The Rest Is Silence

by Kevin Scully

  ‘No need for that,’ said the Chair. ‘Columba is not an academic. The garden, the kitchen, the guest wing, that was more your thing, wasn’t it, Brother?’ He smiled.

  ‘And the chapel,’ I said. I could feel the blush on my cheeks as soon as I spoke. An uncomfortable silence followed. ‘He was a great thinker. An inspiration,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. A terrible shame,’ said the Chair. ‘Still, I suppose it comes to us all.’

  The archivist looked at me in sympathy.

  ‘Please look after it well,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘We will.’

  And I walked away.

  Whither the

  Still Small Voice?

  My mind is aclatter. So much of what I took for routine has been reconfigured that I struggle to find a rhythm. Meal times in Care Home are aspirational. And yet they are when we seek to find community but, because of the varying physical and mental powers of the residents, is more a procession of competing attentions—sought, accommodated or denied—as the carers (though some of them at times seem to struggle to grasp the concept in their job title), family members and, in Fr Aidan’s case, me, seek to cajole, assist or almost resort to compulsion to get the residents to eat.

  The quest for a rhythm to the day is likewise an objective: get up, change clothes, get others up, change them into what accords with their various bodily capacities—there is a lot of nappy wearing in a care home—feed them, get some activity going for those who will accept it, feed them, change clothes, engage in another activity, feed them, change them, put them to bed.

  In many ways the monastic routine was similar, though the monks, by and large, were able to do much of it for themselves. (I had never served as Infirmarian. Those who did tended not to gossip about what the post entailed.) What transformed the potential deadness of monotony in the monastery was the added extra—no, the core of our life together—of prayer and worship. Much of that is impossible here.

  Not that outside the home affords a clearer prospect. The haphazard, random, joyful and occasionally desperate seem to jockey for position in which no order or hierarchy can be discerned. It is hard to accept, but I have come to realise that so much of my life has been contained and controlled by discipline. I was going to say that this was in the best possible way. How could I know or be the judge of that? Such judgment, in the absence of a functional superior, is for God.

  A great part of my life is the result of a chance gift. Or, more accurately, grace. Abandoned (rescued?) and recovered (or am I still recovering?) from excess of disorder led me to perhaps an excess of regularity. Now here in the home and less so on the streets of this community—how odd it feels to use that word about anything other than the company of men with whom I have shared so much of life, still do in a fresh expression, with Father Aidan here—I seek to find the pattern that holds a common life together.

  The distillation of this task is its united efforts. The centrifugal power of decay—people, places, and now even memory—makes for solitariness. The monk on his own, like Anthony in the desert, is not what I had imagined for myself. I had found life with brethren.

  So I struggled to maintain the routine of the cloister, as I read the offices with, or more accurately to, Fr Aidan. Now and then he sparks: the Benedictus, the Magnificat, the Nunc Dimmitis, the Lord’s Prayer, sometimes even the odd psalm in its entirety, albeit from Coverdale in the 1662 Book of Common Prayer instead of the text of Common Worship being held in my hands—a change he oversaw as Abbot—will cascade from mind to tongue. But most days the round of prayer seems like a cry in the desert, a potsherd, as a man chants to his brother in the hope that the other will join him in praise of his Father.

  The jangle of television sounds from competing stations, incessant assistance alarm calls that could suggest residents are being ignored (they are not; some residents have something of a propensity for hitting the button for any reason or, sometimes out of a desire for some human contact—I have heard carers calling this behaviour as ‘bell happy’), the buzz of the front doorbell, radios, music in common areas gives a bedrock of cacophony. Aidan seems to have found an ability to ignore it all. Not surprising, I suppose, as some would think he ignores me, but then they have never witnessed the fretting that quickly escalates to agitation if I seek solace outside the confines of the home, or even his room—not that there is much silent solace to be found there.

  I am considering asking the manager for a small plot of ground. But conversations with some of the staff have not proved promising. Yes, I could probably be allowed to do some digging, but flowers are discouraged. They remind residents of death—dare I say that I would have thought just looking at each other was reminder enough? The argument given me was that the only blooms that make their way here are usually leftovers from a funeral. What about birthdays, Mothering Sunday, other events? (I have a sneaking suspicion it may be the extra work and oversight, beyond many of the residents, that would fall to the carers that is the driving force behind the discouragement.)

  I countered this by expressing a preference for vegetables. After all, as Brother Gardener I was for a while the main producer of the monastery’s non-meat provender. That would not work either, says one of them, there being strict regulations about what food can be prepared on site. Surely, then, an exception could be made? A condescendingly pitiful shake of the head greets this. Couldn’t I give just give it to the staff and visitors? A consultation between some of them follows. This throws them: something they can use, and free. It might be possible but permission would have to be sought from higher up the management life-chain.

  So much of my time for prayer and reflection, I realise, has come through work—in the garden, in the kitchen, in running the Guest Wing. St Benedict said to work is to pray. No work risks no prayer. What life is there for me now? Of course, accompanying Father Aidan is my work. But what happens when he is no longer? Which, in a way, he already is.

  In Thought, Word

  and Deed1

  Wash Me Throughly—3

  Every day I say I am sorry. To God. To others: the fellow residents and workers here in Care Home; and my brothers—Fr Abbot, but also those who are no longer with us. Sometimes I even say sorry to myself. This repeated three-way practice is so ingrained that, by virtue of our move to Bethnal Green, I sometimes worry that I am spiritually beyond the pale.

  That may sound extreme. But the repeated acknowledgement of one’s shortcomings and failings is liberating. Though I have had to learn that such an experience is far from universal.

  At CSC there were two collective points where members of the community would resort to confession—at the beginning of the Eucharist and at the start of Compline. That these came at either end of the day gave a certain symmetry to our gatherings. To undergird the reflective importance of this discipline a period of silence would be kept.

  A guest once asked me, with a seeming sense of puzzlement, about these pauses.

  ‘You spend most of the day in silence. Why on earth, in some of the few times you come together to speak…’

  ‘To pray.’

  ‘Okay, to pray. But you do it in words, though. Spoken words. Why on earth do you stop for another silence?’

  This had never before seemed strange to me. That we should pause to consider how we might have offended God or brethren was, to me, only sensible. I have been to many churches—fortunately, the local one is not among these—where the priest says something like, ‘Let us call to mind our sins,’ only to launch straight into ‘Almighty God’ or whatever form of confession they use with hardly a pause for intake of breath, let alone calling to mind.

  I responded to the guest, ‘But that is personal silence. A corporate silence…’ He looked puzzled. ‘…by that I mean one we come together to share, is different. And it has a specific purpose. Confession is at the heart of our faith. And forgiveness.’

  Others, I know, worry that this practice is simply a meaningless repetitive routine by rote. Or wors
e, an institutional abuse, a system by which appropriate self-esteem is repeatedly undercut: each time one of us starts to enjoy the air of freedom, one’s head is plunged beneath the water of self-contempt.

  It is undeniably true that some people have suffered, and probably still do, under the tyranny of the sacrament of reconciliation from put-downs that may have been too harshly interpreted. At times I fear I myself have not heard the forgiveness extended by a priest. Or maybe I hold on to some of my failings because of their badness? That part of my past is ultimately beyond the pale. Is there a healthy attitude to this admission of our shortcomings and failures? The Novice Master was adamant in this.

  ‘Don’t think this is just about you. When we pause to check the state of lives, we do so collectively. Our brotherhood is then coming together—yes, and there will be things on your conscience alone—to confess those sins in thought, word and deed. But never consider yourself the speck of dirt in the middle of the universe that cannot be cleaned. That is why it is a community event, confession. In a way we acknowledge we are part of the universal. Sin is personal, collective, societal, communal, corporate, national and global. Arguably universal. “If we say we have no sin we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.”2 So this practice is one of acknowledgment of what it is like to be human. “To err is human. To forgive is Godly.”3’

  I can’t remember the precise time I discerned a shift in my consciousness of moving from the concept of myself as a doer of sins to being a sinner. It is not that I am worthless—far from it, I am not evil; indeed, I am a loved child of God. In my experience only a tiny number of people could ever be considered evil. And then, as Fr Abbot would say, who are we to judge?

  In some ways—and how perverse it seems to write this—an awareness of sin is a state of grace. Knowing we are not perfect, and never can be, frees us to give praise to that unstoppable outpouring of love we call God.

  In the confession we used at the conventual mass—and I was glad to see that it forms part of the liturgy, at least for festivals and ordinary time, at St Matthew’s—there are two threefold aspects. The first is the sin itself. Or, arguably, what causes sin—negligence, weakness and our own deliberate fault.4 The first and third of these seem blameworthy. But weakness? I remember a saying—was it from the 1970s?—‘the devil made me do that.’5 It seems a little too convenient. But weakness is hardly devilment.

  The Novice Master gave an extended lesson in discerning sin once. He was at pains to get his charges to understand that temptation, while not healthy, is not necessarily sinful. It is what flows from it. ‘Temptation is an indicator of the leaning of the heart. Jesus repeatedly tells us that it is what flows from the heart, not from keeping a set of rules, that is paramount. Temptation can lead to sin, yes. So we must be on our guard. But it may not constitute the sin itself.’ Which, strangely, left us a little bewildered in trying to tell the difference.

  And there is the other three: thought, word and deed. Simple enough, you might think. But—and, as they say, there is always a but—how do we count our sins of thought? Word—saying intentionally, even accidentally, hurtful things—needs to be admitted. It is best, of course, done face to face. But that is not always possible. The person you offended may have moved on, been encountered randomly, or even have died. Word I understand. And deed.

  But thought? What constitutes sinful thinking? One novice was clear: it was about lust. That seemed too specific and unfair. And, I suppose, ultimately crippling. Lustful thoughts, though regrettable, are surely only sinful when a deed follows. This is about understanding the difference between temptation and transgression. Or am I being naïve?

  Perhaps so. Because if I am honest, I am sometimes crippled by thoughts of sin. Or the sins that have been, or may have been, committed because of my sinful thoughts. As a human, surely no action or utterance is possible without thought? It may be unconscious. It may come from a deep well of repression, but there must be thought there somewhere.

  As so much sin, so much of my sin, is thoughtful. I recall—sometimes I almost experience a physical twinge—the thoughtless (do I mean that? Haven’t I just written that no sin can be without thought?) actions I have done. At the time with Marian it did not seem that our actions were bad. It just seemed natural. But, as my father said, we had ventured into dangerous waters. And so we were expelled from our fools’ paradise. And Donna, fearful of each physical approach, the last tantamount to assault. How will they ever know the remorse, the regret, the repeated times I have tried to repent of those events?

  Once, during confession, the monk said to me, ‘Brother, how often do you think you need to confess a sin?’ He had obviously heard me speak of the matter before.

  ‘I don’t know, Father. Isn’t it seventy-seven times? Or seventy times seven?’6

  ‘That is about others, as I am sure you know. I want you to go away and read John’s account of the raising of Lazarus. “Unbind him and let him go.”7 That is what Jesus says. And, if you want to walk in the loving grace that God gives to us, you must accept, you must take hold of, the loving release in this sacrament. After absolution I say, “Rejoice and be glad. The Lord has put away your sin. Go in peace.” You are unbound, Brother. But you must also let go.’

  I have thought about that a lot.

  1. I have taken the liberty here of linking this section to the other ones by the Coverdale Psalm reference in the subtitle. Columba’s title is simply In Thought, Word and Deed.

  2. 1 John 1:8

  3. This a variant of ‘To err is humane; to forgive is divine’, attributed to Alexander Pope in his An Essay on Criticism.

  4. This comes from one of the confessions in Order One of the Eucharist in Common Worship, the authorised services used in the Church of England.

  5. A common enough phrase, but I wonder—I have no proof for this—if he is drawing on the American comedian Flip Wilson, who used to get a laugh by using just that catchphrase. It seems unlikely that it never it made it to the United Kingdom.

  6. Columba’s self-quoted response draws on Jesus’s question to Peter in Matthew 18:22.

  7. The extensive account of the raising of Lazarus appears in John’s gospel, Chapter 11. The quote, ‘Unbind him and let him go’ is John 11:44.

  The Narrow Door

  The cord has snapped.

  As I sit in Fr Aidan’s room, I realise now that my anxieties about the end of community life are groundless. In one way our common life died the day we left the enclosure. It had also, does also, cease to be when Fr Aidan, God love him, fails to recognise the rhythm of prayer he has given his life to. Or me.

  Our residence here is no more than it should be—two ageing men, one of whom requires care somewhat beyond the capacities of the other—are easing in the process of leaving the earth.

  The monastery, beautiful as it was, was the mere shell that held the daily round of prayer and work. The fellowship of the brothers, the routine of praise and contemplation, the repetitive and creative tasks the monks gave their time and talents to, are all held in the confines of adopted seclusion.

  Having left those confines, the task for me—in the company, rather than under the guidance, of Fr Aidan, even though he remains my superior—is to seek a way of faithful service. I pray God will assist me in that task, and give me grace to discern what form my life will take in the future, as I expect I shall survive Fr Abbot’s death as I have his mental decline.

  I thought ‘I shall die in my own house,

  my days as numerous as the grains of sand.’1

  This was not to be. But, like Job, I need to press on, as he does in his discourse:

  ‘My roots spread out to the waters,

  with the dew all night on my branches;

  my glory was fresh with me,

  and my bow ever new in my hand.’2

  1. Job 2:18. This translation is from the New International Version, at variance to much of the quotations from Columba who uses, as many ‘modern’ catholics do, the
New Revised Standard Version. After some discussion with the staff at Care Home, I learned that the Gideons had placed Bibles in the home. It may be assumed, then, that Columba was using one of them when he penned this piece.

  2. Job 29:19-20. For some reason Brother Columba reverts to his usual custom of using the NRSV.

  Not With a Bang

  Much of my early life with CSC was spent in discernment. For my brothers, this seemed often an urgent and energy-consuming task. I tended to drift, not through laziness, but, after the shock of arrival, I realised there was much to unravel—and, no doubt, to dry out from some intense experiences of drink and dope. (Even dissolution seemed more innocent then.)

  The recipe was simple. Lots of time in quiet. This could be used in many ways—in the daily tasks the Novice Master gave us (though in the days after my arrival I was master of my own time; I was far from being considered a potential recruit.)

  It was some weeks before I drifted into chapel. What I encountered there evoked a mixture of intrigue and revulsion. A waft of incense, an infectious calm, a kind of comforting danger lurking in the darkness, a couple of silent forms in stalls and one of the floor. It was the beginning of a beckoning, a connecting, a reconnecting with a hidden or, so I had thought, forgotten heritage; or perhaps the beginning of an uncoupling from the false exterior I had come to know as me.

  As I eased into a new calm, digging in the garden, collecting fruit from the orchard, weeding, collecting and arranging flowers—much of my initiation was in the open air—I found myself asking myself the question, ‘What are you going to do with your life?’

  The focus of concentration at some stage moved inside, both of buildings and myself. The still of the chapel had a seductive quality; it seemed a place that had a siren voice. The monks there in prayer/contemplation/meditation moved from threat to invitation to do no more than join them in silence. The calm was tinged with contagion. Yet the calm that beckoned me seemed to increase even when there was no-one in the chapel. Stillness began to call me and, in time, become part of me.