As Brother Armagh was driving back down the road from Burns, surrounded by snowy mountains, he thought about the monk flying down the slopes, robes flapping, skiing for God. It was a most appealing image.