THRESHOLD OF THE HOUSE OF GOD (Our Lady of Silence)

 

I can’t stop writing in my head. It’s like everything I experience; I’m thinking about how I will write it. Or take a photo of it.

And so, it is now, here in Our Lady of Silence Abbey where I’m spending two nights. The thought came to me in the chapel in Dundrum the other day when I was finding my mind to be rather frazzled and in need of some release. The time here is also an opportunity for me to say a personal farewell to a place that has blessed me for more than fifty years.

We would come here occasionally on Sundays when we were students in Thurles in the 1970’s. I’ve always been attracted to the monastic and also to the fabulous brown bread that they used to bake here. We came here for our diaconate and ordination retreats in 1979 and 1980. The former took place during Holy Week when we had our feet washed by the then Prior Father Laurence who is still here in his nineties. A pillar of this community. At the washing of the feet he kissed our feet, something I had never seen before and something I have practised as a priest through the years, most consciously during my years in Shankill and Hastings.

There’s a Cross in the church here that was inspired by Father Aodhan and created by two transition year students. It’s made with fragments of mirror, and the idea is that when you look at it you see the reflection of your own brokenness. So, I looked and I saw and it is a very accurate portrayal of how I am feeling. My fragmented, fractured head.

And I cannot really fathom why I’m feeling this way because I am living an idyllic life at the moment between Dundrum and Shankill. But I am assailed by a terrible sadness and am moved to tears by all sorts of things. It’s not all my own sadness as far as I can tell. Some of it is what I am picking up from other people – their illness, brokenness, and distress. You see it on the Luas on the way to St. James Hospital. Really fractured lives. You see it in the hospital itself. You hear its distress and sometimes the violence of it. It’s not all distress because some beautiful kindness emerges through it.

When I entered the monastery church yesterday, I told myself not to over-reach, not to seek what is not mine but to simply receive what is given. Because I want the monastic experience to be amazing and I am in danger of exaggerating it in what I write, and I exaggerate because I am a storyteller. It’s what we do for effect.

I overreach in so many situations, like Adam and Even in Eden reaching out for the fruit that is not theirs to take. I do it with my family, wanting more from them than they can give, ending up disappointed when I do not get what I feel I need from them. Hurt even. And I do not understand the world that we live in. Many of its ways are alien to me and I find myself somewhat lost.

I get angry about Irish politics. Catholic Irish politicians who promote, implement and support laws that are completely at odds with the Gospel of Christ. I get frustrated that some of these are lay ministers in Catholic parishes. I get very frustrated when an Irish politician who helped introduce abortion is given a private audience with Pope Leo, and it’s all smiles, while the ordinary person in the pew will not gain such access.

And I get angry with myself for being so frail in so many ways, at so many levels of my being. Things unseen to others, known only to God.

And the passage of time touches me profoundly, the realization of how much I have lost and am still losing. I stood outside the monastery cemetery yesterday, resting my head against the railing, and realized that I know more monks who are dead than those who are alive. In fact, I hardly know any of the current monks at all. Looking at the simple black crosses that bear the names of the deceased – Brother Nivard, Father Nivard, Father Anthony. Most precious memories, especially of Brothers Peter and Dominic. Dominic looked after me when I spent three weeks here back in 2002. Last time I met him would have been shortly before he died and that was a beautiful moment.

Beautiful is how I would describe the celebration of Mass here this morning. Totally simple and utterly beautiful. And the warmth of connecting with the monks. Brother Seamus with the kind and relaxed countenance brought me to the sacristy, having been told by the gentle Father Bavo from Indonesia that I wanted to concelebrate. The monk to my left at the sign of peace, gazed at me with such stillness. Afterwards I was introduced to Father Eamon who was once Abbot of Mellary and Abbot General of the Cistercians and is now a regular monk who looks so bright and vibrant at the age of eighty.

When I phoned here the other day to ask if I could stay for two nights, I was told that, though there was accommodation, there was a problem. The problem being that there is a group here doing a silent retreat. Would I have a problem with that? Absolutely not I said. So, they are silent and I am silent. We eat in silence and I have a table to myself. The food is excellent, plentiful, and comforting. Dympna is the chef who pours an abundance of motherly kindness into our food which is served by Dominic.

The silent group turn out to be the Foyer of Charity, a group that I associate with our own Father Liam O’Donovan who was with them before joining the Pallottines and he has often talked about Father Cillian who is leader of the Foyer in Ireland. After breakfast, when most of the others had left, I introduced myself and it turned out that his companion recognized me from Youth 2000 days.

But the Foyer too, apart from being a positive encounter, has taken me back to 2001 when I went on Pilgrimage to Paray-le-Monial and part of the journey brought us to the original Foyer on the eve of Maura’s second anniversary when I was still seriously distressed at the loss of her. Barely coping in fact. And yet with that pilgrim group we also had great laughter mixed in with our shared sorrows. And of course, I was instrumental in releasing the pent-up sadness of that group. As I do! I have a reputation for making people cry!

So, this day is moving on. My only plan has been to live one monastic day of prayer, simply participating in the seven Hours, plus Mass, allowing the Psalms to carry me through.

At the 4am Vigils this morning I was surprised to hear the words of Psalm 16 floating down to me from the choir. Surprised because that psalm would not be part of the regular Office of Readings as I know them. “O Lord, it is You who are my portion and cup.” This has been the theme of my life as a priest and every time I hear it in a surprising way like today, it is like a confirmation from God that all is well. It is a line I pray myself every day. “It is You…” kept leaping out at me, the many many times it occurred during this morning’s Vigils.

There’s a Divine Silence that hangs in the air at the end of every prayer period here. Just Divine! And then you emerge into the 5am wonder of the dawn chorus which is another hymn of creation to our God. Utterly stunning in this place where the trees are at their absolute best.

The other line that leaped out at me after I arrived yesterday is, “This is my resting place forever, here have I chosen to live.” God’s resting place and mine, and part of me would love this physical monastery to be the place where God dwells in me, but I know in fact that I do not belong here in a permanent way and that God’s resting place is not confined to any place, however wonderful. I am His resting place. You are.

The plan is for the monks here to move to Melifont because they are too few and getting too old to maintain it. Chatting with Father Bavo about this, we talked about how difficult is can be to leave the place that you love. Difficult for him to think of leaving here. Difficult for me leaving Hastings. But he lifted up his eyes respectfully towards the heavens and said nothing. It is in God’s hands. We are in God’s hands.

"One day within Your courts I prefer...the threshold of the House of God I prefer..."

PS. 

I went back to the mirror cross, looked again and read more of the meaning which says something like each piece on the cross also represents an expression of the Divine that is within the person, i.e. me in this case.