A MONK DIES much as he lived—in holy obscurity. That’s the goal at least.
Father Maurice Flood lived as a Trappist for 64 years. At his funeral in August, his abbot described Maurice’s monastic journey as “atypical.” And so it was.
To enter the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance (Trappists), one vows silence, stability, poverty, chastity, continual conversion, and obedience to Christ (in the person of one’s abbot). When I met Maurice in 1980, he was uproariously funny and riding his Harley-Davidson around the U.S. with a homemade telescope strapped to the side. Though neither silent nor “stable,” his other vows appeared to hold firm.
In 1957, when he was 22, Maurice joined the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky. There was another “atypical” monk in residence at the time: Thomas Merton. Merton’s influence on Maurice was defining. For several years, it was Maurice’s job to tend Merton’s hermitage. As a discipleship practice, it embodied the Zen koan: “Before enlightenment: chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment: chop wood, carry water.” But their intimacy was shattered in 1968 with Merton’s sudden death in Asia. Maurice’s faith fractured then, too—his sense of self, his vocation. Monastery life became increasingly difficult; eventually, he was granted a leave from Gethsemani for a year of discernment. That’s when he acquired the Harley. He made his way west, camping, staying with friends and Catholic Workers. He lived with my family in Sacramento for several weeks.
I was a senior in high school. From my room, I could hear Maurice keeping Vigils at 3:15 each morning. Psalms sung quietly in Gregorian plainchant drifted through the ductwork. For Thanksgiving, he made us perfect lemon meringue pies—but, to much hilarity, forgot the lemons. Cooking dinner was a glorious production, resulting in heaps of leftovers. “I’m used to cooking for 50,” he quipped, “not five.”
As with so many others Maurice befriended, we formed a lifelong bond. In 1983, he transferred to Holy Cross Abbey in Virginia—an unusual move. In 1991, I attended his ordination to the priesthood. When his brother monks filed forward to lay hands on their newest priest, I joined the parade. As I placed my palms on his grey stubble, he glanced up. A woman’s touch? Then his eyes twinkled conspiratorially, and he cracked the tiniest smile. Later Maurice served as chaplain to Our Lady of the Redwoods, a women’s monastery in northern California (where he again “chopped wood and carried water”). When his health failed, he returned to Holy Cross.
I watched Maurice’s funeral via live-stream from the smoke-filled Sacramento valley. A hundred miles east of me, conifers fat with sap, alongside houses and highways, exploded; a voracious blaze inhaled the fuel load desiccated by drought. To the west, C-17 cargo planes landed at nearby air bases with bellies full of Afghan families arriving from Kabul.
In the end, every monk wants to “fall without regret / like a leaf,” as Wendell Berry put it. Maurice did just that. His mortal remains are tucked in the earth—while his soul cracks jokes with the saints.
“At present, alleluia is for us a traveler’s song,” eulogized his abbot, “but by a toilsome road we are wending our way to home and rest where, with all our busy activities over and done with, the only thing that will remain will be alleluia!” Somewhere between disaster and paradise, one monk found his way.
Rose Marie Berger, a Catholic peace activist and poet, is senior editor of Sojourners magazine. She is author ofBending the Arch: Poems.
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