‘It will destroy you if you try to contain it,’ he said. ‘You must allow it to break. If it destroys you, well, I will be with you. There is no more holding it in, my child.’
There was a moment when the abbot felt the power of that black tide of grief rising in Francis’ soul; when the two of them were arrested in the awe of the moment before it crashed. Then Francis’ whole body convulsed like a man vomiting, his hands gripping desperately in the folds of Peregrine’s tunic. His mouth was forced wide open in a silent cry of agony, his eyes screwed shut as the thing ripped through him. It left him sweating and shuddering, his mouth slack and trembling, his eyes dazed and dully oozing tears. He moaned softly like a labouring woman. Then, in the wake of the first crashing wave, poured out the flood-tide of his grief. The pathetic bravery with which he had fought it so long lay splintered like matchwood, floating dispersed on the dark sea that swept him away. There was no way now to combat the bitter sorrow or master the pain. It was too much for him.
‘Oh…’ Francis groaned in misery as he sat back on his heels, struggling unsuccessfully to compose his face and stop the tears. ‘Forgive me the liberty. I… oh…’ he hid his face in his hands, unable to contain his grief, bent double with the anguish of it. Looking down at him, Peregrine realised then and forever that faith and peace come not from believing in God, but from the secret of God’s love hidden in a man’s heart. Surely, my God, he prayed sadly, you will fill this child’s emptiness, have pity on his torment? Father Peregrine watched as Francis fought with his subsiding grief, finally managing to control it, straightened up with a sigh that was half a sob and spread his hands on his knees.
‘There you are, then. This is me,’ he said, with an attempt at a smile that wrung the abbot’s heart. ‘What now?’
Father Peregrine looked at him. He could think of nothing to say.
Francis turned his head aside and looked into the dying embers of the fire. ‘The brotherhood of this community,’ he said, his voice flat and tired in the sad, bruised finality of defeat, ‘is like a lighted room in a house. There is the warm fire of life and fellowship on the hearth, and the brothers are gathered safely round it, and outside it is night. Out in the night is the lonely place of darkness and danger and fear. Do not bad men prowl in the darkness, and wild beasts? Out in the darkness, where no light is, you can stumble and fall on the stones, and the cruel thorns tear at you. I am here in the light and warmth of the house, but I belong in the darkness. I can’t forget the darkness, it draws me. This light, this warmth, this brotherhood—it’s not for me. I don’t deserve it, it isn’t mine. I’m here on false pretences. I don’t belong.’
He looked desperately at Peregrine. He is tortured by this, the abbot thought. I’ve got to say something to help him.
‘If you cannot put the darkness out of your mind, my son,’ Peregrine said slowly, ‘maybe you should face it. Open the door of the lighted room and go out of the house and look at the darkness. What is there?’
Francis hesitated. ‘The restlessness of night. The silence, and strange sounds in the silence. Then—out there in the night, someone… a long way out into the garden, under those big whispering trees somewhere… there is someone weeping… sobbing… groaning. Father, there is someone in such trouble out there. I want to go and see!’ His eyes widened. He was really seeing it.
‘Go on then.’ It seemed so real that Father Peregrine felt as curious as Francis did.
‘Oh! There are stars. The darkness is not as black as I had thought. I had forgotten the stars. It’s a garden with shrubs and trees, dark shapes. I can smell the perfume of the flowers. And someone is crying in the darkness in bitter distress. I can’t find him. I’m searching for him, looking everywhere. Wait—there, under the trees. A man, crouching, bowed down to the ground. Oh, the loneliness of him. He’s broken. He’s—he’s afraid. I’ve never seen a man in such despair… I must go and… oh, God, it’s Jesus! Out here, all alone. Jesus… he was out here even before I came out. He was out here all the time, in the lonely place where abandonment and fear belong. He has always been here. I think it… it is Gethsemane.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Peregrine in fascination. Brother Francis looked at him incredulously. ‘Do? Stay with him, of course. I can’t leave him alone in this distress. I couldn’t just abandon him. Jesus, my heart, my love… his courage is the hearth for the night. As long as he is here, the darkness is home. The outside has become the very centre. Jesus… my Lord, and my God.’
The tension and pain had drained out of him; his face was soft and rapt, lost in the vision. His eyes, no longer haunted, were brimming with wonder and tenderness.
There was something Peregrine wanted to know. He hesitated, reluctant to intrude on Francis’ contemplation. Then he said, ‘The door of that house—did you shut it behind you when you went out?’
‘No. I was scared to go out. I wanted to leave a way back in. You can shut it behind me now. I’ll be all right here.’
He knelt a moment longer, and sighed deeply, amazingly at peace. For a few seconds, time had tipped over into eternity, and they were in the place where angels come and go. Then Brother Francis looked up at his abbot with a grin.
‘There’s the Office bell now. My foot’s gone completely dead, kneeling here. I’m going to have the most wonderful pins and needles when I stand up. I’ll limp along to chapel with you if that’s—oh I’m sorry, Father, that was tactless.’
Brother Francis blushed as the abbot bent to pick up his wooden crutch, stood up and leaned on it. Peregrine laughed at Brother Francis’ mortified face as he scrambled to his feet.
‘We’ll limp together then, my son,’ he said.
As they walked along the cloister, Father Peregrine glanced at Francis’ face, which had the same intelligence and humour, the same firmness—everything the same but for red eyes and a red nose—but resettled now into a new context of peace. The same but all different. The same man but reborn.
‘The Christ you saw,’ said Peregrine quietly, ‘that is the Christ I love. All his life he lived pressed on every side by human need, and he met the weariness and testing of it with a patience and humility that silences me, shames me for what I am. But in Gethsemane, I see Jesus crumple, sobbing in loneliness and fear, crushed to the ground, pleading for a way out. And there was none. I cling to that vision, as you will. That sweating, terrified, abandoned man; that is my King, my God. Such courage as I have comes from the weeping of that broken man.’
Brother Francis reached out one finger and gently touched the abbot’s hand. They went into the chapel in silence, each to his own stall. Father Peregrine pulled his cowl up over his head, and sat gazing as he always did at the great cross that hung above the altar. ‘How did you do it?’ he prayed in silent wonder. ‘How did you do so much without doing anything? How did you lift the man out of that torturing agony of grief and fear just by consenting to bear the same torture, the same lonely agony? Suffering God, your grace mystifies me. You become weak to redeem me in my weakness. Your face, agonised, smeared with dust and sweat and blood and spit, must become the icon of my secret life with you. The tears that scald my eyes run into your mouth. The sweat of my fear glistens on your body. The wounds with which life has maimed me show livid on your back, your hands, your feet. The peace you win me by such a dear and bloody means defeats my reason. Lift me up into the power of your cross, blessed Lord. May the tears that run into your mouth scald my eyes. May the sweat that glistens on your body dignify my fear. May the blood that drips from your hands nourish my life.’
Father Peregrine watched Brother Theodore take his place beside Francis, saw him rest his hand gently a moment on Francis’ shoulder, having seen in his face the signs of recent tears. The abbot watched the shyness of the smile with which Francis acknowledged Theodore’s gentleness. Ah! Yes! He has allowed himself to remain vulnerable, the abbot rejoiced. Then as the cantor lifted his head to begin the chant, Peregrine sped one last private prayer to the
Almighty—‘And of your goodness, dear Lord, help me to think of some sensible explanation to offer Father Matthew.’
‘Deus in adjutorium meum intende,’ and the brothers responded ‘Domine ad adjuvandum me festina.’
Mother fell silent then. I looked at her, sitting in her chair in the candlelight, her hands folded quietly in her lap, her eyes still seeing people and places far away as she gazed at the candle flame.
‘What do those Latin words mean?’ I asked.
‘Mmm? What?’
‘Those Latin words you said at the end of the story. What do they mean?’
‘They mean, “Oh God, come to my assistance. Oh Lord, make haste to help me.” It’s the versicle and response from the beginning of the Office.’
She sat a moment longer, thinking, then she said, ‘I have always loved that story. It was that story which first taught me that we can offer no solutions, no easy answers, to other people’s tragedies. We can only be there. It is Jesus they need, not us, and even he offers no answers. He offers himself. It is when people find their way through to him that the pain of their life becomes the pain not of death, but of birth. A thing of hope. Hark at me, rambling. It must be late—look, this candle was a new one and it’s half burned away. Let’s go downstairs. Therese and Daddy will be thinking we’ve fallen asleep up here.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Beholding the Heart
‘Tell me a story, Mother,’ I said one Sunday afternoon. We had been doing a jigsaw puzzle while the rest of the family were out walking the dog on the hill after lunch. ‘Tell me a story about Father Peregrine.’
But the telephone rang just then, so I went into the kitchen to answer it. It was my friend Helen, wanting to know about our geography homework, what it was and whether it had to be in on Monday or Tuesday. While I was talking to her, there was a knock at the front door. I heard Mother opening it and saying, ‘Hello, Elaine! This is a surprise. Come in.’
My heart sank, because I knew once Elaine got going she would probably talk for ages and ages. After I had finished my conversation and put the phone down, I went and popped my head round the door.
‘Shall I make coffee, Mother?’
Mother nodded, but didn’t speak, because Elaine was talking already. So I made three mugs of coffee and took them in. I thought that if I was there too she might go a bit sooner.
Elaine looked a bit pink-eyed and sniffy, as though she’d been crying. She was telling Mother that she had decided to leave our church.
‘I didn’t want to go without saying a word to anyone,’ she said. ‘Keith and I have prayed and prayed about this. Every time we open our Bible, it falls open at the book of Jeremiah, about how the people of God are deceived and idolatrous. I think God is trying to tell us something about our church.’
‘Maybe…’ said Mother cautiously. ‘Of course, the book of Jeremiah is very near the middle of the Bible. It probably would keep coming open near there.’
Elaine shook her head sorrowfully. ‘I wish I could think it was only that, but this morning in my Bible notes, the reading was from Jeremiah. It said, “Of all the wise men among the nations, in all their kingdoms, there is no one else like you. They are senseless and stupid, and they are taught by worthless idols.” I don’t think I can ignore it any longer. God’s word to us is so powerful and clear. Keith and I have been longing—you know we have—for months and months for our church to move on with God, and it just isn’t. The Holy Spirit isn’t there. It’s so dead. We have to face the fact that God has moved on and left us behind, and Keith and I want to move on with him. So we’re going to start worshipping at Hill Street Baptist Church. We’ve been there a few Sundays, and the Holy Spirit is really moving there.’
Mother sipped her coffee. ‘Do you really think God has left our church, Elaine?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think he was ever there. Just look at it! Father Bennett’s so awful and Father Carnforth’s so old. We never sing anything but dirging hymns. We should be dancing and singing and raising our hands to God in praise. The Bible says we should.’
‘Well, why don’t you then?’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. You just can’t. It’s so inhibiting, so dead. You understand really, I know you do.’
‘In a way, yes. I do like hymns though, and I can’t see why Father Carnforth being old means that our church is dead, but I can see that Hill Street would suit you and Keith better.’
‘It isn’t a question of what we want for ourselves. If it was only us, of course we’d stay. It’s what God wants that counts. It’s been such a hard decision for us.’ Elaine’s nose went very red, and her eyes filled with tears. She blew her nose, and carried on, ‘I haven’t been able to sleep a single night this week, but God is moving on and he won’t wait forever. Either you move with him, or you get left behind, and our church just isn’t moving with him.’
Mother looked a bit sceptical, but she didn’t say anything. She drank some more of her coffee.
‘I’ve been thinking about what Jesus said to his disciples,’ Elaine went on. ‘He said that if anyone would not listen to their words, they must shake the dust off their feet and move on. Keith and I have been to Father Bennett and challenged him about the baptism of the Holy Spirit, and he was very rude to us.’
‘You talked to Father Bennett about baptism in the Holy Spirit?’ said Mother. ‘My hat! What on earth did he say?’
‘He just dismissed it. He said it was all a fad. He said all Christians had the Holy Spirit or they wouldn’t be Christians.’
‘Well, you have to admit, there is something in that,’ said Mother.
‘In a way, but you know there’s more to it than that. It was you who first taught me about the Holy Spirit. So anyway, Keith and I have challenged him, and he has been confronted with God’s word and rejected it. So we’re shaking the dust from our feet and moving on with God.’
Elaine went quite soon after that. She didn’t stay as long as usual. As she was leaving, the rest of the family came home, and then it was teatime and after tea Mother went to church.
At bedtime I went up and sat with her as she put the little ones to bed. I sat on the floor, watching the candle flame as it moved in the slight draught.
‘Is it true what Elaine said, Mother?’ I asked, once the little ones were settled down in bed.
‘About what?’
‘That God moves on, and won’t wait for us. If we can’t keep up with him, he’ll leave us behind.’
‘No. It’s not true.’
‘How do you know?’ I needed to be sure. I felt a bit afraid at the idea that I had to keep up with God.
‘I know because… well, if God moves on like that, who is it that picks me up when I stumble and fall? Someone does, and it feels a lot like Jesus. What about the story you wanted, Melissa? Shall I tell it to you now?’
‘In a minute,’ I said slowly. ‘With the Bible… it is God’s word, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Mother replied firmly.
‘Well then, Elaine might be right, mightn’t she? Jesus did say that thing about dust.’
‘He said it, yes, but he said a lot of other things too that Elaine might more usefully take note of. A funny thing happens with the Bible, Melissa. It acts a bit like a mirror. People who come to it resentful and critical find it full of curses and condemnation. People who come to it gentle and humble find it full of love and mercy. The truth of God is not a truth like “cows have four legs” is true. God’s truth is him, himself. There are no short cuts. You have to get to know him. If you try to use the Bible like a fortune-telling game, it just bounces your own ideas back at you. God won’t let us use him like that. It’s all right, Melissa. He understands our weaknesses and our mistakes. He does love us. He’ll wait for us to catch up—even Father Bennett. He’s not going to dump us like that.’
I sighed. ‘Tell me the story. Whose story is it?’
‘There’s a bit of everyone in this one. Brother Theodore and Father Peregrine and Fathe
r Matthew mostly.’
‘I like Brother Theo. Go on then.’
I lay down on the floor with my head on Beth’s mattress, watching the candle flame as Mother began her story.
People have different ways of protecting themselves. Brother Francis had chosen to protect his vulnerability with a smile. Brother Cormac was like a hedgehog, making his soft belly invisible and exposing to the threatening world a back full of spikes. Both those ways are quite good ways of protecting yourself. They help you to cope when life’s upsets seem more than you can face. But to protect yourself like that has a few drawbacks when the soft, vulnerable part of you has a wound. The hedgehog is wise to bristle against attack, but if his soft belly is wounded, sooner or later he needs to uncurl and let someone salve it, dress it, heal it. The one who, like Francis, hides his vulnerability with a shield, a mask, a smile, is protected more or less from wounding, but not of course from the wounds behind the shield—the wounds he already has. Sooner or later he has to lower the shield, to let the physician see and touch the sore place, if he wants it to be cleaned and bound up and soothed.
Father Peregrine’s defence was his dignity of office—there was a certain refuge in being the competent, authoritative abbot of his community—but he too, for his soul’s health, and for the sake of truth, needed from time to time to allow someone to see him, know him in his weakness and his human reality. There are, though, some people who—for whatever reason—cannot seem to protect themselves successfully, and Brother Theodore was one of those. He grew up through a miserable childhood in a home where he was a misfit, beaten and disliked; and he never found an adequate way of protecting himself. Francis had his smile, Cormac had his fierce bad temper, Peregrine had his aristocratic authority. Theodore had only his clumsiness. It was as though misery had numbed him. When a man’s fingers are numb with cold or illness, he drops things, blunders, becomes butter-fingered—and that was Brother Theodore. Father Peregrine had found and touched and gently bandaged the wound behind the clumsiness; but of course we are what we are, and not even Father Peregrine could wave a magic wand for Brother Theo and change him instantly. For those like Brother Francis and Brother Cormac, once someone has been let near the hurting place, and allowed to touch it and help the pain, then their ways of protecting themselves against more hurt are quite useful.
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