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.

Here at the age of 39, I began to be old,“ says Charles Ryder as his revisit to Brideshead begins. For others, self-awareness arrives sooner or later, more or less. There are young fogies as well as old. Most learn age’s lessons only to forget or ignore them. Often indeed we need to remind ourselves of our true selves. The gatekeeper at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts issues a ticket to a Richmonder and the price includes the senior discount, which the traveler neither requests nor is asked whether the rate applies. The mirror says he does not look a day past 90. Later that evening, during a stroll near Harvard, in an evening turning from sultry to soft, a twentysomething calls out, “Hey, Grandpa.“ Ours is not to reason why.

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide.“ Soft voices fill sacred space. “Guide us waking, O Lord, and guard us sleeping.“ Compline closes the day. Prayer proceeds without ceasing. The words are chanted and sung at the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, a monastic community of the Episcopal Church. Its monastery lies in Cambridge along the Charles River, adjacent to Harvard University. The premises include a guest house, quarters for the brothers, and the Chapel of Saint Mary and Saint John, and are open for retreats that are not withdrawals but re-entries into the real. Visitors include groups and individuals, friends and strangers—although in the truest sense there are no strangers here. Silence predominates. In a world of noise, it is a welcome sound. “Elected silence, sing to me.“