Last fall while visiting a monastery in the woods of Minnesota, when the bells rang for Vespers each night, I found myself more drawn to the lake rather than the Abbey. Good monastic I was, I had been attending prayer services regularly, but the language often struck me somewhere between stale and out of touch with reality. One night, I followed the echo of the bells away from the church toward the woods, and I paused at the small beach. 

This was a gathering spot for more than just me: I saw a student embracing their contemplative side, sitting quietly on the dock and staring into the distance of the still water. I saw two friends bowled over laughing together on a bench, joy emanating from their connection. I saw a family returning from a hike under the stone archway, making the final trek up the hill to their resting spot for the night. 

As I sat there surrounded by these sacred moments, the full moon sat above the horizon of trees, perfectly mirrored in the lake below, gentle ripples in the reflection. The echo of the bells now long gone, the invitation into prayer was everywhere. Here I was, outside the abbey – that officially ordained place of prayer – and found a much deeper prayer for myself in the open air, beyond the walls of the church.

I have always danced on the edge of the church. I was raised Catholic and left when I was 14 because I could not in good conscience declare my faith in the “one, true church.” In my 20s, though, I got to know Catholic Sisters who redeemed the heart of the tradition for me. They modeled that it was more than just a set of beliefs to ascribe to; Christianity at its best is a prophetic way of life to participate in. 

Even as I’ve found my path alongside Catholic Sisters, I find my spirituality located outside the institutional expression of the church. The hierarchy and its dogmatic rigidity exclude more than include, and it seems that the leaders within it care more about maintaining the institution than embracing the living tradition at its core. 

So it is here, outside the institutional church, that I have found belonging: alongside others who are explicitly or implicitly told by the hierarchy that we don’t belong because of our gender or sexuality, or are undeserving of love and dignity. It is here with outcasts and outsiders, who live into their wholeness and their inherent blessing, that I have found an authentic spiritual life. 

The Magnificat, Mary’s song from the Gospel, feels like a song for us outsiders. 

In the Gospel of Luke, the Magnificat are the words that Mary sings when she is with her cousin Elizabeth, and they are celebrating the surprise of new life in their wombs. Apart from the expected course either of their lives would take, still they said “yes” to that movement of the Holy Spirit within each of them. 

This song that then flowed out of Mary’s faithful heart flipped the script of power in society. Her, a lowly young girl, pregnant and unmarried, easily dismissed or decried by most of society, becomes the most blessed. Like the work of the Holy Spirit, her very being disrupted the status quo, and to this day, her words call us into the renewing spirit of mercy and justice. 

In the Canticle of Mary, first she sings of praise, honoring the divine and expressing gratitude for her blessedness. Then, she prophesies the world to come. This vision of the world to come challenges the way things are. The proud will be scattered. The mighty brought down from their thrones. The rich sent away. Meanwhile, the lowly are brought up. The hungry are fed. The humble are upheld.

Mary is telling us that when Christ comes into this world, when compassion becomes enfleshed, we gain a new paradigm. We are offered a new way of life, a new set of values to live by. And who brings this good news? It isn’t the kings or priests; it is two ordinary women, who through their encounter in friendship sing the vision into our tradition. These two pregnant women show us how to bring and embrace new life, and it is not revealed to us from a church or temple, but rather from the sanctuary of a home, in the intimacy of their relationship, and in their very bodies. 

Back at the monastery in Minnesota, I took a long walk through the woods and arrived at their chapel named for Mary, a distance of two miles away from the Abbey itself. Across the lake and through winding wooded trails, this understated chapel has just two seats inside, a guestbook with wild scrawls on it from countless visitors, and stained-glass windows to bring light in. Most importantly inside the chapel is a near life-size statue of Madonna and Child, bronze with a smooth and pregnant stomach, her hand gently holding this new hope within her. Behind her are the words of the Magnificat. 

Here, outside of and far away from the seat of power in any traditional church, is where I find hope. In the voice of an outsider who gave birth to this radical vision of a changing and evolving world. In the counter-cultural, revolutionary message at the heart of the faith. In a song of praise that invites us to flip the paradigms of power, not just in church, but in society, too.

Sing with the Erie Benedictine community: Prayer is at the heart of the monastic life. The Benedictine monastery in Erie, Pennsylvania, has graciously offered their prayers and resources online for free, via their website. Join in singing the Magnificat here.

Write your own song or poem of hope: In four or five stanzas, how would you give voice to your praise? What would you offer gratitude for, and what change would you pray for? Who would receive blessings, who would be forgiven, and who offered mercy? What is the vision of revolution in church or society that gives you hope? 

Reflect on this alternative vision in a journal: Considering the words of the Magnificat or your own song/poem of hope, reflect on how you live into these visions of justice in your own life. Is there a practice or action you can commit to in order to manifest a glimpse of this vision in your daily life?