The Rest Is Silence

by Kevin Scully

  The mystery of time—at least within the House—was one I came to share. At the same time each week—after checking and adjusting the accuracy of the timepiece in the chapel (it was, after all, our heart, our spiritual pacemaker)—the Prior would then synchronise all the others in the monastery. At the same time he wound each with a single key, possible by their common manufacture, a task which fell to me among the others as the membership of our order shrank. I wonder if the Trustees found the spare keys. They were appropriately labelled. And I also wonder where those clocks tick now.

  Here there is precious little silence to break. I wonder if I would even hear, as I could in the House, the telltale quarter, half, three-quarter and hourly chimes. Sweet music in a way that made the minutes sacred.

  So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.2

  At times I fail to observe the equanimity I seek. I imagine that I can hear my pulse. Could that even be physically possible? No key can keep the body clock wound up forever. It is a given which, in the fullness of time, will stop.

  1. Ecclesiastes 3:10-15

  2. Psalm 90:12—here Brother Columba chooses to use the Authorised Version instead of his usual NRSV.

  Crisp and Even

  Fr Timothy was a master of death. For years CSC’s Sacristan, his presence (or evidence of having been in the chapel, despite its emptiness) was authoritative. The Eucharistic vessels sparkled, the small linens were radiant; the altar cloths were starched to within a lift of a matron’s arching eyebrow. The atmosphere was calm and beckoning, with just a hint of intimidation.

  The effect was heightened by the efforts of others, albeit under his supervision: those who dusted the stalls and other furniture and those, usually novices on their hands and knees, who polished the chapel floor.

  At one meeting of Chapter a relatively newly professed member of the community—one, I think, with a background in porterage at a hospital—expressed a desire, almost made a public bid, to take on the Sacristan’s duties. Father Abbot was direct: the tasks of the monastery were allocated by him, after taking due account of the skills of the brethren and the needs of the community. That was sufficient to endorse the solidity of Timothy’s reign, one that was to remain unbroken under three abbots.

  The Sacristan’s care for our holy space was never more in evidence than at funerals. Fr Timothy’s immaculate standards somehow seemed to better themselves for a brother’s obsequies. The lustre of the floor, the candleware and vessels was put into relief by the simple, unfinished coffins produced by Fr Augustine until arthritis robbed him of his manual skills. Like so many before him who had to relinquish a personal charism, Augustine was initially at a loss to see how he could fulfil his purpose in community without his beloved carpentry. Fr Abbot tackled the issue at Chapter.

  ‘Father Augustine has made his last coffin for the community. That is both a shame and a blessing. It is a shame because we too grieve with Augustine at the loss of his dexterity. But it is a blessing too, in that those of us who have wanted to be buried along with our brethren in the cemetery have often expressed the desire to do so consigned in one of Father Augustine’s caskets. Some of us have even thought of putting in an order in advance!’ There was a murmur of embarrassed laughter in the Chapter House. ‘But, brothers, it is our task not to plan for worldly events—and death, after all, is a very worldly event—but to praise God as we faithfully seek to walk the road, by his grace, to heaven.’

  Fr Augustine’s simple constructions would be set atop his equally simple and beautifully crafted trestles—I wonder what the Trustees did with all those exquisite pieces? Monastic funerals, as was the case with all ritual at St Candida’s, mixed elements of grandeur and simplicity. Fr Abbot, in a black chasuble embroidered with gold thread by one of the founding fathers, would give the homily which encapsulated a eulogy. This would look back—the life of a monk has its antecedents, though pre-profession seemed to some like ancient history—and forward to the hope of eternal life.

  Then each member of the community would be called forward to use the aspergillum to sprinkle the coffin. After censing the casket, Fr Abbot would chant the commendation and brothers would hoist it onto their shoulders and carry it out to the cemetery. A simple prayer over the grave, the coffin would be lowered into the hole, and Brother Gardener, transformed by the occasion into Brother Sexton, and a couple of others would fill it in while we sang the final hymn.

  As our numbers thinned and our collective strength waned, we found ourselves relying on the services of a local funeral director to provide professional bearers and gravediggers, as well as the simple coffin. Although to us it was still somewhat ornate in comparison with Augustine’s work.

  When it came to Fr Timothy’s turn to take his place in the chapel for his own Requiem, his back story held more surprises than many others.

  ‘Father Timothy left me a brief note,’ Fr Abbot began. ‘It had been written some years ago, well before his recent physical decline. It said, “At my funeral please do not dwell too much on the events of my life. There is not really much to dwell on. And I am uncomfortable with the idea that you may be speaking about me in chapel while I will be before the throne of Grace, giving an account of my life.”

  ‘This, of course, is pure Timothy. Someone who put such effort into appearances—not his own, it has to be admitted, as the monastic habit is hardly for those who want to cut a fashionable dash—not for appearances’ sake, but to allow something greater to happen. His meticulous work as sacristan was Biblically inspired—“all things should be done decently and in order”.1 That should come as no surprise to those who remember that Timothy came to Saint Candida’s as a novice, stepping down from his duties as Maitre d’ at the Connaught in London.

  ‘His attention to detail, his love of work—truly the term “worker-priest” could be used of this, our brother—was for all to see. It not a mark of his pride—and we all carry pride, brothers, for good and ill—to appreciate the gasps of wonder by our Visitor or other episcopal guests when they saw the crispness of the corporal, the sheen of the altar cloth, the sparkle on the brass.

  ‘As we grow together as a community, it is important for us to consider the dual aspects of our calling. We are here to become properly who God wants us to be. We do that as individuals, but more importantly, in our common life. This calls, from time to time, for compromise—something that some of us here are better at accommodating than others.

  ‘Our task is twofold: to be truly who we are, while living with and for those we call brothers. This can seem like a tiny goal, almost miniscule, but I am sure we all know the cost of seeking to walk this path. Father Timothy was among us as a brother. He, as each of us is called to, had to take up his cross daily. In community that cross is both ourselves and each other.

  ‘In my time as Guestmaster I was often taken aback by the rose tinted spectacles through which so many retreatants looked at us. The quiet, the seeming calm, the fellowship of the cloister to them, of course, is exotic. To us it is the grind of daily life.

  ‘Our brother Timothy was not the perfect monk. None of us is, thank God. And surely that is the point. Because the cross we take up daily in community is not just ourselves or others. It is both. It is ourselves in fellowship.

  ‘Let us commend to God our brother Timothy. We remember with fondness his faithfulness, his abilities and skills, and his foibles. As he stands, as he warned me in his note that he would, before the Loving Judge we seek to serve, let us commend him to God’s mercy.’

  Fr Aidan—nor I for that matter—will not have a monastic funeral. I wonder if The Founder ever foresaw that?

  1. 1 Corinthians 14:40

  Be Still and Know1

  Fr Abbot was too unwell to get up today. In fact, he has only been awake for fleeting moments. I spent much of the day in the lounge chair in his room. The radio, no doubt kindly meant by the carers, was not in its usual buzzing, rambling state, perhaps because they had seen me in
the room. The silence was welcome.

  I took a few turns around the various floors of Care Home. That, along with a lap or two around the block to get some air and sun, is what suffices for exercise for me now. I push away memories of long country walks from and to the monastery. The sound of traffic has replaced the rustling of trees and birdsong.

  In the silence—if the rasp that I guessed to be the beginning of Fr Abbot’s decline in breathing could be described thus—I recited my morning Office, as well as a period in private meditation and prayers. I essayed some spiritual reading—Julian of Norwich—but even her assurances that all would be well failed to settle me.

  It was then I realised that since my accompanying Fr Aidan to London’s east end I was routinely in breach of one element of the Rule: that of entering another brother’s cell. There were some exceptions, of course: the Infirmarian in the course of his duties in caring for a brother who was ill; likewise, community members bringing food, or clearing the room on behalf of an incapacitated monk. But these could not be deemed routine or social. A member of CSC kept the spartan accommodation he lived and prayed in clean and clear. It was a discipline that reminded us that we were most free to ponder God in unclutteredness.

  And here I was, day after day, in Fr Abbot’s cell. His sleeping form, the slight rattle in his chest augmented by the pause between breaths, relief from exhaustion, reminded me of waves on a beach—changeable, yet constant, reassuring in their lolling rhythm.

  For a moment I saw myself looking at the breeze coming across from Empire Bay towards the wharf at Bensville. The sheen on the water broke as the wind stirred its surface, a premonition of a stronger blow to follow. And then in my mind, as happens now and then, I was standing on the beach at Macmasters, the sun high at midday, the stillness only broken by that constant roar of the waves. Even then I could be still. Even if I didn’t know.2

  1. This section’s title is a conscious, though fractured reference to Psalm 46, the complete quote from the tenth verse being, ‘Be still and know that I am God’.

  2. I suppose my first annotation somewhat gives away the arc of Columba’s set-up.

  Sins Of The Fathers

  I was in the corridor when I heard a newish carer named Luca speaking with Fr Abbot, who has been reluctant to get out of bed. ‘Come on, dad, give it a go.’ I knocked on the door.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Thanks, but I think we are all right.’ He turned to Fr Aidan. ‘Aren’t we, dad?’

  ‘Please don’t call him that.’

  ‘But,’ said Luca, ‘that’s what you call him. I’ve heard you.’ I looked in surprise. ‘I was just doing the same.’

  ‘I call him Father. He is my father in God, as he is the abbot of a monastery. Or was. And a priest. Which he still is.‘

  ‘I thought he was your father. And that you were, well, a bit standoffish. Formal.’

  ‘Do I look like his son? The age difference is not that great, is it?’ To be honest, I don’t rightly know how old Fr Abbot is. Luca shrugged. ‘So, if you would be so kind, please call him Father. He has been called that for over sixty years.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like he wants to get up though, does he?’ I agreed that Fr Abbot’s rising was becoming something of a challenge.

  ‘Shall I have a go at trying to coax him to get up? Why don’t you come back after you have seen to another resident?’

  Father and son. Imagine.

  Sacred Plots

  I never expected to worry about where my bones would lie. Yet the negotiations between the Trustees and the Robed Buddhists on the sale of the monastery moved the question of my mortal remains from something someone else would deal with to a vexed reality that involved me.

  The Community cemetery lies behind the chapel. The generous vision of The Founder was evident in its expanse: he clearly believed all plots in a vast space would eventually be filled by the brethren. In line with his vision, each new grave was marked by a simple, small oak cross—some now in desperate need of repair or replacement—upon which was carved, and in this he was insistent, the name in religion, the years of birth and death, and the date of the monk’s profession.

  Father Aidan and I are to be buried in this sacred plot. That much is clear. But, given our new steps in our pilgrimage, we will have to return from exile. There is some ache in the realisation that, in the history of our order, we will be the only brothers not to have our funerals in the House chapel.

  The Robed Buddhists did not want to use the graveyard, which was a relief, but they did want to claim some of its unused land. Land that was excess to the designated purpose.

  While acknowledging and accommodating our desire to be laid to rest there, they resisted the Trustees’ suggestion—as I would have done—to open up the graveyard to the monastery’s oblates, associates, sympathisers and friends. While recognising people’s best intentions in wanting to visit the resting place of those they knew and found influential, it risks—as we found with a number of visitors who sought to incorporate the cemetery as one of the places for meditation on retreat—disturbing the rhythm of the monastery. It is a place useful for contemplation, but one for those within the community. (I should add that this view, like many in the cloistered life, was up for dispute at Chapter.)

  Lawyers from both sides came up with a solution. The sticking point was the land had been consecrated. Yet somehow this could be renegotiated. (I am not a lawyer, so I leave interpretation of such matters to experts.) A line was drawn on a map. This would allow eight grave plots to ‘square off’ the cemetery. Two of these were for the surviving members of the Order—Aidan and me. The other six would be a silent testament to The Founder’s hoped-for future and set aside as a place for contemplation. It had always been that. Novices would be sent to spend time there, thinking and praying about the end of this life. It is a practice nearly all of the brethren maintained until they themselves became occupants there.

  Access was the other tricky issue. The cemetery was deep into the confines of the monastery’s lands. No casual visitors would be able to come, as some did while we remained at St Candida’s, to visit the graves of family members or men of spiritual influence. Many of those who returned to the world would come back from time to time to pay their respects, often at the grave of the Novice Master who received, or had to pass on to them, the news that the monastic vocation was not for them.

  So, in so far as one can ever know one’s future, I know my bones will be in the earth of St Candida’s, a place in which I spent much of my life. It will be, much in the same way as Fr Aidan needed to return to Bethnal Green, part of a quest that combined the personal, historical and spiritual. In that, I suppose, there is some kind of resolution.

  A Mysterious Meditation

  Remember your creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come, and the years draw near when you will say, ‘I have no pleasure in them’; before the sun and the light and the moon and the stars are darkened and the clouds return with the rain; on the day when the guards of the house tremble, and the strong men are bent, and the women who grind cease working because they are few, and those who look through the windows see dimly; when the doors on the street are shut, and the sound of the grinding is low, and one rises up at the sound of a bird, and all the daughters of song are brought low; when one is afraid of heights, and terrors are in the road; the almond tree blossoms, the grasshopper drags itself along and desire fails; because all must go to their eternal home, and the mourners will go about the streets; before the silver cord is snapped, and the golden bowl is broken, and the pitcher is broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the cistern, and the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the breath returns to God who gave it. Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher; all is vanity.

  Besides being wise, the Teacher also taught the people knowledge, weighing and studying and arranging many proverbs. The Teacher sought to find pleasing words, and he wrote words of truth plainly.

  The sa
yings of the wise are like goads, and like nails firmly fixed are the collected sayings that are given by one shepherd. Of anything beyond these, my child, beware. Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh.

  The end of the matter; all has been heard. Fear God, and keep his commandments; for that is the whole duty of everyone. For God will bring every deed into judgement, including every secret thing, whether good or evil.1

  1. Br Columba had carefully written out this passage of scripture, Chapter 12, from Ecclesiastes. Clearly he returned to this book repeatedly, as evidenced by the many quotations from it in his musings. That he copied out this passage, the entire chapter—no marks, annotations or commentary—would suggest his effort in doing so was more than a mere passing of time. Perhaps he did it as an aid to memorising it. Though, who is to know? It is, in microcosm, a return to the scribe, repeating the words of scripture, ensuring that it lives for future generations, while meditating on it for oneself.

  Changes

  What changed where, when? And why? That question—or series of questions—is one that has been put to me by friends, guests, spiritual directors and strangers. What made my move from the world to the monastery so urgent and irrevocable? The truth is that, while it may seem sudden and unchangeable, it was actually gradual and a process that could have been deviated from or terminated at any time, with instigation from the Abbot, Novice Master, the community Chapter and, lest people think the individual has no say in a monastery, by me.