by Nicolas Diat
While continuing the account of the life of his predecessor, Dom Olivier wanted to tell me more about the unique relationship to death at Cîteaux. “In 1969, he resigned from his abbatial office. He was very tired, and he was truly depressed. Africa allowed him to rebuild himself. The holiest people can have large rough patches. One always imagines the monk in a sort of apatheia. In one sense, Épinal’s image is not wrong. But one must never forget that monks get off track. Faith is like a little trickle of water that no longer manages to quench their thirst. Saint Therese of Lisieux had suicidal temptations. She even said that one should never leave medications within reach of the sick. The little Normand was up against a wall. She departed young, but she had an exceptional death. The Carmelite gave up her last breath pronouncing the name of Jesus, and the birds began to sing. In chapter 4 of his rule, ‘The Tools for Good Works’, Saint Benedict invites the monks to have death before their eyes every day. He goes on to ask them to keep a great desire for eternal life. For our founder, death and heavenly life are intimately connected. The Benedictine goal in death is eternity. Benedict of Nursia speaks of a longing for eternal life. This hope takes shape on the day of the funeral. The funerary liturgy of the monks is exceptional. We are joyful. The faithful are always struck by the peace that emerges from our ceremonies. The monks’ bodies, with their faces uncovered in their cowled robes, are carried to the cemetery to the sound of hymns. By reciting Psalm 113, we symbolically express our departure from Egypt for the Promised Land. Sometimes families worry about these traditions, especially that the body of the monk is not placed in a coffin. For us, the corpse is a seed that goes down into the earth. It will bear fruit. Death is entirely enlightened by the mystery of faith. The families accompany us to the grave. After the burial, I always speak with the relatives of the deceased. I am struck to see how much people are affected. People are no longer sad because they understand that a life has just joined the Lord.”
Dom Olivier found himself in the same situation at the death of his uncle, Brother Rémi. He was a monk at Cîteaux. Dom Olivier’s parents had asked Brother Rémi to be the godfather of their son. Brother Rémi had refused because he already wanted to enter Cîteaux. Destiny wanted Dom Olivier to follow in his footsteps until his death: he died in 1986, the day of the fortieth birthday of his nephew. He was tired, and Brother Olivier had remained all morning in his room watching over him. Brother Rémi departed during the midday meal. At the end of lunch, the Father Abbot Loys Samson approached Brother Olivier and told him gently: “Brother Rémi has just died. It is your birthday present. You now have a godfather close to God.”
Brother Rémi had received Extreme Unction, conferred on persons whose health raises serious concern. The Father Abbot has time and again observed the efficacy of this sacrament in the sick. It is a sacred act that can calm fears and give peace. Thus, at the beginning of 2017, the community gathered around Brother Hadrien in the oratory of the infirmary. He was ninety-five and walking with more and more difficulty. Brother Hadrien did not want a medically equipped cell. This old Cistercian was afraid of the infirmary, which he associated with suffering and death. He never went to see the sick. One morning, he fell out of his bed. Alone, he had to stay on the ground a long time. The monks feared that the problem would be repeated. When Brother Hadrien at last decided to go down to a medically equipped room, Dom Olivier suggested he receive the sacrament of the sick. He responded without difficulty: “As you wish, Father Abbot.” Since then, he has been in his new situation. He did not take anything to his new room. Thanks to the radio system, he can listen to all the offices as well as the Chapter meetings and the reading in the refectory. The brother is not bored. He is alone with God. According to Dom Olivier, Brother Hadrien has never known such peace of soul and mind.
A few years ago, Dom Olivier asked medical professors from the Dijon University Hospital to come speak to the monks about palliative care, life-prolonging interventions, and sedation. He has not yet been directly confronted with these problems. He knows, however, that communities have to face them.
Naturally, the monks of Cîteaux are convinced that they must accept that God can come to take them at any moment. If doctors asked to take a very old brother in critical condition to the hospital, it is highly likely they would refuse. The monks will always prefer that a religious be able to die in the abbey. Dom Olivier cited the example of Brother Félix. He did not want to go to the hospital anymore. In the ambulance that was taking him to Dijon, he considered that it was not the disease that would cause him to die, but the loads of medications he would be asked to take. He did not want additional care. He was eager to see God. The rule of the monks of Cîteaux is simple: one has to die someday.
At the end of the afternoon, we went to the large abbey cemetery. At the bend of an avenue in this solemn enclosure, Dom Olivier turned to me and said: “The hardest death is the little daily death, when we are perfectly healthy. In life, we go from one death to another; they prepare us for the ultimate end. Little deaths of the ego are the big deaths, and they allow for a good death. Why do some monks experience more difficult deaths than others? I cannot explain to you the reasons why God distributes our final trials so unequally. Perhaps monks carry for others humanity’s fears and anxieties. One day, my father told me that he was not afraid of death. I told him that this was not a sign of holiness. Peaceful deaths are not necessarily the most holy. Good monks can experience anxieties when they embark for heaven. How did our brother Cistercians in Tibhirine die? We are almost certain they were beheaded. Who can know if they were afraid? Their spiritual battles must have been terrible. Satan is present up until the final moments. He does not ease his infernal grasp. Why does God allow the devil to act as he pleases? Lucifer loves to sow trouble and despair. He is a monster of pride. But God has the last word. Acedia is one of the great trials of monastic life. Prayer becomes burdensome, lectio divina is impossible, communal life no longer makes sense. All monks have walked these rugged paths. Perfect monastic roads do not exist. One day or another, there is a kind of point of exhaustion. It is the moment of outcry, and it is a decisive time: ‘Lord, save me!’ The example of the Carmelites of Compiègne standing on the scaffold singing is enlightening. A monk might die alone; he is already in the Communion of Saints.”
Some hours later, I met Brother Philippe. He had been the infirmarian at Cîteaux for many years. Ascetic, mystical, serious, Brother Philippe resembled Saint Maximilian Kolbe. Quickly, I realized I was in the presence of a man of extraordinary strength and courage. Brother Philippe was fifty, and he was already a master.
He himself lived through significant physical trials. One day, he went to find his abbot: “Father Oliver,” he said to him, “I feel like a have a growth in my head.” The tests revealed a benign tumor situated between the brain and the cerebral cortex. Brother Philippe continued his work up until his departure for the hospital.
After the operation for this acoustic neuroma, immobilized for a week in a hospital bed, he was overcome by violent headaches: “My trial was sent by God so I could grow in love and trust. All life is a school. I knew I was going to get through another stage of my life without knowing the content.”
Should the monks reflect on death or on the way to live their death? For Brother Philippe, they have first and foremost a passionate and beautiful obligation to love life. I realized that he had learned not to be too afraid of suffering. For him, monks fall asleep in the Lord: “This morning, at four o’clock, we discovered a brother whose varicose veins in his leg had opened. He went into the hall to find me but I had left to open the church. He had placed a little towel around his leg waiting for my return. I had to walk in the blood to reach his bed. The brother was smiling, but he was becoming increasingly pale. I stopped the bleeding; then he was immediately hospitalized. Brother Henri realized he could depart at any moment. He was peaceful. At the end of their lives, men are not much anymore. The worn and withered shells of their bodies have value only for G
od.”
The beginning of our conversation was difficult. Brother Philippe was strangely calm telling me about this elderly monk. I asked him to describe his daily life for me: “I have been at Cîteaux for twenty-five years. I made my solemn profession in 1998, and I have been a priest since 2009. In 1998, the Father Abbot asked me to be responsible for the infirmary. Before entering the monastery, I had never had contact with a sick person. Death was an unknown. I was completely dedicated to my task for ten years. This experience deeply affected me. I accompanied and buried twelve brothers. At the funeral, we dig a hole, about two yards deep. Surrounded by the community, the deceased brothers are lowered into the earth in the arms of the brother infirmarian, who lays them on a simple board. I am charged with standing in the grave to guide the descent of the body. So, I am the last to see the departed, before placing a white veil on his face.” It is an important moment for the monks. In this life, they will never again see the brother whom they have known for so many years.
The great crossing over is the culmination of all monastic life, Brother Philippe insisted on this point: “Death is the moment for which we are waiting. We will die as we have lived. There are also exceptional situations. I accompanied three brothers who proved to be saints at the moment of death.”
Brother Philippe was happy and emotional telling me about the departed monks who mattered in his life. As his story progressed, it seemed to me like a litany of ordinary and sublime deaths.
In 2005, Brother Marie-Joseph died at eighty-seven years of age. Diabetic and insulin-dependent, he died from repeated internal hemorrhaging. He bore the disease without showing anything of his suffering. One day he chose not to take any more pain medication: “I often made time to speak with him. I was trying to understand the exact depth of his suffering. The responses were always the same: ‘The body is dead, but the spirit is living.’ He often quoted Saint Paul in the Letter to the Philippians (3:21): ‘[Jesus will come again] who will change our lowly body to be like his glorious body.’ ”
The crudeness of Brother Philippe’s words might shock. He did not want to hide anything about the hell of physical suffering: “By chance, I discovered that Brother Marie-Joseph was hemorrhaging. While washing him, I thought he was suffering from incontinence, but the rush of blood showed me the problem was more serious. I saw that his days were numbered. We could do nothing more than clean up his blood, which escaped at regular intervals.”
Medical care was perfectly organized at the abbey. The old monk had no remaining family. Brother Philippe was amazed by his faith. The more he suffered, the more he prayed to the Virgin. Brother Marie-Joseph was of Basque origin. Before, in the lavatorium, the Cistercians would hear him singing Marian hymns in his native language. One day, when he was alone in his room, Brother Philippe said to him: “So, Brother Marie-Joseph, are you going to heaven?” The response, spoken in a hoarse voice, was wonderful: “Yes, and it will be a celebration like no other.” Brother Marie-Joseph was at the point of death, and he was joyful. Three days before his death, he again confided to Brother Philippe: “I tried to live the Gospel.”
The moment of his death was difficult. The community had gathered in the room. The assistant brother infirmarian urgently called Brother Philippe to warn him that the hemorrhaging was increasing in intensity. The monks left the room. When Brother Philippe arrived, he realized there was nothing he could do. The final attack was brutal: “There was a rush of blood, and we began to pray to the Virgin Mary. Overwhelmed by suffering, his eyes red, Brother Marie-Joseph was trying to say his prayers. His features were twisted by the pain. I did not think that at this point a face could be so transformed by convulsions. He was lost in prayer and suffering. I was struck by his faith, his courage, his integrity. I felt very small.”
In an abbey, death is not always surrounded by this sense of spiritual grandeur. Brother Philippe insisted on this point: there are no rules in death. However, the end of a monastic life is always a moment of truth. At the approach of the fateful hour, barriers fall. Psychological knots, anxieties, and fears unravel. The brother infirmarian must take it upon himself to accompany this maieutic ending as best he can.
Brother Philippe has always known how to adapt to the different temperaments of the monks. His account of the last days of Father François-Xavier illustrates this in every respect.
Obedient, faithful, gentle, Brother François-Xavier was a Cistercian to his core. At ninety-five, he had retained the energy his youth. He smiled for no reason. Brother François-Xavier never saw the bad. But in the last months, the peace and serenity that had inhabited his heart were lacking. The monk felt he had missed the point of his life. He even thought that we would ask him to leave the monastery. When he returned from a stay in the hospital, he packed his suitcase. The Father Abbot asked him the reason for such a surprising action. He responded: “I must leave. After what I have done. . .” He never wanted to confide the nature of his supposed, reprehensible act. Another day, he went to see Dom Olivier, and he told him: “I’m no longer good for anything. I come to place myself in your hands.” Brother François-Xavier imagined he had become a useless burden for Cîteaux. The monks had never seen him distressed. At the end of his life, he seemed to have experienced a great spiritual battle. Brother Philippe believes that “God clearly asked for a final purification from him. Our Father Abbot likes to remember that Christ himself did not die in tranquility. On the contrary, the Lord died in agony. One evening, I was in his room, and I saw he was agitated. Brother François-Xavier pointed with his finger to some sort of presence behind me. He was terrified by this thing. He could not define what he saw. I prayed my rosary by his side. After our prayers, everything had disappeared. I never understood the origin of his torment. What was the role of psychological delirium in Brother François-Xavier’s troubles? How can we know if he was suffering from a hallucination or an attack of the Evil One? A few days later, he died in peace; he had regained calm and serenity when he breathed his last breath.”
The day when a brother departs, the monks have the custom of getting together to exchange memories of the deceased. The moments that come to the minds of the monks are often beautiful, moving, and luminous.
The story of Brother Marie, the younger brother of Brother François-Xavier, is striking. He was born into the Colas des Francs family. Brother Marie’s character was simple, candid, and very kind. The monks loved him dearly. He had difficulty suffering. Consequently, he had the curious idea of reading a medical treatise by Saint Hildegarde von Bingen, the twelfth-century Rhineland mystic. His interpretations of the Benedictine nun’s texts were sometimes bizarre. For example, he declared that he had to eat handfuls of raw nettles to stay healthy.
The monk had an extraordinary sense of service to the community. Even when he was completely exhausted, he rushed to open the doors of the church for the religious in wheelchairs. He loved his brothers with a pure love. Eight days before his death, the Father Abbot left Cîteaux to go visit the Norwegian foundation. Since Brother Marie was very tired, Dom Olivier told him: “For the love of heaven, do not depart for God until the end of my trip.” The Brother knew the exact day of his return. At the very moment when Dom Olivier passed through the beautiful abbey gate, Brother Marie gave up his last breath. The monks were greatly impressed. Brother Marie was leaving as he had lived. Without noise, without affectation, without sorrow.
Among the sick whom Brother Philippe cared for, Brother Jean-Marie occupies a special place. He wanted to be like Therese of Lisieux, who said: “I do not die, I enter into life.” However, like the little saint of Lisieux, he felt abandoned by God. At eighty, he was diabetic and bedridden. At the approach of death, he was lost in anxieties and endless obsessions. His life as a monk, however, had been joyful and peaceful.
In the infirmary room, he spoke to Brother Philippe about his suicidal thoughts. Dom Olivier did not understand the darkness of these impulses so foreign to Brother Jean-Marie’s temperament. The monk spoke easi
ly enough about his torments, but no one succeeded in helping him. He could become aggressive. Brother Philippe was worried, but remained convinced he would never take action.
His despair caused a stomach ulcer that worried the doctors. Completely worn out, he fell into a coma that lasted a week. He continued to show signs of distress and agitation. With the help of a psychiatrist friend, Brother Philippe tried to soothe him. At the suggestion of the community’s doctor, he was given injectable Tranxene as well as some strong painkillers. It was not possible to obtain the consent of the brother, who could no longer communicate.
At the end of seven days, the monk opened his eyes, and, without seeing the infirmarian, then alone with him in the room, he exclaimed: “My Lord, my God and my All. . .”, then he fell back to sleep. The following day, his ulcer burst. “There was a spurt of blood, from his mouth, a yard and a half long. I was not prepared for such violence. The brother who should have helped me did not respond to the bell I was desperately ringing to call for help. Without faith, I would not have been able to hold on. Praying intensely, and holding his head, I took a towel to mop up the blood.”
Before falling asleep forever, Brother Jean-Marie and Brother Marie knew great suffering. But at the moment of death, their eyes were illuminated in an exceptional way. They were transfigured. Brother Philippe had never seen such transparent eyes. “There are no words to describe the purity that inhabited them. They had gone through the roads of purification through suffering. God was already with them. In a flash, the hardship of pain had given way to the infinity of joy. I can still see the light of their eyes. I will never be able to forget that sublime color which was no longer human.”
Brother Philippe experienced equally difficult crises and similarly divine wonders with Brother Laurent. Aggressive leukemia carried him away. He died one month after receiving the diagnosis. His life was nothing but a bed of pain. During those few weeks, he never complained. Every day, Brother Philippe had to replace his bandages: “His legs, and especially his calves, rapidly turned into necrotic sores. Every day, I had to spend a short hour at his feet, while he was seated in the chair, undoing, as gently as possible, the bandages of the previous day, which stuck to the sores, despite all precautions, and applying new ones to him. The leukemia prevented the regeneration of his skin, and the open sores spread over the entire surface. I knew I could not cure Brother Laurent, but only give him some relief. This feeling of impotence was difficult. The doctor and the dermatologist could not stop the work of the necrosis.”
