A neighbor to Camp Pendleton, the Prince of Peace Abbey stands as a counter-culture witness to our national defense industry. The driveway meanders up “S” curves, past acres of wrecked cars. The sounds of cars being crushed at the junkyard below can be heard in the arroyo below from the ridge top where I walked and prayed through the fourteen “Stations of the Cross”, a meditation on the crucifixion of Christ. The punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed (Isaiah 53:5).
Benedict thought it wise for monks to meditate upon death. Day by day remind yourself that you are going to die (RB 4). This kind of spiritual insight doesn’t go over real well on Wall Street or Main Street
During the midday prayer service known as Day Hour, I marveled at the sunlight beaming through a vast stained glass mosaic window of depicting the glory of Creation. Far out on the horizon, we also could see the glimmering blue of the