Me neither. But the sanctuary at Taize may just be the closest thing to it. The walls soar to cathedral heights, but there’s nothing old or gray or obsolete about the beauty here: everything is orange and glowing and rendered with an eye to simplicity. We approach in silence, pick up a songbook and enter the otherwordly space. There are no pews in Taize. All the pilgrims sit on the floor, or on a handful of freestanding wooden kneelers which people learn to arrive early to snag. The center aisle is partitioned off from the two sides by a small row of dried greens that form a divide between the visitors and the brothers, who sat in an order that appeared to be by age, or seniority, in simple wooden chairs along the edges or in kneelers down the center.

In their white robes they entered, one by one, from behind a wall just off to the side of the altar; they did not process in any formal way, but seemed to arrive, much as the members of a symphony would, just in from whatever workshop or prayer meeting or meal they had been attending, and now dressed in white robes and appearing to glide. I watch enrapt as they entered the space. Tried to let go of the noise in my head from the events of the day. I looked up at the icons, at the orange flames of silk cloth that rose up along the back of the altar. I said to myself again and again You’re here now You’re in Taize You’re about to sing in a service in Taize. I kept repeating it to myself to make it real. On several of the side walls, there were small LED lights that indicated the number of the song that will be sung next. I opened my book and found so little English I wanted to weep, but here the words to all the songs were written and translated, so you could sing in the original language or in your own. I decided to sing in Polish, in Italian, in Latin, in French, in German to hear the words on my tongue, to see if they might draw me closer to the God of all the earth.

There are two things that are essential to a Taize service: singing and silence. The chants are rarely more than two sentences long— sometimes only a few words—so that they can be repeated again and again till they take hold in the spirit of the singer. There is no formula for how may repetitions there will be. Sometime a song can go on for 15 minutes. Sometimes twice that. And always, at the center of the service, where traditionally a sermon would go, there is silence. Deep, thick, pure silence held prayerfully by hundreds (or thousands) of people. The silence lasts for at least 6 minutes and often closer to 12. The brothers claim that most visitors complain, at first, that the silences are much too long, and, by the end of their journey, not nearly long enough.

It is these moments of silence, silence like a deep well, that are the great sublime gift of Taize.

So here’s the deal with the rooms. My aunt, who had just turned 70, was invited to stay in the guest house where there would be a real room, with real beds— two to a room— and a real bathroom just down the hall. But I, who had not just turned 70, would not be able to stay with her there. I would have to go sleep with another group somewhere else. My aunt did not hesitate. “We want to stay together.” In that case, we had two choices. I could sense that Jean-Patrique was really going out on a limb for us here; although the brothers endeavor to greet all as Christ, they have a firm rule of no special favors. All must be treated equally. It’s the only way community works. We were given an option of a dorm that was close to the other adult quarters that we would share with a few other people, or a room that was “a bit removed” from the main area that we could have to ourselves. “We’ll take that one,” we said and delighted in the fact that, at least according to the map, we would be off in a stretch of rooms that bordered a private park with walking trails.

“Wonderful!” we chimed.

We then eyed our luggage, two rolling bags— the weeklong, not the weekend size— and two duffels filled with sleeping bag, pillow, sheets, towel. We looked around to see if, perhaps, someone might help us get the bags to the room — the room which was just a bit removed. I turned and saw Stephan smiling by the door. “We’ve got a long way to go with these bags,” I said playfully. You, know, just in case he wanted to take a hint. “Yes, but you’ve got plenty of time.” He waved and went back inside, and we were left alone in the dust.

Have you ever tried to roll two bags up an unpaved slope of dirt and rock? How ’bout down one? “Are you doing alright?” I asked my aunt periodically as we stopped to rest on the way to our room. I was stopping more often than she was as my duffel bag shifted and flopped and toppled my flow every 20 yards or so of the near-milelong trek. All the way down the hill, we talked breathlessly about how blessed we were to get this special room in this special location all to ourselves. My suitcase hit a crater and toppled. My aunt kept going, fearing the loss of momentum. “I’ll meet you there,” I said, muttering in a way that might be considered profane.

And when, at long last, we found it, tucked away at the end of a string of rooms, two rows deep, ours on the inside —not the forest side —with a lovely view just outside our front door of a retaining wall, a curious slope of mud and grass and the back end of someone else’s barracks, there was not another soul in sight. Three bunks and a metal luggage rack and small window to crack for air. And no neighbors.

Our own little slice of heaven in Taize.

(Photo: my aunt Anne in our new digs)