Do Whatever He Tells You

Tarrawarra Abbey is about fifteen minutes out of Healesville. If you're the type to frequent The Innocent Bystander or Healesville Sanctuary, you've probably driven past the gate without noticing, which is easy to do since the sign is mounted on concrete blocks in small letters, and the only excess decoration is a blue PAX. There's a rattling cattle grid to begin with, so it looks like just another dairy property; and then a long and winding farm road into the heart of the Abbey. These are Cistercian monks of a Trappist variety, under the Rule of St Benedict, who have taken a vow of hospitality, of which we gladly and thankfully took our fill.

I think I unintentionally got the nicest room. Sorry Benj. Yours had the best view, but mine had a bay window overlooking the church and the tops of the gum trees; sparse and clean and warm. And quiet, except for the intermittent chanting and song that began every morning at 4 am. There were three icons on the white walls of my room: a Byzantine Madonna, disproportionate and dressed severely in black and holding her freakishly wrinkled old baby; and two saints painted on gold backgrounds in brilliant colours. A pleasant room, designed to be a place for reflection and rest, despite the peculiar folk peering down from the walls. I slept a lot. In fact, I slept so much that I missed Vespers this morning, to which I was rather looking forward.

After breakfast, the morning was grey and wintry, with a wind that rushed and roared like a sea through the gums. I went for a walk, hooded and hunched, and came across a shrine to Mary, bedecked with flowers and rosaries and this rather fetching rock (right).

The whole time at the Abbey, and partly because my room was high over the church, I had the peculiar sensation of sitting in an ivory tower of sola scriptura. The Catholic emphasis on human experience and tradition just doesn't sit well with me. I even experienced a modest little Protestant dry-retch last night at the end of Compline; after a lovely, simple service of prayer and Scripture in the soft-lit church, the monks stood and turned as one to face the illuminated portrait of a pale-skinned, young Madonna holding a prayer book and a rosary, and proceeded to sing the Salve Regina; this, I understand, is a prayer for protection until the morning. It was beautiful and reverent, and as a rule I am drawn to beautiful and reverent things - except when the reverence seems more like idolatry. I'm the first to admit that I don't understand Maryology, and I don't want to undermine the weight and glory of the monastic life; but it is very difficult to find a rational, let alone Scriptural basis for reverencing the fully human and fully flawed mother of Jesus.

On the way home, we stopped at The Innocent Bystander, which Jess and Alex and JoyLee have frequently gushed over in my hearing. As a through-and-through foodie, then, I leapt at the chance to visit, and it didn't disappoint. If I start writing about that food I won't stop, so perhaps I should write an exclusively 'Foodie' post later, to do it justice! We came away with several bottles of somethings, including the Muscato, and a chocolate tart.

What is my lasting impression of Tarrawarra Abbey? Mostly, the example of obedience and service presented by those monks. In some ways, they take the commands of Jesus very simply and literally, which is how He intended they be taken. I may disagree with many fundamentals of Catholic practice, but in this instance I cannot but aspire to the single-minded purpose and daily devotion of the monks. Would that I could heed that uncomplicated command with such uncomplicated commitment: do whatever He tells you.