The Rest Is Silence

by Kevin Scully

  It was, for some, more evidence that things would never return to the glory days. Sensing the disquiet, Fr Abbot said, ‘I don’t want to invoke the rule of obedience. That is not my way. But it is part of my office to give oversight, not for ruling, but to reflect reality of life in our community. Brothers, we need to see that this change is inevitable. To hanker for what is lost is not to see the moment of now. It is nostalgia. Wonderful as it was, it can be no longer. It is certainly no fault of Brother Music. Or, indeed, of ourselves. So we must look ahead. For some it means taking up new things, adapting to new technologies. For me, change is an acceptance. We are greyer. We are more stooped. And we are fewer. Change is upon us in the bodies and the body of our community. It is wise to embrace it. We will now need to be attentive, maybe even for the first time, to the discipline of speaking all our prayers.’

  Grumbling continued for a while. Predictably—or should I have written ironically?—the voices of discontent were loudest from those from whom the bloom of vocal tone had most noticeably deserted. When they accepted Fr Abbot’s instruction, as we were bound to do, the Offices began to assume a gentler, coherent phase. But it, too, seemed like a living an Agatha Christie novel as, one by one, we found our ranks reducing in number even further.

  When Fr Aidan could no longer manage the various Office books the lot fell to me. Singing a song in a strange land is hard enough. In this old people’s home it is a challenge. Saying it alone can be a torture.

  1. Ecclesiastes 12. 1-9

  May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.1

  1. Romans 5:13

  Support Us

  All the Day Long

  Reminders of the fragility of the community could be seen in furniture. It started in the bathrooms: rails by the baths, the corral around the loos. It then crept into public spaces: the doubling of the railings to the stairs; the filling in of gaps on the landings so that no arm would go unsupported.

  Chapter one morning was given over to an extraordinary discussion. Would the Order install a lift, or would some of those who currently had cells in the upper dormitory migrate to the ground floor? The latter won the day, but not without opposition. Some of the community had been in their cells for decades. Why should fragility move them out? Then there were the incontrovertible but pointless points—no such action used to be required; we lived as brothers in all things, even frailty.

  Commonsense won out and so a long, invasive building programme eventuated in the provision of four ground floor cells. The community lost a parlour that had been effectively a reading room near, but separate from, the library.

  Indications of the loss of physical powers even spread to the chapel. Some prayer stools and mats were first replaced by hard chairs, then armchairs and later by open spaces to allow wheelchairs to be drawn up in front of the Blessed Sacrament.

  Other signals were on and in us: some brothers began to sway as they walked, a premonitory posture that a hip or knee replacement would be required; hair turned grey, thinned or vanished; lines appeared on faces; lenses of glasses thickened. Younger or fitter brothers were routinely recruited to push wheelchairs or accompany their elders to hospital appointments. The visit of the local GP to became longer and more complicated.

  All this became more apparent as younger men came in decreasing numbers to test their vocation—a test we increasingly appeared to fail. Some lasted as long as the end of the novitiate. Two even made their profession. But something in them, or us, or the mere chemistry of being a modern monastic failed to gel. For a while we had a series of older men, often after retirement or retrenchment from their worldly professions, who came to live among us. A few of them stuck, but not many. The change of lifestyle was too jarring. For all this, I somehow became the youngest member of the community. But I, too, was getting older.

  Indications of decay were also evident in our cells. The bed, the table, the chair—there was not much to augment. But the time came for some monks when their sleeping accommodation had to be more adaptable. They had difficulties in getting in and out of bed. Clothing, baths, transport became a community issue. Chapter meetings were often given over to consideration of how we could integrate the failing powers of some members into the life of monastery.

  We realised that when Paul had written to the church in Corinth, he was thinking of a loftier connection1, but for us community life was at times very physical. This became more so when Aelred was the first of our number to become incontinent. You could smell him coming in the corridor. What to do? Brother Anthony, who was then Infirmarian, told Chapter he considered this to be part of his duties.

  ‘To a certain point,’ said Father Abbot. ‘But you cannot be expected to bear this burden alone. It is a new development—indeed, an insight perhaps to our future—in the life of the order. We need to learn what to do to help you and’, only just realising Aelred was among us, ‘and Brother Aelred, of course.’ It was perhaps the only time Aelred could have been considered a pacesetter.

  1. 1 Corinthians 12:12-26

  Overheard from one guest to another as they left chapel: ‘If they spend so much time in silence, why do so many of them need to wear hearing aids?’

  Overheard from one guest to another as they left chapel: ‘If they spend so much time in silence, why do so many of them need to wear hearing aids?’

  Though We Are Many

  Father Martin’s crack came at the Offertory during the community Eucharist. He had had his senior moments—we all had—such as when at the ablutions he filled the chalice with wine rather than using a little water. He felt compelled to drink it, believing it to have had contact with the blood of Christ. Having a drunk monk who was supposed to be cooking lunch was a gift the community could have done without that day.

  The Visitor was traditionally the local diocesan bishop. That was until we found ourselves in the pastoral care of a pompous prelate in purple, who loved to hold aloft his episcopal ring as he approached you. Some of our number would go down on one knee and kiss the badge of office on the proffered hand. The bishop clearly got more out of the encounter than we did. After his first visit Father Abbot sought Chapter’s agreement to amend the Rule, as he told us had been done by some radical nuns in Haggerston in East London, to allow us to select our own Visitor.

  Before adopting this variation, the Visitor came into the Refectory and Fr Martin stood by the door, part of the discipline involved in being Brother Kitchen. The bishop stopped, elevated his hand to Martin, who sank to one knee, which gave way and he kept going, collapsing on the floor, taking with him the Visitor, whose face was now the colour of his cassock. The meal was strained after that, especially as Father Abbot had lifted the traditional silence in honour of our guest. Never was Grace after a meal so heartily offered.

  The day of enlightenment as to Martin’s state of mind followed our sharing of the Peace. The brother came forward with the bread and the wine for the mass. Martin looked at him enquiringly. Michael held the gifts slightly higher. Martin nodded. Father Abbot came forward, took the first of the elements contained in the ciborium, placed it on the altar and proceeded to fill the chalice. That too he placed on the corporal. Martin stood immobile. The abbot whispered in Martin’s ear. Another blank look, then a dawning of awareness. He lifted the elements and recited the Offertory prayers, and the mass proceeded without incident until the ablutions. It was a foretaste of the broken love that community living entails.

  Found myself laughing during a hymn at St Matthew’s Sunday service. It was ‘Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence’. It is really a beautiful hymn, but I can never erase the memory of three monks, after a bean supper, all farting loudly at the same time as they as they bowed to the Blessed Sacrament in chapel during Exposition. It has that effect—laughter—every time I hear it.

  Packing Up

  ‘Just take what you need,’ he said.

  I nodded.

  ‘T
he bare necessities.’ This time he barked.

  No doubt it was to shake me out of the overwhelming confusion that must have appeared on my face when the Chair of Trustees had asked, ‘What would you like to take with you?’

  It was this question that sparked the frozen panic. Was I, a lay brother, being asked what were the treasures of St Candida’s? Was I the custodian of goods as well as tradition?

  I thought of all the beautiful furniture, especially those crafted by Father Augustine, the cabinet maker who had a vision, as Joseph and Jesus before him, that timber could be turned into beauty for the use of the devout. His talents complemented those of Brother Kentigern, whose delicate carvings could be found dotted around the House—small Calvaries, angels and the Blessed Mother, surprising little animals under the misericords in the chapel, and his masterpiece, the Stations of the Cross—tiny reminders to the brethren and visitors that while we live in this place, our homeland is in heaven.

  The letter to the Philippians tells us that in word, but two members of our community did so in wood.

  The Chair was in business, well regarded, a member of the House of Lords no less, who had somehow combined commercial ruthlessness with religious compassion. No doubt the latter was being brought to bear as I looked at him, unable to respond to his enquiry.

  The monastery was greatly blessed with religious artefacts, objects of devotion, gorgeously rendered items made by members of the community or donated to it. They were in a way, like the BCP definition of a sacrament, outward and visible signs of inward and spiritual grace. Was it now up to me to decide what was to survive?

  ‘Just take what you need: habits, summer and winter. Clothing, shoes, et cetera. That goes without saying. But what else do you need?’

  ‘An Office book each. A Bible.’

  ‘Good. That’s the spirit. Travel light.’ I realised the Chair’s questions were more immediate than pastoral. Of course, the Trustees had overseen the compilation of a detailed inventory, from which sales, donations and collections would ensue to support the life of what would replace St Candida’s.

  I was reminded that the community, through the agency of Father Abbot, had placed all authority for the disposal of the estate to the care of the Trustees. My first business encounter with the Chair—as distinct from the times he had been a guest on retreat—was when I was summoned to a meeting of the Trustees in Father Abbot’s parlour. Fr Aidan was not present.

  ‘Look, Columba, let’s not beat about the bush. You know we are proceeding in accordance with Chapter’s decision made when you were a little farther back in the unfolding plot of Agatha Christie…’

  I looked blank. I often do with people who speak around the topic.

  ‘And Then There Were None,’ chipped in a smart-suited woman. ‘At least, I think that is still the accepted, if not acceptable, title.’

  A titter went round the room.

  ‘So the Trustees are of a mind to ensure that this community is represented in its decisions…look, I know the Abbot is an ex-officio member of the Board, but we all know that his…’, the Chair paused delicately, ‘…his mental faculties are no longer quite what they were. The foundation documents state that the Abbot must be in priest’s orders and that he is ex-officio a Trustee. But the time has come for pragmatism.’

  It was at this point that I thanked the Board, pleading that my experience in the garden, kitchen, laundry, culminating in the dizzy heights of being Guestmaster, did not really fit me for such important decisions. I told them I trusted them to ensure that whatever decisions they made on the future of the Community of Saint Candida’s treasures—I could not bring myself to replicate the Board’s use of the word ‘assets’—they would be the best equipped for the task.

  I was interrupted by the Chair. He assured me that both Father Aidan and I would be appropriately cared for—finances were sufficiently good for that—and that the accrued benefits of the sale of the monastery, its goods and the like, would be used strictly in accordance with the vision of The Founder.

  I chose two Calvaries, in different woods and from different periods of Brother Kentigern’s work, a small icon of Our Lady written by an Oblate and given to the House, and a prie-dieu each for Aidan and me, the handiwork of Father Augustine. (The second prie-dieu turned out to be a mistake. The Abbot, whose physical powers were beginning to come into alignment with his mental ones, could not make the journey to his knees, even if he had thought to do so.1)

  So it was with our clothing. Sorry, Lord, we did take a cloak and a change of shoes but, by Imelda Marcos standards, it was nothing. I added The Cloud of Unknowing, ensuring it was a version that included The Book of Privy Counsel, Julian of Norwich and Teresa of Avila’s The Interior Castle to the pile of books. As for the rest of the library, which I knew included several valuable and collectible items, I have no idea what happened to them. The Chair assured me that those which could find appropriate homes would, but reasserted that it was the duty of the Trustees to ensure a good return on the assets of the monastery to ensure all costs pertaining to the care of the Abbot and myself could be met, as well as whatever was established in the spirit of The Founder’s vision.

  It seems ironic that what was a vision of flowering growth—and the Community of Saint Candida did flourish—is now on the wane. I bristle at times that the responsibility for overseeing the extinction—supervised, of course, by the able and gifted Trustees—had come down to me.

  Yet Qoheleth gives counsel: ‘In the morning sow your seed, and at evening withhold not your hand; for you do not know which will prosper, this or that, or whether both alike will be good.’2

  1. The redundant prie-dieu now sits in my study in the Rectory. It gets about as much use, shamefully on my part, as it would have if it had stayed in Father Aidan’s room. Though it does come in handy for the use by a penitent now and then.

  2. Ecclesiastes 11:6. Columba has unusually drawn on the Revised Standard Version.

  Papering Over the Past

  The Trustees, I learned, were equally as focussed when it came to archiving paper as they were to the rest of the House’s contents. The books of the library were sent out to interested parties—though the would-be recipients of the benefaction proved to be selective. Monks wrote a lot of books. I suppose they had the time to do so. When the books were printed they made their way to shelves of communities like St Candida’s. While our collection was unusual to the wider world, it was not to those who store or sell such material. Not all literature stands the test of time, and so it was with our holy musings.

  Fr Aidan’s papers were different. They were eagerly taken up by his old college. His personal storehouse, despite the monastic ideal to sit light to belongings and the passing fancies of the world, was extensive. He had been given a storeroom by the Abbot who recognised the young monk’s gifts. This treasure trove had in earlier days been kept in obsessively chronicled detail. This oversight had slipped somewhat over the years as Fr Aidan’s health and mind declined.

  The face of the archivist from his alma mater broke into joy when she saw how much original material lay in Fr Abbot’s store. She also noted that despite the slapdash nature of latter storage, that from earlier times was a pointer not only to Aidan’s thoughts, but his methods. I expect some doctoral student will be crawling over them to pay homage to the many faceted life of Fr Aidan: priest, academic, monk, abbot. Before the catholic movement tottered towards minusculinity such a book would have been a highlight in the publishing world. Reviews would have featured in the secular press, but now would be lucky to get a mention in the Church Times. But with the seemingly relentless rise of shiny new church, and the marginality that religious publishing seems to inhabit, any work on Father Abbot will at best probably find a home in a small academic publisher’s list.

  ‘It’s good to know Fr Aidan’s intellectual contributions are going to be returning to their place of germination,’ the Chair said.

  ‘Father Abbot’s home was here. He cam
e here as a young man to pray and focus his life, and others’, on God,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  And in the same way the disposal of the monastery furniture was settled, a team of packers arrived to take the contents of Aidan’s room to be sifted, catalogued and kept.

  ‘We can provide you with a copy,’ the archivist, a bright eyed woman in her thirties, said.

  ‘He won’t have room for that.’ It was the Chair. ‘He is going to a single room in a care home.’

  She looked at me with concern.

  ‘No. Father Abbot and I are going together. It’s a way of keeping the Order intact.’

  ‘It could be digital. It would fit on a small stick. Eventually, I hope, it will be online anyway. So all you would need is a computer.’