Crossroads of Spiritual Pursuit: Discovering St. Bernard's Master of Arts in Theological Studies Program

I am convinced that those reading this blog entry have reflected on his or her association with St. Bernard’s at one point or another. In particular, you probably remember your first impulse to join our St. Bernard's family. In this blog, I will share my story – after all, what is a presumably mature and otherwise professionally fulfilled person, a performing violinist and violin teacher, and a mother of two doing in a school of theology and ministry?

My journey started just a dozen years after the Second World War ended, and the setting was a beautiful, rural countryside. There was a tiny parish lost between forests and meadows of central Poland with no electricity, and people were poor; family members often had to go to different Masses on Sundays because they did not have enough footwear. I have spent much time there since my beloved uncle was a priest serving this parish. My native Poland has very characteristic country roads lined with trees; in my childhood, many unpaved roads were winding among fields and meadows, creating a sense of nostalgia. Wooden or metal crosses were put near the intersections like the Crucified One was ready to point you in the right direction; sometimes a statue of Mary was placed on the side of the road. We were Catholics, and the communist government and Eastern Soviet “protectors” could not break our spirit. Our robust, straightforward spirituality and awareness of surviving centuries of oppression were vital to our national identity.

This was the picture of the post-war Catholic Church of Karol Wojtyła's native land. His teaching back then was limited (out of necessity and fear of being persecuted) to a small group of intellectuals in Cracow. I sometimes got little crumbs of it when some people close to his circles visited my uncle. Still, I would not dare seek more knowledge than what was given to me in the faith formation or beautiful, old Polish hymns and litanies. Due to my profession as a performing violinist from my early teenage years, I frequently crisscrossed Poland in the 1970s and early 1980s. However, the 1982 crackdown on Solidarity, which resulted in martial law, put us artists in a position of “being with the government” or "against it.” So, I had to say goodbye to my beautiful country roads and took off across the Atlantic in an aging Russian-made turboprop.

The year was 1982, and I was suddenly traveling on very different roads and streets in Boston. My first shock was passing dozens of churches of various denominations on the same street, none of which were open. I seemed unable to identify with the only Polish parish. For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by non-Catholics and realized how contained my life was in Poland. Of course, there was a God in America, but where was my God? Where was my Church? Well, it got lost in daily reality, confused with and eventually replaced by a sense of freedom and hard-earned independence, a sense of “making it” against the odds, staying with the profession and establishing myself to support a growing family.

But (and I know it only now), our God was with me on the American and Canadian roads, watching me enjoy my freedom. Oh, the mighty highways! The longest, Interstate 90, takes you straight out to wherever! If someone back in the old country asked me what I liked the most about America, I would answer without hesitation that the sense of freedom while on the road, preferably driving alone and not seeing the end of the world, is “the thing.” I would add, "You don’t understand until you make a trip like it.” And stopping in one of the fully equipped service areas on the road is still another level of experience!

Many years passed, my boys grew, and my career was solid. Teaching violin was more like a vocation than a job, and I had a large studio and few other administrative positions. But then, at the beginning of 2016, I had an experience of metanoia, as indescribable as it was instantaneous: my life took a big turn. In December 2019, I walked alone on the St. Francis Road leading from Assisi via San Damiano to the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli and its encapsulated Portiuncula. It was my last pilgrimage before leaving the world and entering the Poor Clares in January 2020. I walked on the same country road as St. Francis and St. Clara did 800 years ago. I felt very connected to them, with each pebble I felt under my foot and each step I took: it was the beginning of something new and unknown.

But, soon after this, the entire world flip-flopped in the vicious pandemic, and my stay at the Poor Clares Monastery was cut short for family reasons. Roads were empty, and people were confined, sick, and dying— terrified by the universal unknown. Amidst the stillness of the pandemic and solitude, an unexplainable thirst for spiritual knowledge started to parallel my grace of prayer. This craving for the teaching of the Church existed in my youth, but seeking it back then was not expected. But now, I was adamant about finding a source of this knowledge.

A long internet road followed, and I would make a few steps forward with any newly discovered and discerned resources. That is how I came across a brilliant series of lectures and open readings hosted by St. Bernard’s, culminating with the celebration of the 50th Anniversary of the Communio Journal in September of 2022. I sat enchanted through all of them, grateful for guidance from Thomas Jacobi from Ignatius Press, who sensed my eagerness to learn and sent me a link to the event. Suddenly, I was not only given the crumbs, but a real thing — the whole meal plus! Karol Wojtyła, my “Polish Pope,” was saying to me in my native language, in an attempt to comfort me and compensate for the lost years: “Wiara i Rozum sa jak dwa skrzydla, na których duch ludzki unosi się do kontemplacji prawdy,” translated: “Faith and Reason are like two wings on which the human spirit rises to the contemplation of truth” (Encyclical Letter, Fides et Ratio, opening statement, Rome, September 14th, 1998).

What followed was a logical consequence of the above experiences, and after auditing a few courses, I formally enrolled at St. Bernard’s as a theology student in September of 2023. In June of 2024, I was on the road again, heading west on I-90 to the Abbey of the Genesee where a dozen of us would gather to complete our one-of-a-kind immersion course on Contemplative Prayer. My favorite interstate fascinated me with its vastness, beauty, and efficiency. There were a few newly renovated, state-of-the-art service areas. I felt free, but not as fulfilled as I used to be while traveling because a powerful, palpable longing started to settle.

Why didn’t I enjoy the ride as much as I used to? My fellow travelers, I hope you recognize and identify with my thirst, which nothing earthly can quench. Our actual, invisible journey does not follow a manmade path; its ways can be simultaneously heavenly and obscure. Are we being helped and served on this adventure? Yes, there is the Church, the sacraments, our parishes, and sometimes very dedicated spiritual directors, which I encountered and am deeply grateful for. These support the “wing of faith,” but what about supporting this other wing, the “wing of the reason,” described in the Encyclical Letter of Saint John Paul II? “The other wing” needed to contemplate the Truth?

On that travel day to the Contemplative Retreat, I took Exit 45 off I 90. I needed rest and nourishment – a service area not marked as such on the map. Dear friends, do you still wonder what place I am talking about and what the geographical coordinates of that “rest stop” are? At this very moment, you are on its internet coordinates! “The place“ welcomed me with an oasis-like setting. Indeed, if the green suburbs had not surrounded it, it would look like an oasis. For those who have never seen St. Bernard’s School “live” - it is real!

In a post-pandemic twist, this oasis, St. Bernard's, is not contained in its physical place; as we know, it reaches the needy via the internet. And, of course, a building itself is not an essence of what this place provides. It is its people who nourish and replenish our strength for the journey. The School's profile is in full accordance with the teaching of the Church, while adhering to the academic demands of graduate education. But there is more: there is a sense of unity among the faculty, which takes the main inspiration from the Gospel and the Vatican II recommendations on how to proclaim it. Additionally, there is a recognition of the ressourcement movement, with its broad universality and sensitivity firmly anchored in the tradition of the Church. It is not just an ordinary school of theology and ministry, but a place where an individual’s faith is respected and supported. With all the qualities mentioned, there is an openness to the world for which St. Bernard’s School prepares us to live and serve. Our modern Church needs such places so its members can “take a flight,” equipped with two mighty wings; it needs institutions supporting unceasing prayer and able to provide vital education. We are so fortunate to benefit from the offerings of St. Bernard’s.

The true culmination of graces awaited us a few miles south of Rochester, NY, at the Contemplative Prayer Immersion Course at the Abbey of the Genesee, a residence of the spiritual brothers of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux. Under the watchful eye of Professor Lickona and Father Isaac Slater, we were doing theology “on our knees.” Our spirits were lifted.

On the last day of the retreat, I walked off the main road grateful and reflected on the past week’s experience. Among the fields and meadows, I stopped for a long time at the little statue of the Madonna with a Child in the woods. The landscape around me resembled the one in central Poland, the place of my childhood. Nostalgia settled in, too, and there was timelessness, solitude, silence, and Presence. “My journey started, and the setting was a beautiful rural countryside.” Soon, I was on the road again, returning to my life in Boston. But this time, the first verse of Song of Ascent, Psalm 122, started to accompany me: “I rejoiced when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the LORD.’” I felt free and at peace.