Dispatch from Kopua, Friday, April 22

It’s 4:30 am (we went to bed at 8:30) and I spent a rather fitful night, which is typical of my first night at any new place. To my surprise I find I really enjoy getting up early for some reflection and writing before dawn. Morning prayer and Mass is at 6 am here (yes, I missed Prime (the first monastic office at 4 am, but I figure I can let the monks pray for me. After all, that’s their job).
All the rooms here have single beds, which means Jeanne and I are separated for the first time since we left home. We have greatly enjoyed our time together 24/7, but, as we discussed this morning, it’s good to have a few days in our own separate spaces, combined with the togetherness of hiking and eating together.
Kopua is in the Cistercian or Trappist order which is part of the larger Benedictine tradition, all of which means little to most of you. Let’s just say they are traditionally the stricter of the Benedictines, demanding more silence. We have little contact with the dozen or so monks here (mostly over 40 it seems), made up of New Zealanders, Maori (the indigenous people), a couple of Irish/British types, and a few Pacific islanders. The voluble Guest Master, who takes such good care of our needs, is a Dutchman with a till heavy accent though he’s been here 40 years. His name is Nikko, and he looks like a thin St. Nicholas, with white hair and beard, red cheeks and a nearly constant, glowing smile.
I’m amazed that we can move from a monastery in the Philippines to one in New Zealand and experience the same welcome. Hospitality is one of the most important tenets in the "Rule of St. Benedict," (going all the way back to the fourth century) by which all the Benedictine monasteries still live. I’m sure it’s not an easy calling these days, but the sense of true welcome is clearly present in every monastery I’ve ever visited. I’ve come to believe that what makes this possible is the very thing that people find most puzzling about monastic life in our age of casual freedom, the seemingly rigid monastic rhythm of life—it’s intrepid adherence to an order of life and prayer. Inviting someone into such a "rigid" structure of life makes it possible for them to be welcome not in some pseudo-intimate sense, but in the deepest sense of sharing in the life of the community. In the same way, by its structure the monastery is able to welcome others without compromising its own community life.
The Kopua Monastery (the name derives not from some ancient Maori connection, but from the road on which it’s situated) is located in the eastern side of the north island, about 30 south west of Napier on Hawkes Bay and the Pacific. It’s in a very rural area of steep green hills, so green as to suggest the very definition of the word verdant, dotted with grazing sheep (this being the center of New Zealand’s wool country). As throughout most of the northern island there’s this strange combination of the tropical, characterized by palms trees (like the one just outside my window) and other exotic plants alongside snow-capped mountain and pine forests. A few miles to the west is the Ruahine mountain range, recently snow capped, shining in the morning sun as I look through my window. We picked up some maps for half day "tramps" (as they call them here) at least through the foothills.
The monastery itself is very simple—wooden buildings with tin roofs—but quite comfortable. In fact the rustic simplicity lends itself to a homelike feeling, and fits the countryside.
This is autumn in New Zealand, and we had the first frost of the season last night—a beautiful clear, star-filled night. Lauds (morning prayer) and Mass was at 6 am. The morning light broke through the church windows, but the nearly unheated church must have been about 45 degrees, which keeps you alert, and sometimes shivering. We learned quickly to wear lots of layers for the first office of the day. Mass was simply done, and by now, quite familiar. Again, as in the Philippines, there was no question as to our participation, though my correspondence made it clear we were not Roman Catholic. I think Benedictine monastic hospitality trumps church doctrine on that point (the new Pope Benedict of not). Last night we discovered then land for the monastery was deeded as a gift to the community by a local landowner provided he and his son could live on the land until they died. The son is still here, now an old man. He was described by a fellow guest as "simple," meaning, I presume, slightly retarded, though he does drive a car about the premises. I found it very touching that he is the constant acolyte at the Mass, a very efficient and precise one at that, and sits with the monks in the "choir."
A simple breakfast followed with such exotic choices as Wheatabix (a rather good breakfast cereal, not unlike Shredded Wheat), and Vegemite (the Aussie poison) on toast, which we passed that up in favor of honey. We were joined by our fellow guests, an older couple from Gisborne, to the north, who are leaving today.
The Guest Master, the jolly Dutchman (Dutch Catholics seem a bit less serious than their Calvinist counterparts) also sat with us for breakfast, and we exchanged stories, and got a little of the history of the monastery where he’s spent the last 40 years. It’s interesting how God calls us. He admitted a large part of his coming to New Zealand was to escape a domineering mother. He also has a brother in Auckland and some nephews and nieces, which keeps him close to family.
Today we plan to spend a quiet day reading and tramping the immediate area (they have some marked paths through a nearby gorge) before we tackle the mountains, and go to town (Dannevirke is the closest medium size town), hopefully for an Internet connection and emailing.