Beauty at Harvard

CAMBRIDGE, Mass. Last Thursday night something beautiful happened at Harvard. In great anticipation a congregation gathered amid flickering light in Memorial Church's Appleton Chapel. With the onset of the academic year, Compline resumed.

Members of the University Choir opened with "Lord, We Beseech Thee," by Adrian Batten, a less remembered composer from the glory years of Renaissance church music. "The Lord Almighty grant us a quiet night and a perfect end," said the minister with the clear voice of a New England divine. "Come unto me, all who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light," he continued. "Thanks be to God," the people responded, with candles in their hands. The choir sang again. The congregation, standing, joined in the hymn, "All Praise to Thee, My God, This Night," by Thomas Tallis.

The experience was not an isolated affair, a soli tary re-enactment of a distant relic. Compline occurs on the first Thursday of every month throughout term. On Monday through Friday, students, faculty, and friends celebrate Morning Prayer, which includes music, a reflection, and a Psalm. If the assembled are not mighty in numbers, then their strength is stout.

Sunday's stately worship service caps each week. "Eternal God, in whom we live and move and have our being, whose face is hidden from us by our sin, and whose mercy we forget: Cleanse us from all offenses, and deliver us from proud thoughts and vain desires; that humbly we may draw near to thee, confessing our faults, confiding in thy grace, and finding in thee our refuge and our strength, through Jesus Christ our Lord." This past Sunday, a brass ensemble accompanied the choir. "All People That on Earth Do Dwell!" Consider again where the promise of redemption was proclaimed.

The Harvard Hymn concluded the service. "May this university thrive, for thou art its founder." Harvard has its own Hymn Book. Does this surprise?

THE SCHOOL'S roots lie in the faith of its fathers, as do the roots of so many colleges now proudly secular. Higher education originally focused on preparing scholars for the ministry or priesthood -- or at least for lives well led. The portraits in Foxe's Book of Martyrs typically refer to the subject as "brought up from child in the University of Oxford, where he by long continuance grew up, and increased as well in the knowledge of tongues, and other liberal arts, as especially in the knowledge of the scriptures." The entry cited here describes William Tyndale, who subsequently went to the University of Cambridge, where he "further ripened in the knowledge of God's word." At Cambridge, Thomas Bilney, too, "converted his study to those things which tended more to godliness than gainfulness." Imagine that. They studied not to become masters of the universe but servants of the seraphim. Work force training has come to rule this day.

Centuries have loosened ties. Much has changed for the better. Much has been lost. The devout are not the only ones perplexed by the absence of purpose at universities. Wall Street collapses and the government goes berserk -- and we wonder why. In Excellence Without a Soul, Harry Lewis, former dean of Harvard College, explains "how a great university forgot education." His brief does not rely on the Creed. He discusses conditions that are not unique to his school.

All too often the religious reaction to the exclusionist secularism prevailing on campuses and elsewhere manifests itself in a surly assertiveness, which seems just another aspect of the identity politics of the age. Christianity does not need a chip on the shoulder. Identity confines. Being liberates. These quiet moments at Harvard counter the culture in far better ways. They are not for everyone, and for that reason are not coerced. "Veritas," proclaims the university's motto. Compline and Morning Prayer convey the many dimensions of the word.

. . .

For someone returning to Cambridge not for the classrooms but for the monastic embrace, the first sight of the bell tower at the Society of Saint John the Evangelist gives gladness as surely as a lighthouse beckoned exhausted sailors long at sea. Silence prevails, yet does not suffocate. Indeed, silence enhances sound -- for real silence obliterates noise. When, during a stay at a French monastery, the English adventurer Patrick Leigh Fermor remarked to the abbot that it came as a relief not to talk all day, the abbot responded, "Yes, in the outside world, speech is greatly abused."

Although the monks and their guests mark the daily offices with cadenced regularity, for a precious interlude the clock loses its stranglehold. The tick-tock hours confining our compartmentalized lives are exposed as artificial. Quietude compels. The sensation is one of serene intensity, or, perhaps, intense serenity. Gabriel announced unto Mary, and her soul magnified the Lord.

Visit the brothers of SSJE, and understand. To contemplate is to listen; to listen is to learn. And, like the prayers of a remnant in Harvard Yard, the meek act of listening is supremely counter cultural. Hear, O Israel!
Contact Todd Culbertson at (804) 649-6686 or .