Tucked away in the hills of Silverado, California is St. Michael’s Abbey, a rather large structure, especially considering the near lack of civilization in its immediate vicinity. It is run by a group of Norbertines, an order that I am particularly fond of because they run my home parish. Though likely one of the more recent creations in the Pilgrim’s Progress series, considering the order only moved into the abbey in December, it is by no means a place to overlook if you are in the area.
As a fairly recent convert to Catholicism, the concept of “vocation” is still somewhat of a new one to me. I had always just assumed that the married life was for pretty much everyone (cf. Matt. 19:11-12). I was then stuck with the insane idea that maybe, just maybe, there might be another path for my own life.
So after sending off an email for a “come-and-see” visit, and receiving a reply email the very next day, I had committed myself to, well, coming and seeing what they had to offer. Maybe it was providence, maybe the humor of the vocations director, but I arrived at five-thirty in the morning on the feast of St. Norbert.
One of the most startling features of the abbey itself is its hiddenness in comparison to its size. When you’re driving on the small canyon road through the hills you see a shack here, a barn there, and then, as if created ex nihilo by God Himself, you see a sprawling abbey and grounds which covers 327 acres of land. The main church on the grounds, the Church of Our Lady of the Assumption, is built in a beautiful, California-mission style.
The interior of the church was no less grand and startling than the exterior had seemed. Walking in, one is taken aback at the sheer “cavernousness”—I can’t think of any other word which might do it justice. I remember a distinct feeling, walking in during the early morning, as if the roof stretched so high that a cloud had formed within it and had made the whole area foggy.
Stained glass panels lined the tops of the walls on either side, which was virtually the only source of light. Looking behind me as I came in, I saw a massive stained-glass, rose window, which, as I later heard, was constructed so as to direct its light directly onto the altar during Vespers on the feast of St. Michael.
Farther down into the church, there is a low gate and step, which acts both as an altar rail and a barrier from where the confreres (both the ordained and seminarian members of the order) can pass, and where the laity sit in the pews. Past the gate there are two opposite facing three tiered choir-stall rows which hold the half of the confreres (about 30-40) who are on assignment at the abbey, as well as when the other half of the abbey’s confreres who operate various parishes and schools for when they all gather for retreats.
Finally, at the end of the church is the sanctuary, where there is a large marble altar containing relics of St. Norbert and others, as well as a large gold tabernacle covered with precious stones and icons of the saints. Above the altar itself is a large crucifix, appearing as if suspended in midair by nothing.
Though I could go on for much longer describing every beautiful thing in this place—and I am not exaggerating when I say I could speak for hours—I will leave off on one of my most beautiful experiences during my week there.
After slogging out of bed at five-thirty in the morning for another long day of ora et labora, I was invited by my angelus, the poor frater (religious brother) assigned to be my guide that week, to see one of the priests there celebrate the Traditional Latin Mass in the crypt below the church itself. I heartily agreed, and after Matins and the Conventual Mass at 7 PM, we went down into the crypt.
I was struck by the silence of the area, and the beauty of what I saw. The rising sun shone through the large window, which looked directly out into the valley tucked between the jagged hills on either side of the abbey, and onto the altar. Though I am not generally an emotional man, there are some sights which cannot fail to bring you to your knees, and in my case on the cold marble floor of a crypt, where heaven meets earth.
James Pritchett is a Sophomore studying History and Classics with a deep affinity for his native land, the Golden State. Despite being the most recent lover of Catholicism on the Torch staff, he is the C101 editor and his main interests consist of reading Dostoyevsky, playing devil’s advocate, and correcting people on niche theological heresies.
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