by Nicolas Diat
Saint-Martin of Mondaye is an abbey lost in the boscage. At the edge of the little village, the Premonstratensian buildings exude balance, simplicity, and discipline.
In the heart of this deep countryside, lulled by the cock’s crow, time has stopped. The town hall, near the Third Republic-style primary school, the discreet houses, the old cemetery, and the beautiful château create an enchanting bucolic setting.
The canons’ church, with its cupola, towers over the area. It exemplifies the precepts of the Counter-Reformation.
Large majestic paintings, numerous statues of saints, the Blessed Sacrament chapel, all faux marble, the tombs of the abbots, made with large black or gray slabs, the woodwork and elaborate choir stalls, the diaphanous Norman light that shines through the clear stained-glass windows—this is the decor for the offices and Masses of the canons of the order of Saint Norbert.
The purity of the classical style of the architect Eustache Restout was buried under the bourgeois tastes of a devout and anxious nineteenth century. Yet this church with its outdated ornamentation is gentle and intimate. The romantic charm of this place does not define the truth of this abbey. For good influences come from the simplicity that emanates from the community.
I came to Mondaye on a Sunday evening in May. When I arrived, the brothers were finishing Vespers. The liturgy was solemn and austere.
Before dinner, I was able to admire the beautiful farm and its imposing entrance pavilion, facing the abbey. The croaking of the frogs in the large pond did not seem to bother the young religious who was praying while tending the flowers.
For three days, I observed with admiration these canons who never ceased working for God. They came and went without showing the least sign of fatigue.
The cloister, its windows, the Chapter room, decorated with large paintings by a student of Maurice Denis, the rich, opulent library, with sixty thousand volumes, create a setting where the brothers can rest from the rigors of canonical life, structured according to the rule of Saint Augustine. Because, on top of the exercises of the regular life are added those of pastoral ministry, with the parishes and chaplaincies for which the canons are responsible.
In the refectory, through the beautiful windows, I glimpsed the old cemetery of the religious who died before the return from exile. It was far from the abbey, at the edge of the park, a bit abandoned.
In front of the façade overlooking the gardens, in the middle of a vast lawn, the stone cross of the Trappistines, who briefly occupied this place during the Restoration, seemed to protect the canons.
When I returned inside the church, my eye was drawn toward a tombstone more recent than the others. A bouquet of wildflowers was placed there. Letters stood out on the stone:
HIC JACET
RR.DD.IOEL HOUQUE
QUI NOVEM PRAEFUIT ANNOS
HUIC ECCLESIAE
MMIV-MMXIII
CARUIT VIRIBUS HAUD VIRTUTIBUS
OBIIT DIE XXV MARTII A.D. MMXV
AETATIS SUAE AN. LXIX
“Here lies the most reverend Father Joël Houque, who governed this church for nine years (2004—2013). Strength failed him, courage did not. He died March 25, 2015. He was sixty-nine years old.”
I knew a little about the life of Father Joël from the enthusiastic stories that Father Emmanuel-Marie from Lagrasse Abbey had told me. After his death, the canons had printed an In memoriam card. In the photograph that accompanied it, the forty-seventh abbot of Mondaye had a broad smile. His features were marked by disease, his laughing and melancholic eyes showed a religious whom life had not spared: “Joël Houque was born in Le Maisnil en Weppes, in Flanders, February 8, 1946. After a good education (Ecole Superieure de Commerce Paris), he entered Mondaye Abbey August 6, 1969. Having worked in Laos, in lieu of military service, then as a professor at the Lemonnier Institute in Caen, he made his solemn profession August 28, 1981, and was ordained a priest April 24, 1983. At the abbey, he was the bursar and master of novices (1984), sub-prior (1986), prior (1988—1999), and a priest at Saint-Paul de Vernay. He devoted himself unreservedly to the service of his brothers, while maintaining a strong pastoral concern. He loved to teach, preach, and celebrate. After having been prior of Conques (2001—2004), he was an administrator, then abbot of Mondaye (2004—2013). His time as abbot was happy and fruitful in vocations and embellishments to the monastery. After his resignation, for health reasons, he served for another year at Frigolet Abbey in Provence. Returning to Mondaye, he died March 25, 2015, on the Solemnity of the Annunciation of the Lord.”
A generous man, of an anxious nature, Father Joël especially possessed the charism of the humble. He wanted to be of service to his brothers and to men. He was impatient, pragmatic, and lively. His enthusiasm, his kindness impressed his friends. Despite his influence, he did not take himself seriously. He liked to refer to himself a strange aphorism in the form of a joke: “A beautiful bird does not please everyone.”
Father Joël often spoke about death. In 1990, disease had knocked at his door. During a blood donation, a doctor discovered he had slowly developing leukemia. Father Joël was realistic. He knew he would be joining God faster than his friends. When he first became abbot, he thought so much about the disease that it became his only topic of conversation. He wanted to know everything about the symptoms and treatments for his cancer. He even participated in discussion groups on the Internet.
In 2000, Father Joël began chemotherapy. He went to the Caen hospital for the day. He was tired. But the treatments allowed him to have a true remission. In 2006, he was elected Father Abbot even though his brothers knew his state of health. The gamble bordered on madness. Defying Father Joël’s cancer, the canons thought he was the right man for Mondaye. At the end of his abbatial blessing, he gave this wonderful speech: “The trust that the brothers have shown me is a sign of hope that says no one can be reduced to his disease.”
Father Joël was abbot for nine years.
In 2007, he began a second round of chemotherapy whose efficacy was short-lived. The disease had become more aggressive. The magnitude of his task weighed on his health. In a monastery, the abbot is the man who must lead his community. He guides the brothers. How can someone be the leader when oxygen is lacking?
In 2010, Father François-Marie Humann was named prior. His mission was to help Father Joël. Born in 1970, a graduate from an agricultural engineering school, he is the descendant of a large family, rooted in the region for centuries. Over time, the young canon become his spiritual heir. Despite the suffering, Father Joël did everything to pass on the best to Father François-Marie. He paved his way.
Little by little, the treatment caused a painful and serious pulmonary emphysema. This pathology leads to a progressive destruction of the pulmonary alveoli and blood vessels. Father Joël had to agree to receive respiratory help. At first, an oxygen station was installed in his room. Then, he decided to take a bottle of oxygen around with him, which he carried with a shoulder strap. Even in the church, he could no longer do without this machine that made the awareness of his cancer omnipresent.
The canons admired his courage. Despite the cruelty of his disease, he never complained. He continued to go up and down France to visit priories. He even managed to plan his trips around his equipment and elevators, so as not to tire himself out.
But his shortness of breath caused chronic fatigue. Periods of rest no longer allowed him to recuperate. His resignation became obvious. Father François-Marie helped him during this difficult time. Elected by the brothers, he succeeded him on October 15, 2013.
For six months, Father Joël went to Frigolet Abbey, near Tarascon. He needed to find solutions for organizing the future of this house in the south of France.
Every week, he sent letters to the canons of Mondaye. February 15, 2015, Father Joël wrote: “Dear brothers, Thursday, I went to the Avignon hospital to meet Dr. Slama, head of the hematology department, around forty years old and full of energy, who told me that new treatments are
available and that, at the beginning of March, after further tests, he is considering a new chemotherapy. But it is true that the symptoms of great fatigue are now very frequent.”
The last letter, dated March 8, shows a fighter who is drawing on his last ounce of strength: “Dear brothers, I spent the week in my room-office-chapel. This morning, I went down for Mass. Bishop Dufour celebrated it with a congregation of a group of travelers. Health-wise, I was rather shaken. I hope that next week will be better and that I will get a little of my breath back. Because the breath in me is terrified.” This is the last sentence written by his hand for his brothers. Father Joël was not afraid of death, but he was afraid of dying badly. He knew his existence could end in a tragedy, in a brutal fit of suffocation. His lung problems turned into an obsession. Talking about it was a way to exorcise the fear.
The final week, in his big abbey, he was so tired he was becoming bedridden. Father Emmanuel-Marie came to see him. He was struck by his courage. Back at Lagrasse Abbey, he called Father François-Marie right away to alert him to the gravity of the situation. The latter convinced Father Joël to return to Mondaye to rest. He arrived Tuesday, March 17, 2015.
In Paris, where he made a stop, a brother saw him crying. Father Joël oscillated between anxiety and solace. He was happy to return, but he was afraid his trip would be the last. The canons welcomed a man who could no longer stand. However, in everyone’s mind, he was coming to rest. No one wanted to believe that the end was near.
The day after his return, his condition had improved. On Thursday, March 19, the feast of Saint Joseph, he celebrated a final Mass in his room. In the afternoon, he saw his doctor. The latter did not want to hide the truth about his condition from him. Father Joël was devastated.
The next day, the respiratory attacks got worse. He was in a state of semi-consciousness. At the end of the afternoon, after hesitating, the canons decided to take him to the Bayeux hospital. From a spiritual point of view, they would have preferred that the patient be able to stay at the abbey. Hospitalization was primarily a rational choice. The suffering was becoming too intense.
The canons made the decision not to leave him alone for a moment, not knowing how long the vigil would last. Arriving at the hospital, Brother Hugues, the infirmarian of Mondaye and a doctor by training, told the emergency doctor: “Father Joël is at the end of his life. It is not a question of resisting.” When he heard this remark, Father François-Marie was shocked. He could not resign himself to accepting the inevitable. He did not deny the gravity of the situation, especially since Father Joël had become practically aphasic. But the idea of his death was unacceptable to him.
The father infirmarian did not want Father Joël’s death to be postponed. He knew that the price to pay of additional suffering made no sense. He wanted to avoid a tracheotomy. The doctors decided on a non-invasive ventilation that the patient did not tolerate well.
Day and night, the canons, as well as Father Joël’s relatives, took turns at his bedside. The doctors and nurses were impressed by this succession. Father Joël no longer spoke. Sometimes he opened his eyes.
On Monday the 23 rd, Father François-Marie was alone with him. He did not know if Father Joël heard him. But he kept telling him that he could depart. This sentence was important. Father Joël had always been a man of duty, and he was capable of resisting death so as not to abandon his brothers. Father François-Marie sensed a force that was preventing him from breaking free. That evening, he leaned over him to embrace him and say goodbye. Father Joël seized the cross around his neck and held it a long time.
The final two days, Father Joël sank into a comatose state. The former Father Abbot died on Wednesday, March 25th in the early morning. Remembering this moment, Father François-Marie told me: “He always liked to get up early and enjoy the first hours of the day. The hour of his death was consistent with his life. At the moment of his departure, we were chanting Lauds of the Annunciation.”
Father Paul-Emmanuel, prior of Mondaye Abbey, a man of great sensitivity, and one of the faithful at Mondaye were with him at the moment when he departed. They were the last to keep vigil: “We were soothed by his breath, which diminished with each moment. Father Joël had always been afraid of the way he was going to die. He did not want to suffocate. In the final moments, his breathing became so weak we could no longer hear it. The shape of his face changed, his skin was increasingly pale. The expressions of his suffering disappeared. I was holding his hand to reassure him. I was praying with confidence. I talked to him until the end. The final breath was imperceptible. A beautiful life concluded in the hands of God.” The prior informed the community. He was calm. He did not feel that he was living through a painful time.
A brief half hour after the death, Father François-Marie arrived: “He was beautiful. The body had been lightened to allow the soul to depart. His face was relaxed.” The people who came to gather in his room had the same feeling—the impression that his body had become a spiritual reality.
Quickly, the community asked for the return of the deceased. He was placed in the Chapter room, transformed into a glowing chapel. The coffin was in the same place where Father Joël had received the habit of a canon. This large room is the antechamber of heaven. There, prostrate on the floor, the canons live the beginning and end of their religious life. There, the novice is clothed by the abbot, and the deceased, by God.
Just before the funeral, the Father Abbot François-Marie covered the face of his predecessor by lowering the hood of his cape.
The canons smilingly remember an anecdote from these lengthy days. The brother cellarer had ordered a coffin. When it arrived, the canon was surprised to discover that the interior was completely padded and decorated with lace. After a moment of reflection, the Father Abbot and Brother Arnaud took some scissors and cut out the awful, gaudy lining so as to remove anything in poor taste.
The canons were losing a father. A pillar in their lives had crumbled. Tears rolled down the faces of many faithful. The sadness did not get the better of them, but the emotion was difficult to overcome.
For the Father Abbot, it was a big responsibility. At the moment when a brother dies, he returns to God the mission that was entrusted to him. At Mondaye, the community numbers thirty canons. Father François-Marie was acutely aware of the gravity of his responsibility: “I must be humble and give everything to God. Death is difficult, unsettling. We must strip ourselves. God helps us naturally.”
The liturgy of the dead was overwhelming.
According to the tradition of the canons, at the beginning of the celebration, the head of the coffin was placed against the altar, as a sign of veneration.
In his homily, with the beautiful modesty that characterizes him, Father François-Marie declared: “As an elderly brother told me, in a typically Norman understatement: ‘He wasn’t just anybody, Brother Joël!’ That’s why, even if our pain is really there, we can say a deep, big, genuine thank you. That is the meaning of this Mass that we are going to celebrate: in recommending to God the salvation of our beloved brother Joël, let us welcome the peace of God and give him thanks for the work he accomplishes in his servants. He fought for such a long time, with so much strength and courage! How could we not be deeply troubled by this sudden collapse that finally carried away our brother Joël: it is the loss of a son, a brother, a friend, a guide, a father!”
The canons are sons of Saint Augustine. Their relationship to death is marked by this heritage. Tears are easier than for other monks. The Benedictines, Cistercians, and the Carthusians do not have hearts of stone. Their feelings and their pain are as strong. But the Premonstratensians base their spiritual life on the texts of the bishop of Hippo: “I neither hoped that he would come back to life nor made my tears a plea that he should; I simply mourned and wept, for I was beset with misery and bereft of my joy. Or is it that bitter tears match the weariness we feel over what we once enjoyed, but find attractive no more?”2
The graves of the ca
nons are in the communal cemetery, but the Father Abbots repose in the canons’ church. Today, the memory of Father Joël is still alive, inexhaustible. He still warms hearts. Every day, the canons pray for him. Going up to the sanctuary, the brothers pass by his tomb. They think back to all the years when he was the first to arrive in the church for the offices.
Before his death, Father Joël loved very much to come pray near the funeral stone where he knew he would be buried. This location delighted him because he imagined that one day, before the beginning of Mass, the children would come running over the tombstone.
At Fontgombault, Dom Forgeot had told me that the monks died as they had lived. Father François-Marie has a slightly different opinion: he hopes “that we die better than the way in which we have lived. We must hope for this progress! The sanctification of Father Joël accelerated in the final months. He died in the odor of sanctity. At the end of his abbothood, he was radiant in himself and not because of his office. He wanted to serve. I had the feeling that there was nothing in him that had not been given.”
Sometimes the canons organize walks to the cemetery after the coffee hour or in the evening before Chapter. These few steps are a little recreation. The religious often tell the same stories. They speak of the dead they have known and remember anecdotes and memories. The Pre-monstratensians always end by wondering where they will be buried, in which row, under which tree, next to which brother. . . The walk ends in bursts of laughter.
In recent years, the parents of certain brothers have asked to be buried near them. They are not necessarily from the region, but they hold the grants in advance in order to be close to their sons.
The death of Father Vincent, in 1995, regularly comes up in the discussions. Originally from Champagne, a former member of the Free France resistance, a friend of General de Gaulle, whose daughter he had married, a cultivated and distinguished man, he was a remarkable canon. He spent the last days of his life in the Caen hospital. One morning, his doctor called the abbey to tell them his days were numbered. The Father Abbot at the time and a canon left without delay. On the way, the abbot stopped in a coop to buy a bottle of champagne. When they arrived at the hospital, the dying man was in a bad way, but clearheaded. Turning toward the abbot, with his tone of voice a little high, he said: “Oh, my Father, you have come, it is too much of an honor!” And the abbot responded: “No, it is not too much of an honor. You are going to die. I come to give you Extreme Unction.” After a moment of silence, Father Vincent responded: “Ah yes, it is necessary.” Reassured by his reaction, the Father Abbot took out the good bottle from his satchel: “But afterward, we are going to celebrate!” Father Vincent let out a sigh: “Ah, you thought of it. . .” The three canons celebrated with the champagne. Father Vincent died in peace two days later at the abbey.