Spring Singing
The abbot had a way of presenting all his opinions as well-established facts, and his certainties did have a sinuous power.
But the abbot was distressed. A few days ago, his problem seemed resolved. The problem had been dragging on now for a number of years. All the monks were getting very old and although they were still able to do their chores, their voices were well past their best and the community singing had suffered terribly. The main problem was of course, Br. Caomhín, who sang, if such a word could be used, in a high-pitched squeaky voice, doing violence to the ears of those unlucky enough to be in his immediate vicinity.
Then, one day, as if by a miracle, a young man joined the community who had the voice of an angel. When he sang solo, everyone was enthralled by the sheer beauty of his voice; time just seemed to stand still, like the fulfilment of an ancient dream. His solo singing brought a dramatic improvement to community worship, but not even he could cover up for Br. Caomhín.
Now the abbot faced a new problem. The local bishop had unexpectedly sent a message to say he would be starting a three-day visit to the community. How could the abbot possibly subject the bishop to Br. Caomhín’s singing? There was only one course of action; the abbot decided to instruct Br. Caomhín not to sing while the bishop was visiting. He did so with mixed feelings because normally he lived his life with the belief that an opportunity to do kindness is too precious to neglect. The abbot didn’t want to hurt Br. Caomhín’s feelings, but pleasing the bishop was more important than the pride of a simple monk.
The next day, Br. Caomhín sat quietly in the back of the chapel like a balloon gently deflating. Like eager first-time parents, waiting for their child’s first words, the bishop and abbot waited attentively.
The singing went beautifully. The bishop was loud in his praise of the quality of the singing. The abbot went to bed, a happy man that night. He smiled contentedly, thinking that the day couldn’t have gone any better. But that night an angel came to visit the abbot: ‘What happened to the singing tonight? We didn’t enjoy it as much as normal. We particularly missed Br. Caomhín’s singing. He sings the Lord’s praises so beautifully.’
The abbot couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Br. Caomhín is a terrible singer. He has a voice like a growling dog. How could you possibly enjoy his singing?’
‘Ah, you don’t understand,’ said the angel. ‘You see, in heaven, we listen to the heart.’
Sharing a March Miracle
Growing up on a small farm in Roscommon, my favourite season was spring when the trees hummed with contentment. Rabbits made love in fields that proudly displayed their blankets of green. Thoughts of liberation filled all minds. Miracles of rebirth.
My grandfather’s favourite music was birds singing. He especially loved the cuckoo, which sent its voice of mystery from out the woodland depths and wide-open spaces calling nature to rejoice at the advent of spring.
The song of the cuckoo was an echo of the halcyon days in paradise, rendering nature what it truly is: beautiful, poetic life at its innocent best, the world as it ought to be, the ideal for a moment realised. As we took refuge in a canopy of trees during spring showers everything seemed made from memory. The sound of the cuckoo enshrouded us with a redemptive feeling, melting away depression, pain and bitter disappointment. Her dulcet tones hinted at a bygone age of innocence and values that no longer obtain. The music was sweet and sensual, evocative of a higher world.
From my grandfather’s point of view, the most disappointing feature of the change of landscape was the virtual disappearance of the corncrake. These small birds with their bright chestnut wings were the victims of progress; when silage came in, their natural habitat was destroyed. It was my father who first introduced me to the sweet sound of the corncrake. Once we had gone out in the still night to check a newly born calf, we drank together from the bird’s symphony of raucous notes pleading in the night. She seemed to bring out not just good tidings but elation. I always associated that sound with sun-drenched days in the age of my innocence before my father died.
Some of my friends at school spent their evenings stealing birds’ eggs and vandalising nests. My grandfather made me solemnly swear that I would not partake of such activity. He saw it as a crime against nature and psychologically and spiritually unhealthy, claiming: ‘Every time we kill something; something inside us dies too.’
I never failed to get a little thrill from bringing a lamb into the world, especially after a very difficult birth. I felt I was part in some small way of achieving the miracle of new life. It would be melodramatic to say it was a religious experience, but a warmth flowed through my body like a sliding, sun-dappled river. The birth was a language of hope, lyrical yet maddeningly inarticulate, alive to the resonances of everyday life. The first sound of the breathing of the new lamb was the breathing of hope.
One March morning I witnessed the dawn breaking as I went out to check a sickly lamb. I woke early, long before the first faint vestiges of light illuminated the specklings of frost on the hard ground. As I pulled back the curtains I was compelled to watch the world take shape despite my haste. Sunrise so rose my spirits that I could later easily understand why dawn worship had been a powerful article of belief for the pagan Celts.
A tumult of sound greeted me, every bird in the fields singing its heart out, although it was still dark. Gradually the sky lightened and the low, bruised clouds began to be caressed with red. The faint horizontal threads of clouds were growing a fiercer red against the still grey sky, the streaks intensified to scarlet and to orange and to gold, until the whole sky was a breath-taking symphony of colour. Then, for a few moments as the dawn broke, the birds fell silent. The carollers drew close and paused to seek out instruments, searching for the string, the bow, the drum, to make the appropriate melody. That was the instant the sun appeared over the horizon. The birds went silent because of the wonder and that was the only possible response. Praise was secondary. It seemed that all of nature was affected by a tremor of excitement, adoring the creator. Timelessness breathed through the daybreak like the pulsebeat of a new baby. When the birds began to sing again, it was not the pre-dawn chorus at all, but something more reverential like a heavenly choir. Subtle tunes resonated with ancient harmonies. It was like the first music ever made. All life was simplified. All thoughts were complete. Music was the best for this. The words of every day are unworthy vehicles to describe the transcendent. This was theological reflection at its most eloquent.
Precious Time
Ní fiá scéal gan údar.
There is no story worth telling without an author.
With a timid voice and idolising eyes, the little boy greeted his father as he returned from work, ‘Daddy, how much do you make an hour?’
Greatly surprised, but giving his boy a glaring look, the father said, ‘Look, son, not even your mother knows that. Don’t bother me now, I’m tired.’
‘But, Daddy, just tell me please! How much do you make an hour,’ the boy insisted.
The father, finally giving up, replied: ‘Twenty euro per hour.’
‘Okay, Daddy? Could you loan me ten euro?’ the boy asked.
Showing his restlessness and positively disturbed, the father yelled, ‘So that was the reason you asked how much I earn, right? Go to sleep and don’t bother me anymore!’
It was already dark and the father was meditating on what he said and was feeling guilty. Maybe, he thought, his son wanted to buy something. Finally, trying to ease his mind, the father went to his son’s room.
‘Are you asleep, son?’ asked the father.
‘No, Daddy. Why?’ replied the boy, partially asleep.
‘Here’s the money you asked for earlier,’ the father said.
‘Thanks, Daddy!’ rejoiced the son, while putting his hand under his pillow and removing some money. ‘Now I have enough! Now I have twenty euro!’ the boy said to his father, who was gazing at his son, confused at what his son had just said.
‘Daddy, could you sell me one hour of your time?’
Time is too precious to spend it all on work.
Appreciate your loved ones and don’t take them for granted.
Time is precious – Decide how you want to spend it.
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Head and Heart
Head said: ‘I am full of bright ideas.’
Heart said: ‘I am full of tenderness and passion.’
Head said: ‘I am reason. I am order. I am the lynchpin which holds everything together.’
Heart said: ‘I am feeling. I am mystery. I am the creative energy which sparks wonder and authentic life.’
Then Head and Heart began to squabble.
Head said: ‘You are easily swayed and misled. You live in a world without order.’
Heart replied: ‘You are dispassionate and detached. You don’t live. You just exist.’
So Head and Heart went to God and asked if they could be split up.
God laughed at them and said: ‘You two belong together. Apart you are worthless. Head, you are the container. Heart, you are the contents. The container without the contents is as useless as an empty vessel, all sham and no substance. The contents without the container will scatter to the ends of the earth and blow into the empty wind. It’s not possible for you to live apart and have productive lives.’
Head and Heart were puzzled: ‘But we are total opposites. How can we find harmony?’
God said: ‘Draw close and embrace like lovers. Protect each other. Look out for each other. Help each other to be equal partners. Then you will join together as one and I promise you something fantastic and wonderful will happen.’
At this Head and Heart asked in unison: ‘What?’
God simply smiled and said: ‘Wait and see.’
Small Is Beautiful
Once there was a great king who was preparing to go to war and he sent his servant to the blacksmith to be certain his horse was ready. The blacksmith told the groom he had no iron to shoe the horse. The king would have to wait. The groom said this was not on and he would make do with what he had. The blacksmith tried his best but he had not enough iron to correctly fasten the fourth shoe.
The battle began in earnest. The king was leading his troops from the front when his horse’s shoe fell off. The horse stumbled and rolled over. The king was thrown to the ground. His men deserted him when they saw his plight. The king was captured and the battle was lost. And all because of a missing nail!
With a Little Help from My Friends
One day a magnificent lion lay asleep in the sunshine. A little mouse ran across his paw and woke him up. The lion was furious and was going to eat him up when the little mouse cried, ‘Oh please let me go, sir. Some day I may help you.’
The lion laughed at the idea that the little mouse could be of any use to him. But he was a good-natured lion, and he set the mouse free.
Not long after, the lion got caught in a net. He tugged and pulled with all his might, but the ropes were too strong. Then he roared loudly. The little mouse heard him and he ran to the spot. He said, ‘Be still, dear lion, and I will set you free. I will break these ropes.’
With his sharp little teeth, the mouse cut the ropes, and the lion came out of the net.
‘You laughed at me once,’ said the mouse. ‘You thought I was too little to do you a good turn. But see, you owe your life to a poor little mouse.’
Stick At It
A father had a family of sons who were perpetually quarrelling among themselves. When he failed to heal their disputes by his exhortations, he determined to give them a practical illustration of the evils of disunion; and for this purpose he one day told them to bring him a bundle of sticks. When they had done so, he placed the bundle into the hands of each of them in succession, and ordered them to break it in pieces. They tried with all their strength, and were not able to do it. He next opened the bundle, took the sticks separately, one by one, and again put them into his sons’ hands, upon which they broke them easily.
He then addressed them in these words:
My sons, if you are of one mind, and unite to assist each other, you will be as this bundle, uninjured by all the attempts of your enemies; but if you are divided among yourselves, you will be broken as easily as these sticks. The breach of unity puts the world, and all that’s in it, into a state of war, and turns every man’s hand against his brother; but so long as the band holds, it is the strength of all the several parts of it gathered into one.
SAMUEL CROXALL C. 1690–1752
Memory
Sometimes Fionn found it hard to sleep. His problems were compounded one night when in his semi-conscious slumber he became aware of an insistent sound of scraping and scratching. Eventually he lit his bedside candle. There was a silence, but the irritating noise resumed, and penetrated the stillness of the night, when he blew out his candle. ‘It must be a mouse’ thought Fionn to himself. He got up again and retrieved his old mousetrap from its home in an old shoebox and delicately secured a morsel of cheese on its spike. After leaving the trap where he thought the noise of the scratching was he climbed into bed. He lay very still, determined not to fall asleep, but slowly his eyes got heavier and drifted slowly towards sleep.
The sudden, unmistakable snap of the trap jerked him out of his dozing. He sat up not quite sure, for a second, or two, where he was. Then he heard a pained squealing from the corner of his room. He groped in the dark for the matches to light his candle and dragged himself out of his bed. The rheumatism which so often crippled him was playing up again in the cold weather. There in the corner was the mouse, its tail firmly caught in the trap. It was vigorously, vainly, tugging at its tormentor, but it wouldn’t let go.
‘Hah, hah, you little devil you. I have you now you cheeky little bugger,’ shouted Fionn in triumph. The mouse looked up at him. Its tiny black beady eyes screamed one emotion – fear. Fionn stopped dead in his tracks. He knew that feeling. His mind flashed back over fifty years.
Craving excitement, he had enlisted in the British army in 1940 and found himself deployed in the desert in North Africa. Fionn’s American Sherman tank was isolated and attacked by the Germans. As he attempted to escape Fionn was shot in the leg. A young German soldier was dispatched to finish him off.
The throb of military vehicles was deafening in the misery enveloping the county.
As the blood oozed from his leg, Fionn lunged in manic desperation for his rifle. A sudden, despairing sickness ran through him as he felt the barrel of a gun on the back of his head. He raised his hands slowly. He tried to pray but his mouth seemed in a vice-grip and he could not will speech. Expecting a bullet to end his life at any second he ever so slowly began to turn his head. The German could have been no more than seventeen. Fionn was not going to beg:
‘Why don’t you get it over with and finish me off, sonny? You’re just wasting your time and mine. For God’s sake, just finish it.’
His executor seemed almost more afraid than he was – paralysed by indecision. He pulled back his gun. Fionn braced himself and closed his eyes. To his astonishment when he opened his eyes a few moments later the German soldier was running away. Fionn lay emotionally exhausted in the searing heat unable to make the effort to get back to camp. A few hours later he was rescued by his colleagues . . .
Reality rudely reasserted itself and obliterated Fionn’s reminiscences and he was dragged back to the present by the sound of the mouse tussling with the awesome trap. Watching the mouse dragging the implacable contraption with his tail, jolted Fionn into action. He tenderly took the mousetrap in his hand and set the mouse free.
Memory is central to all our lives.
Eventualities
Is áit an mac an saol.
Life is very strange.
One day there was a young prince who was meandering around distant lands looking for adventure. That morning he had opened a window shutter and watched dawn steal across the fields. His face was pale in the flickering light. First, the sky turned from black to dark blue, then to violet. The landscape became full of grey shadows, which gradually resolved into trees, hedges, fences and buildings. There was no sign of the sun, hidden as it was behind a layer of cloud, but the prince felt better once the night was over at last.
He came to a town which was near a pass into a fertile valley as he was thinking about the mysteries that confronted him. He had arrived just as the service was finishing and most of the congregation were leaving in a rush, eager to begin their festivities and enjoy their meals.
Nonetheless the prince was taken aback by the poverty in the town and inquired why the people did not move into the valley. The locals told him that they couldn’t because a dragon was guarding the pass and that they were all afraid of him. The prince sighed, and the townsfolk saw lines of weariness etched into his face.
As princes so often do in stories like this, the prince decided that he was going to solve the problem irrespective of his own personal safety. With a brave smile but with a knot in his stomach, the prince made his way to the pass. It was accessed by a wooden bridge so dangerously ruinous that crossing the moat was an adventure in itself. The prince frowned a little but took it in his stride. With his sword waving, he reached his destination. He rubbed a hand through his fine hair, feeling his stomach tie itself in knots. To his great surprise all he could see was a tiny little dragon, who only was the size of his boot.
‘Where’s your father?’ asked the prince, his voice loud and full of self-importance.
The dragon stepped forward to make a low and very sincere obeisance and said, ‘I live here on my own.’
‘But how can a tiny little beast like you so terrify the local people?’ the prince asked, trying to keep the reproach from his voice, but not succeeding.
‘Because of my name.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘What Might Happen?’
The Silver Spoon
Cheered by the sight of a clear sky after so many overcast days, Br. Seán wandered into the yard of his community house, and watched the bright orange globe sink behind the trees at the bottom of the garden. He headed towards the homeless hostel he ran on behalf of his congregation.
He first spoke that evening with Peadar, who was shaking his head in tolerant resignation. Unfortunately, his eccentric way of moving as he talked to himself meant that he was seldom taken seriously outside the hostel. Normally he was compliant and patient, but that evening he was agitated and moody, oscillating between angry defiance and frightened tearfulness. Anxiety was written clearly on his pallid face that had survived over eighty birthdays. Br. Seán was anxious to do what little he could to alleviate the uneasy atmosphere and asked Peadar what he would like for his birthday. ‘A spoon,’ was the surprising answer.
Momentarily thrown, Br. Seán said, ‘You are very low maintenance, Peadar. You look frozen. Let’s go and get you some of the nice hot stew that Br. Michéal has been slaving over all afternoon.’
Peadar savoured every mouthful of the delicious meal. He was first in the line on his birthday for the lunch, which again he relished. There was a nice surprise for him after the enticing desert of mince pies and cream when Br. Seán approached him and presented him with a gift wrapped in lovely paper and with an impressive red bow. After he gasped his thanks, Peadar opened the present, which was a silver spoon. Peadar smiled his thanks before tears toppled in steady streams down his cheeks.
Br. Seán’s dark eyes took in the scene with undisguised curiosity and he said, ‘Peadar, please excuse my vulgar curiosity but why did you want a spoon? I know you have to take a lot of tablets. Is it because a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down?’
Peadar laughed heartily at first before almost being choked by a fit of wheezing coughing. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The reason I wanted the spoon is that every time we have meals here whenever I see a spoon I know that something nicer is to come after we finish our main meal. I am not long for this world. We both know it will be you who will have to arrange my funeral because I have nobody who will miss me apart from you. When I die I want you to put the spoon with me in my coffin.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Br. Seán.
‘The spoon is a symbol for me that something better is to come. That is the message of Gospel: a promise to the world of better things to come. That is the message that I want to take with me to my grave.’
Spotting Opportunities
A very religious woman was at home when a storm came and the river burst its banks. Soon the water was up to the level of the first storey of her house. A man passed by her house in a raft and offered to take her to safety. She said, ‘No. God will save me.’
As the water continued to rise the woman waited in her upstairs bedroom. A man rowed by her window in a boat. He stopped and offered to rescue her. She replied, ‘No thank you. God will save me.’
The water rose higher and higher. The woman had to climb on her roof to stay alive. A helicopter passed by and offered to rescue her. The woman shouted, ‘No, God will save me.’
The rain got heavier and heavier and the water got higher and higher. An hour later the woman drowned.
Some time later, the woman’s spirit met with God in the next world. She was very angry and shouted at Him: ‘Why did you not save me during the flood? I trusted you. I was sure you would come to my assistance.’
God calmly replied, ‘I sent you a raft, a boat and a helicopter.’
In the Beginning Was the Word
God created the heavens and the earth and everything in them. Words were His creative agents because words are power. God spoke: ‘Let it be done’, and it was done. And everything He made was good.
The apple of God’s eye was the man and woman He created because He had breathed into them a part of himself, His spirit. The countryside smelled clean and fresh, and the scent of soil mingled with the heavier odour of grass and fresh vegetation. The man and the woman followed a road that took them through a wood, and some of its trees seemed to have been there before time even began, they were so gnarled and ancient. A brook accompanied them most of the way, trickling between its muddy banks with a gentle bubbling sound. Beautiful blackbirds sang from the top branch of the tall oak trees, and a dog barked with pleasure in the distance.
The devil was jealous that God had partners to share His love and vowed to teach Him a lesson. One day when God was chatting with Adam and Eve, the devil sneaked up behind Him and put a bond on His tongue so that He could not speak. God could no longer talk and, because His creative power was in his words, the devil had denied Him that power. It was not raining, but the clouds were low and menacing and it was crystal clear that a deluge was coming. The man and woman were astonished and closed their eyes in apparent despair.
The devil made fun of God and kept Him in captivity for a long time. Every hour the devil would return to taunt Him. Eventually God responded by waving one finger. Intrigued, the devil asked Him if He wanted to say just one word. God nodded a definite yes.
The devil thought to himself, ‘Sure, one word can do no harm,’ and removed the bond. Adam and Eve, pale and heavy-eyed, said nothing. God had a gleam in His eye that said He was looking forward to outwitting his enemies. He spoke one word in a whisper so gentle that the devil could barely hear Him. The word released all the forgiveness that God had been storing in His heart during his period of silence. Dawn came early, with streaks of pale blue sky showing through the clouds.
The devil tugged his cloak around him as if he suddenly found the garden too cold and squawked as icy water seeped into his boots, and then he released a string of vulgar words. His face was a mask of anger, furious that a single word should cause him so much misery. He exaggerated a shiver as he stood alone.
The word was Jesus.
Past Speaking to the Present
The former Abbot of Glenstal Abbey, Mark Patrick Hederman, is one of the most interesting thinkers on how our past spirituality can speak to our present reality. When I interviewed him in November 2019 he shared the following insights with me:
‘What more could one say about The Rule of Saint Benedict, which the author also calls “a little rule for beginners”? It concerns the elements of style, but a style of life for those interested in living with and in God. Benedict was also a keen and compassionate observer of human nature. He realised that people are weak, that people fail, and yet he believed that they were able to measure up to this challenge. This is a no-nonsense, unembroidered handbook for those who want to join the rewarding school of the Lord’s service. Any unusual calling, whether you choose to be an athlete, an academic or an astronaut, requires training and discipline. Benedict knows that too. But he refuses to lay down anything harsh or burdensome just to impress the monastic weight-watchers. If there is any strictness in his rule it is to correct faults and to safeguard love.
‘Benedictine spirituality is a living-out of The Rule of Saint Benedict, a little book on how to organise people who want to live together with God written at some time in the sixth century. Not a book at all, but a book about the book of your own life. It is how to have that script written for you by God, if you are prepared to waive your rights of authorship. The Rule of Saint Benedict can make this happen. It is not something to read, it is something to be done. So describing it is like describing how to play Scrabble or Monopoly or snooker, complicated and tedious until you know how to play. Or describing a trellis, a lattice, a runway, anything that exists to allow something else, something other than itself, to happen. It is a structure to promote growth, to put some order into abundance, to help you take off and fly. It is a form which teaches you to do without it; showing that all form is empty.
‘Benedict emphasises the importance of both the human person and relationships between persons living together. He has the natural psychologist’s sureness of touch when arbitrating between conflicting interests in human affairs. His rule contains directions for all aspects of community life, but there is an inbuilt diffidence and flexibility allowing for adaptation to different countries and climates, and centuries; which it is why it has lasted for over fifteen hundred years. You can say it has carried, almost unconsciously, the wisdom of Christianity throughout the Dark Ages, when anything more articulate or less durable might have perished. It had a seminal influence on European history, providing the sanest and simplest infrastructure for community living, co-operative work, and communal prayer. The Rule of Benedict is as genial for what it leaves out as for what it puts in. It is not devotional, decorative or diffuse. It is food for the desert; pemmican rather than puff pastries. It is the lowest common multiple of monasticism and, at the same time, quintessentially distilled wisdom of the mystical East. It combines the genius of Rome for legislation with the Christian flair for personal touch. It has the beauty of a simple, yet effective, metal container, to which it takes time to warm and adjust. The community which forms this complex tapestry would fray, stretch, tear and break without this delicate container. Poetry, as always, says it more accurately than prose.
‘Ausculta is the Latin word for “Listen”. And is the first word in the Rule of Saint Benedict. Since the sixth century, communities have followed this Rule, as do the Benedictine monks of Glenstal Abbey in Ireland. Ireland is situated in a pivotal position off the mainland of Europe; Glenstal, in southern Ireland, and within easy reach of Shannon airport, is ideally placed as a centre for spiritual revitalisation. Monasteries, like the ancient hill-forts of Celtic Ireland, provide access to the spiritual realm. A monastery is a listening ear for the world around it. As such, the monastery is an essential part of society, providing a place to be in touch with our deepest selves, with nature, and with God.
‘Hospitality, an essential feature of the Rule of Benedict, is also a hallmark of Celtic culture. After careful consideration, the monks of Glenstal Abbey feel they are being asked by God to listen more intently to the needs of society and have decided to make themselves, their grounds, the ethos and atmosphere of their monastery, more available to people assailed by a world of unprecedented stress. The monks themselves have no great gifts to give away; they offer instead a place and an atmosphere conducive to the discovery of personal value and inner peace.
‘Monks are those who take a step away from the world around them. They strive to preserve what is best in the heritage received, while remaining open to what other cultures and traditions offer. They welcome with enthusiasm and discernment the advances of technology and science, and try to weave these into a wider and more ancient understanding of the universe. A daily round of prayer and liturgical celebration combines with work in education, ecumenism, pastoral ministry, counselling, farming, bee-keeping, gardening, woodturning, forestry and silviculture, research, scholarship, writing and the arts.
‘Farm and woodland, castle and gardens, inspirational surroundings for monastic life, must be preserved, even when offered to a contemporary world eager for genuine spirituality and inner peace. An architectural strategy has been devised to ensure that monastic life, as it has been lived for centuries, continues undisturbed no matter how many guests or visitors come our way at any given time. The vision of the monastery as a beehive of the invisible, distilling wisdom from many new sources, searching out a new cultural perspective; a new way of hearing, seeing, and being in touch with life. The search is for a fresh articulation of traditional beliefs and values, towards a better quality of life in a new century.
‘I do believe that this Church, whatever human beings may do to it, especially those who see themselves as in charge of it, contains everything we need for allowing us to be disciples of Jesus Christ, whom I believe to be the Son of God, the Second Person of the Trinity come on earth. He gave us His Holy Spirit and promised that this Holy Spirit would be with us forever until the end of time, and that not even the gates of hell should prevail against us. That is all that matters to me. I have the Holy Spirit in my heart and that Person will never desert me. The food and drink, which I need for the journey through life, is the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ which he gave to us in the Eucharist at the Last Supper. “Do this in memory of me,” he said. It is a deed that we do, not a dogma, or a book, or a set of concepts. Wherever this deed is done, indeed, wherever two or three of us are gathered in His name, He is there with us. We eat His body and drink His blood to give ourselves the blood transfusion which we need to swap our kind of loving for His kind of loving, to transfer from our own human energy to His Divine Energy. And this can be done in many ways. It matters little how we do it; what matters is that the deed is done in memory of Him and that we participate actively as often as we want to have the deepest communion with Him.
‘All the rest is secondary: what clothes we wear, what rules we obey, what forms of government and structures of community we adopt. If the whole world were to betray us, the Holy Spirit would never do so. We need to cultivate a direct relationship with the Persons of the Holy Trinity, first person singular, present tense. There should be no intermediaries, no third person, no go-between. Christ gave us the life and love of the Three Persons of the Trinity flowing in our own hearts; we only have to drop down there to bathe ourselves in this supernatural splendour. We don’t need anyone else or anything else to access this privilege, which is our birthright since the time we were baptised. Of course, it is a pity beyond all telling that we have been so betrayed by human institutions, but God never relied on any of these to speak directly to His chosen people. All we have to do is answer the phone.
‘I believe that everything can change, and should change if necessary, except one thing which is the love of God made present to us in Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit.
‘It is up to us to insist on such changes, but for my part, I do not want to invent a new Church, nor do I feel the need to abandon this one. And this one, for me, means recognising that Judeochristianity is one religion stemming from the revelation of the one God; that the break between Judaism and Christianity is similar to that between Protestantism and Catholicism, namely a family quarrel; that Jews and Christians belong to the Catholicism which stems from the God of Abraham, also recognised by Muslims, and Isaac and Jacob, which in our view reaches its culmination and fulfilment of revelation in Jesus Christ, the Messiah that Judaism has announced through its prophets, who is God incarnate. The Church, the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic, must as an organisation, embody the Holy Spirit of Christ. Until it does so, it remains human, fallible and faulty, not yet having reached its full potential.
‘I believe in God and I believe that the Holy Spirit is gradually improving the mechanisms which might change the Church from being the fragmented, self-opinionated, thick-headed, sexist, male dominated organisation that cultural forces in our patriarchal world have allowed it to become, so that it may eventually struggle towards being the transparent image of the God it was meant to be serving. I shall work as hard as I can to remove such dross and clean these windows, so that all manner of things may be well, and that all may be one, without that meaning uniform. There are many ways of being Christian and our union is one of love, not of domination.
‘I like to think of Glenstal as a spiritual centre which would offer initiation into a way of life which aligns the whole person, body, mind and spirit, with the universe as a whole, with those who are in it, and with the Three Persons of the Trinity who have invited each one of us to share in their life. Taking our cue from Cluny, Glenstal can provide many people with an element and an atmosphere allowing them to breathe spiritually. Again poetry describes this:
If you came this way in May time, you would find the hedges
White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.
There are other places
Which are also the world’s end, some at the sea jaws,
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city –
But this is the nearest, in place and time.
‘There are other places, of course. But the Spirit seems to be saying that, at this moment and as things are, Glenstal is the nearest in place and time. We do have one of the most beautiful places in the world imbued with the mysterious time of liturgy.
‘Most people educated in the twentieth century are blind and deaf to the symbolism of liturgy, the “divine beauty” of nature, the language of art. Western European civilisation has long ago sold its birthright for a mess of pottage. Our birthright is the mystery of life hidden in the symbols from the beginning of time: the mess of pottage is a world constructed by scientific technology. Not that science and technology are not wonderful and essential, but without the other dimension they are “a dry weary land without water”.
‘Monks should provide for a world that has become blind, deaf and dumb to the language of symbolism, the meaning of life.
‘Monks must first of all learn for themselves the language of symbolism, the language of liturgy, the language of the saving mysteries of Jesus Christ, made real for us on a daily basis through the power of the Holy Spirit. The digitus Dei, or finger of God, as the Holy Spirit is named, spells out “the word” for us as the water of life is poured on the other hand. The Holy Spirit writes on our hands, as blind, deaf and dumb people, also through the medium of sound.
‘Glenstal would become like Clonmacnoise in Seamus Heaney’s poem. This is a place where the abbot and community help the artist to anchor the altar. The monastery becomes a place where artists can hope to tie whatever kite they happen to be flying to a firm and stable anchor. The monastery as silent hub of that fireworks display which art and culture need to scatter with reckless flamboyancy into the night.
‘Such revelation is possible only from the ambience and tranquillity of a monastery where, to quote Alexandr Solzhenitsyn; people have the time, the atmosphere and the opportunity “to survey, as from a great height, the whole tortuous flow of history; and yet at the same time, like people completely immersed in it, they can see every pebble in its depths.” (Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago 1971:358). Providentially, it seems to me, the Holy Spirit has gathered together in this very beautiful place, the people and the competences, the genius and the generosity, which could allow us to provide a well-organised and effective oasis in an over-expanding spiritual desert.
‘There is a place in every person where God touches us and where we are constantly in contact with God. If I can reach this place I can touch God. The Bible gives this interior place the name “heart”. At a given moment, a great withdrawal of all other faculties must take place, a sort of fast must be imposed on them. We try to rest before God in reverent and loving attention, while our interior faculties remain empty. We must work to create this emptiness, this space within. This does not normally happen quickly. Perseverance, humility and patience are needed. If I can arrive at a point where I can free myself from every other reality and bring the gaze of my spirit to bear on this point exclusively, I can meet God. Our desire for God leads us toward that reality in ourselves which is the deepest and most divine part of our being. That place where God dwells in me is also the place of prayer.’