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Roving, peaceful shots of old Mashipan, the mountain priory, under snow. A Mashipanite shovels a walk. A lingering shot of the complex from its nearby cemetery. All of the stones have crosses on them, some elaborate, some plain wood. Carson narrates.
“Peter’s funeral was where my brother met Father Archibald Solano. He and Peter knew each other from seminary. Father Archibald had just assumed the role of abbot to Mashipan. A monastery for roughly a hundred years. Then the church gave up on it, leasing it as a sanitarium. When a cure for TB was found, it was abandoned. Available to the first disenfranchised, disgusted man of God who saw it.”
Video footage of Solano on a Swedish talk show in the still hip, but strongly revolutionary early 1970s. He is finely, but austerely dressed in a white and gold clerical gown and the host, longhaired, bearded in a blue suit with wide lapels, is achingly serious.
“Mashipan,” Solano says to his interviewer, “is not the first time nor will it be the last time that a community of human beings grows out of their supernaturally shared belief that their own humanity is responsible for the suffering of the world, on the one hand. But is, on the other, the relief of that suffering. Many souls, acting as one.
“Where we are different, at Mashipan, is that we are refugees, eager for the monasticism of the earliest apostles, but which does not require any allegiance to or patronage from a crippling, denuded, oblivious paternal church. A church that is a manifestation of the order of things which needs overthrowing.”
The host can’t help asking, “Then what would say is the difference between your order and for example, the Red Brigade?”
"By historical standards," Carson says, "Archibald Solano was in the right place at the right time to be a questioning, near heretical monk. Still under the sway of Vatican II, which attempted to open the church to the modernity swirling all around it in the early '60s, someone in the church hierarchy granted Solano permission to re-access Mashipan and steer it accordingly. It may have also been a way to grant him his own mountaintop banishment."
Back to Humphrey, speaking to Carson.
“When Peter died, I was consumed with a new emptiness. Not only his physical absence, but also the absence of clues he provided when he was alive, ways to think and revelations on how to feel. One of them being Solano and Mashipan. I approached Father Archibald, met him, started correspondence with him. Mashipan was already operating eight or nine years.
“What do you hope out of a monastic life, he’d ask. Am I clear on the idea of it as a journey rather than an escape? As a service to others rather than a retreat from them? And I’d answer yes. Yes to all that. And he, Father Archibald, I won’t say patiently – he doggedly called me on every one of my answers: what are you agreeing to? Tell me what you are agreeing to.
You can hear Carson ask: “Did you know yourself?”
Humphrey nods. “I did. The entire time. It took shape as a game. I had started asking him out of grief, for Peter, and my loneliness. I decided that if this man really wants to know why a willfully destitute, overly educated – “ he twirls his fingers up past his head like smoke “ – fucked in the head son of the upper class is alternately begging for, and intellectually playing with, the limits to his theology, I would lay it on him. If he chickens out, the whole thing was wrong to begin with.
“So I wrote him a letter that said...:”
Cut to a new shot of Humphrey wearing glasses and standing, with one foot forward reading his letter. He rocks on his heels as he reads, with more animation than he’s shown sitting down. The punk on the hood of the car throwing stones, reawakened.
“...Even the most ascetic hermit, the nakedest, hungriest, unwashed man in a crevice in the desert – in fact he especially – has an ego bulging in proportion to the extent of his asceticism. In other words, the ego of the dirty naked little mute in the desert is greater than all others because he says ‘I will make myself so worthless to prove my devotion. I will handicap myself, God, I will give up everything, even You, to prove my devotion.’
“A submissive to God stays in her home, goes through all that the priests command: marriage, all the weekly services, charity, confession, and casts her eyes humbly to the cross nailed on her wall at night, waiting. Waiting to join her God. Does God want submission?
“What I do not propose is a blind following of orders and papal utterances. My devotion is to synthesizing and then dispensing the quality of love and compassion that is said to come from God. But without diluting it one second to worshiping or even mentioning that God.
“What I propose, with my monasticism, is to be responsible for stopping my line in the progeny of my family. Stop it dead. Stop it from infiltrating society, insinuating its vein of accumulated awfulness into a world that is already choking on millions of others. Do what I can to improve that world, just a little, by my absence. Exist fully as the unexpected outlier. The random particle of chaos that does good. But from a long, unstaining distance.”
When he’s finished reading he lowers the letter and looks through the camera to Carson. You can see his chest rise, breathing.
Back to Humphrey, seated, recording his face as it evaluates his younger brother’s reactions. Whose voice you can then barely make out.
“You told me once your intention was to cut off this limb, your limb, in our family tree and end the dysfunction there. No children to pass it along. But there have been many many men and women like you. Hermits and suicides. Through the centuries. And yet here we are. Still.”
Humphrey leans back in his chair, his angled face sloping in consolation and grave attention. His feathery eyelashes blink once or twice. The moment hangs and descends. “You’re right. Engaging with atonement – striving to be at one with the divine – is not new. It still needs to occur in every generation.
“I know my atonement is presumptuous. Maybe even preposterous. And violent. Ad absurdum. And that letter was written along time ago.
“Still," Humphrey says, shifting in his chair, "the trick, Father Archibald eventually said to me, after months and months of not hearing from him, is not to make the atonement destructive. Or constructive. Just neutral. So that the intention of atonement lifts and the act of atonement remains. This leapt off the page at me. We were arriving at the same harmonious thought, from my time squatting and hating, to his simultaneous war with but love for his church, across lives and experiences and continents unknowable to one another and yet converging on the same source of beatitude.”
Over images of his brother performing chores and the necessary small jobs required of life in a monastery, Carson says: “When my brother says he wrote the founder of Mashipan, Father Archibald, letters of presumption, he doesn’t say that Father Archibald also found something in Humphrey’s words that fit his model of Mashipan.
“When my brother arrived, the order of monasticism was still intact, with a daily schedule, a series of liturgical activities, maintenance and chores, and one or two programs of Christian ministry. My brother refused to participate in any of them. Older brothers and men of God were astounded not just by his laziness or apostasy, but with Father Archibald’s willingness to permit someone like him among the pious, without any other duties expected from him. Father Archibald waited until my brother found a way to fit in.
“His solitary atonement disappeared. Instead, my brother assigned himself curatorial duties. Gathering, archiving art and music. All of which, in its day, was meant to be devotional. But whose beauty and coherence he thought was transcendant. Whose sorrows or joys would no longer be expressed through Christianity. But could be experienced like art everywhere else. Expressions of reverence. Not to a diety but to the condition of the universe.
Humphrey continues. “In retrospect I can see how disruptive I might have been, even to men who followed a very liberal, revolutionary priest like Solano to live here. They and I had much in common politically, morally, but the shell of their faith separated us. Or me from them.
“I would tease them to look at the eucharist. See? A tasteless white wafer. A body has tasty fat and blood and flesh. Or goad them into argument, like, why is loving kindness or forgiveness the only vehicle to an afterlife? Or even, why is there a redundancy like afterlife at all? I must have been very annoying. Childish.
“And yet Solano said nothing. To any of us, about this.”
Carson suggests: “Like Ingmar Bergman’s god of silence.”
Humphrey, it seems, doesn’t share his brother’s taste for cinema. He smiles, generously. “That was Solano’s preference. No authoritative interference. Without banishing me, he doomed several brothers into questioning themselves, their faith, their choice of coming to Mashipan, which to many was a last clerical resort. Some even questioned their service under Christ.”
“And you?”
“His silence, as you put it, condemned me again towards that solitary nihilism I thought I escaped from with Peter. I was again on my way to living a dancing, foolish half life of only questioning, without mercy or leniency, and an all-consuming self regard. Fortunately I learned. An exquisite teacher.”Over images of monastic life at Mashipan, monks and novices dining, at prayer, in the kitchen, raking leaves, reading, Carson adds: “Many of the brothers left. But many replaced them, notably women. And despite the heresies being entertained on the mountain, it was news of the presence of women, commingling, that upset the diocese.
“Meanwhile, as if an unspoken spell or virus crept among the order, monks like my brother began one by one discussing and petitioning Father Archibald for the freedom of direction and action they knew was occurring off the mountain, among the nonreligious.
“They were hearing about NGOs and other secular groups doing essentially the church’s work without need for or direction of the church. Or even government. Groups of lay people, atheists included, devoted to alleviating the burdens of the poor without the underpinnings of spiritual doctrine. Fundamental morality was all the inspiration required.
“They were discovering that even Father Archibald’s radically stretched Christianity was getting in the way.
Humphrey in his cell: “I – one day we found ourselves arguing whether it was better that the contemplation of life resulted in compassionate service to others or the creation of art. And for some reason, after years of terrible arguments among us, in which brothers would break down or leave or even renounce their faith, for some reason that one argument cast a pall over us that lasted months.
“It was as if we had exhausted ourselves in argumentation. Our critical thinking was enervated.”“Why?”
“Because, we had reached the point where we were questioning the very reason we were together. Productive contemplation requires peace and separation. Solicitude. Especially if you’re contemplating life through the teachings and example of Jesus. That is such an exquisite filter to think through, you need peace and solicitude just to approach any kind of understanding. Even I, poking the other brothers, never really advocated dispensing with Jesus. Just the doctrines built around him.
“Except that in reality, living via the teachings and example of Jesus means deliberately adding a burden to everything you do, especially contemplation. In contemplation, or call it prayer or meditation, you don’t want anything in the way. That’s exactly what you’re trying to overcome: anything that stands in the way between you and perfect living silence.
“So the question became, why contemplate at all? Why sit up here, away from society if the precious thinking is not limitless and leads nowhere? Isn’t it better to either dedicate yourself to helping others or creating art than find the right Christian or spiritual impulse from your contemplation? Retreating is not advancing. These were the very reasons Father Archibald called to us. And this dynamic was being hampered – hamstrung – by a religion locked in nostalgia for a view of the universe that was already 2000 years old. “When we realized this, we didn’t think oh this is terrible! In fact I’d say we thought it was a relief to identify one of the causes of sorrow in life and begin the work to circumvent it. When sister Yvonne decided to take off the cross around her neck and still desire living here as a base for her work, just not as a bride to Jesus, but as a woman, that was the start.”
Photographs of Archibald Solano in the pulpit. Reading and writing at his desk from his enormous ministerial chair. And one final one of Solano, with help from Humphrey and two other younger, stronger monks, heaving the chair into an enormous bonfire in the courtyard of Mashipan.
Carson: “After too many years of discontent and discouragement from the church, Father Archibald began to wrench his community from its see. It is a long, heretical and administrative process. But the day eventually came.”
Humphrey says, “When that letter arrived, turning Mashipan over to him, to us, it was an overcast day, in summer. Father Archibald had us all together in the courtyard and he read it – he and we were not surprised it finally arrived – but after reading the indifferent, formal termination, he added in his next breath, ‘And the earth said welcome.’ That felt like freedom.”
Workers at Mashipan carry crates and boxes as well as sagging, heavy looking rug rolls wrapped in paper to a staging area near the edge of the mountain. A transom has been rigged to hoist these items down to a loading area a thousand or more feet below.
“My brother tells me that even before Father Archibald took ill, the community was already carefully making their way into a future where no one religion was adequate. Where, in fact, religion itself was problematic.”
From a balcony or loft, we look over a long high sanctuary toward its chancel and apse. Along its length, an abundance of heavy red, purple and yellow insulating drapery. Red carpet runs down the middle of what would be the nave, but the only pew is being carried away by two of the workers.
"The new mission Mashipan has found for itself is beyond ecumenical. One the one hand, its creativity in working with youth, in working to alleviate poverty little by little, in putting itself near those who are suffering is its strongest expression.
On spiritual matters, it is groping toward a reverence for the sacred that is not bound by anything other than its presence. The sacred moment is what the Mashipan community is after. And it hopes to keep a space for sacredness to perpetually fill in, the way an eternal flame is perpetually stoked. And one of the ways it tries to do that is by eliminating traditional icons of the religious. Icons which, as the thinking goes, trigger associations of the sacred which may be a step away from the actual sacred moment."
Humphrey walks through the snow, carrying a thermos to the men working near the obelisk. From a distance we see them put down their tools and meet him, taking cups and happily watching over the coffee pour. Tilting up, we see the cross is carefully, oh so carefully, lifting off its mount by a swarm of ropes.
"Having attended some of their lectures, though, I have to admit that they are still finding their way to useful inspiration. Fire and brimstone sermons may make the sacred sound crazy, but they are at least interesting."
A prolonged wide shot of a forest at snow-filled twilight. Then, cutting in, the bough of an evergreen bobs with snow and a spectral black takeoff of a bird. A ravine, overseen by hunched trees, seems even more still when you notice it’s a frozen stream. The wind pulls powdery snow from tree tops across the haze of an overcast dimming sun.
Shots of Humphrey’s empty room and kept bed. “The third day I was at Mashipan, it was Christmas Eve. My brother was gone when I woke up and gone for most of the day. I didn’t know where he was, but we had covered most of what I wanted us to talk about, so I didn’t think about it too much. I took walks with my camera."
Shots of the men and women of Mashipan working, walking, reading. Another shot of the cemetery, cloistered among trees and overlooking a turgid gray snow cloud covering, and perhaps sprinkling snow on, the valley below.
"I was looking forward to filming and maybe participating in the Christmas service."
Down in the New Mashipan basilica. People busily fit hundreds of little sconces and chandeliers and votives with candles, adjust electric lights in the rafters, and, shoelessly, vacuum the huge red carpeting that forms the sacred heart of the sanctuary.
"I was certain that the service would beautiful. Perhaps even attaining sacredness. And I was especially looking forward to shooting my brother in attendance. That was more or less the shot I wanted all along. Why I was here. And then this happened.”
Humphrey leaning in his doorway, hands in pockets, seeming a little irritable, a little rushed, a little tired. Carson's voice. "I'm sorry, can you ... I'm ready."
Humphrey, after a patient inhale: "Alright. Take two. The news is I'm going to have to send you down to the valley. There's a room set aside for you. You can stay as long as you like, take what ever pictures and video you like."
Long hold on Humphrey, as if he's waiting for the camera to stop. "Because .... " Carson leads him, but Humphrey won't go there.
"That's enough. You should go. I have to go. I'm sorry. Someone is waiting outside to take you down." Humphrey turns and leaves the doorway empty. Carson lingers on it a while.
"Like I said earlier, I was surprised to find out that Father Max had come to Mashipan a few years ago. And I hoped I could meet him. When Humphrey said he wasn't well, I didn't know that he was in the Mashipan infirmary, dying."
Cut to the Mashipan grounds. Dusk is settling, fighting back against the grainy limits of Carson's video. First a shot looking up at Humphrey's room, which is dark. Then panning down to meet Humphrey walking towards the camera. Hands still in pockets, Humphrey strides with purpose, withdrawn. He walks briskly past Carson who quickly pans to keep up with his passing brother. And then changes his mind peremptorily reaching for and hugging Carson. The camera swings up and around as Carson returns the hug. "I'm sorry," Humphrey says, very closely, the mic on the camera jostling. "Next year, ok?"
"Of course," Carson says. The camera swings back down when Humphrey lets go. When Carson steadies it, we see Humphrey continuing away, up a path to another building near by. A little wooden sign out front says Infirmary. Carson holds the shot as Humphrey yanks open the door and enters, closing it behind him. The camera timidly searches up the face of the building, finding a window with warm yellow light. A grainy, smudged figure steps gently past the window.
Outside the basilica, whose windows also shine from the inside. There's just enough light to sense its size, the forest nearby and the snow. And while the congregation continues singing, the camera tilts up, past the trees, up the cold crags of the mountain to the faintly lit monastery where Humphrey resides.
Fade.
Blackness. Sound of Humphrey’s voice. “Sure, one more question. Go ahead.” Fade in on Humphrey, still in the chair, being interviewed.
“What are your thoughts about Christmas?”
Humphrey’s taken aback a little. Carson’s question seems preposterous to him, with even some room for humor.
“Well ...” he starts, then apparently swallows a joke. “You’re still making this documentary about Christmas. Ok. Christmas – the time of the year around Christmas – seems the perfect time for reflection. And maybe a little more than that. Some fun and partying. Why not?"
Carson waits for more to come. "Is that it?"
Humphrey realizes he's not going to get away with just that. He takes a moment. “As an event, a dedicated holiday, well, this is what I think: I think about what it must have felt like to soldiers in the barracks of Rome, every year watching more and more people begin to celebrate the life of an executed Jewish political prisoner. And find their own belief about Mithras and his resurrection, become less meaningful. Less inspiring. The other thing people are talking about and finding inspiration in, that belief that excites other people so much starts to seem more relevant.
"I think about the quandry they must have gone through, the anger or incredulity they must have felt that at the same time of year they dedicated to Mithras, people were celebrating something else. More and more. At some unnoticed time, in some forgotten year the last few people who cared to celebrated Mithras got together one last time and never did so again. I'm afraid that’s what I think of during Christmas."
Another Humphrey pause. His fingers then fiddle with something on his chest, the mic. "Is that it? Are we – " Off goes the mic with a click. Black wipes across the screen.
* * *
Even after I turned off the DVD player, I felt Carson’s movie linger in the apartment. I was hungry, but didn't want anything. I decided not to form any critical decisions about his movie yet. Then again, I didn't know when I'd see him again. I felt a little embarrassed, for myself and for Carson, that someone would spend so much effort weighing the effects of religion on a holiday, especially Christmas. I'm not very religious myself.
Still, I felt edgy, a little dislocated, and really didn't want to ask why. The Bangalorean heat in my apartment moved me from the couch to my open doorway. Outside my garden apartment, the green of the shrubs and trees and the shroud of rain pouring down seemed like a separate, uncontrollable reality I could walk right into.
I knew I had to work and glanced at my watch. The hour was getting late, but the date, which didn’t matter to me before, grabbed my attention. It was June 23. I’d missed the summer solstice and in fact, I, or we, were already heading down the long long long fragrant path toward Carson’s darkness and delight, a winter future already underway. I ran my finger along the dripping edge of an ivy leaf.
The end /
"The Holly King" © CMMartin 2011
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