Maria asks the brothers about heavenly bliss

 I would like to ask the brothers how they imagine heavenly bliss. Anyone who wishes to answer. What does it look like from their point of view?

*        *        *

 

It’s a really beautiful spring evening — dry, for April. Outside in the abbey gardens, flowers are everywhere in bloom: violets and celandines, primroses and the little wild daffodils. The early plum is in blossom, and the flower buds on the cherry boughs in the infirmary garden are just starting to break, but the apple trees in the kitchen garden are biding their time. In the daytime now, if the wind drops, the sun is gloriously warm, but the nights still come in chilly. Up until the last week or two, the weather has been cold, which has meant the early spring flowers have lasted well, including the ramsons — the wild garlic — that Brother Conradus so prizes for salads and flavouring cooked food. The tri-cornered leek grows abundantly in every nook and cranny, invited and encouraged or not; so just now the kitcheners can call upon both kinds of garlic, and that makes them happy. In the last fortnight the marjoram and mint have come on properly, and the lemon balm, so these can be added in to the pottage; the winter season relying on bay and rosemary and sage is past. 

All of this means that the men around Abbot John’s supper table are feeling relaxed and happy. They are no longer so cold they hardly know how to go on living; and, even though it’s Lent so there’s no meat or fish or eggs or butter or milk or cream, tonight’s pottage and hot herb bread is absolutely delicious. And Brother Conradus has made them a sweet course, rice and ground almonds cooked long and slow in milk from oats, spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon, sweetened with heather honey. They eat it in happy silence. Conradus is a genius; everyone agrees on that.

Brother Thomas has lit a fire on the hearth, a small one because it’s true the year is turning, but nonetheless a cheerful, warming, fragrant addition to the evening.

Even in Lent, wine is not forbidden, and a pilgrim staying in their guesthouse last week brought the abbot a keg of smooth ruby red wine all the way from France; so he has broached it to share with them tonight instead of the usual small beer.

And now he wants to ask them, on behalf of our beloved sister Maria in Russia — any of them, whoever has an opinion on the matter — what is their idea of heavenly bliss? How do they imagine it? 

There are several men gathered around the table — Father Francis the prior, Father Josephus the schoolmaster, Father Theodore the novice master, both Father William and Brother Michael from the infirmary, and Father Felix. It was actually the sacristan Father Bernard whom the abbot had originally invited, but yesterday he went down with a cold, and has gone to bed early, bundled up in a shawl, sneezing. So Abbot John asked Father Felix if he’d like to come along instead, seeing as Felix is now the assistant sacristan.

Brother Christopher felt honestly jealous that both William and Michael were invited to sup with the abbot, but not him because someone has to stay on watch in the infirmary. He sees the sense of it, but can’t help feeling disappointed.

Brother Thomas is there too, of course, after a day out on the farm helping with the new lambs; but he’s waiting on their table. That doesn’t stop him offering his opinion, but only when asked by his abbot.

Heavenly bliss, then. How do they imagine it?

This is met with predictable responses. The abbey gardens and England in spring fairly satisfy their requirements for happiness. What more could you ask? 

Father Theodore volunteers the suggestion that heaven would fall a little short without music, and Father Francis can’t imagine bliss being altogether realised without the scent of roses, and lavender, and maybe also a cat stretched out asleep in the sun.

“Yes,” says their abbot. “Dig a little deeper?”

“I think — well, I’m sure,” says Brother Michael, “that heavenly bliss is the shalom of God, which is fulfilment and completion; the place where health and peace work together to produce wellbeing. I think any kind of bliss, even earthly, implies health.  Surely? And in heaven, I trust all our infirmities will be healed. The troubled mind and the body’s pain will be over.”

Father Josephus, nodding in acknowledgement of the truth of this, adds, “In our earthly lives we place significant emphasis on knowledge, and the power it brings. We value being right. We likewise revere the wisdom of experience. But I think — I hope — that in heaven we will add to knowledge and wisdom the beautiful grace of understanding. I mean, our capacity for insight will be expanded so that we see how things were for someone else, we see their point of view. The seeds of war and the enticement of competition will be left behind. We will have a more generous perspective. And I think that will bring deep contentment.”

Father Theodore nods thoughtfully at this, swirling his wine gently in the footed ceramic cup he holds in his right hand.

Father Felix, speaking rapidly and low, says then, “Honestly, for me heavenly bliss is synonymous with peace. An end to worry and striving. An end to failure and shame. A quiet mind. A state of being where there is no more nagging anxiety, nothing to get wrong. And being — completely — with Jesus.”

Father William watches him quietly across the supper table.

Father Theodore says: “What Matthew’s gospel calls ‘the beginning of sorrows’ is to do with the hurt we inflict on one another. War. Greed for what someone else has. Theft. Rape. Destruction. Violence. Torture. Domination and oppression. Even the smaller versions of the same things — touchiness, a critical spirit, grumbling, unkindness, selfishness, unwillingness to forgive. If you take away all of that, what you’re left with is not a tabula rasa, but heavenly bliss. I think life, being, nature, whatever we call it, is blissful — if only we would consent to stop mucking it up. I mean, we could start it right now, if we had a mind to.”

“Amen,” says Father Francis. “Heaven begins with kindness. The reign — the reach — of Christ. His kingdom. It can come on earth as it is in heaven. It must be so; why else would we pray for it?”

“Brother Thomas?” the abbot asks.

His esquire smiles. “I’m not too sure I have much to add. Something that bothers me at times, when I think about heaven, is what it must be like when earthly life stops. I know heaven is meant to be sublime, but . . . if there is no sunrise, no evening breeze on my face, no lark singing high in the summer sky, no smell of new-mown hay, no woodsmoke, no hot bread with butter melting into it . . . I don’t really know how to imagine it, how to call it bliss. So, if it’s all right with you, Father, I’ve started mine early. I’m beginning now. There is so much to delight in, so much to rejoice in, here, now.”

His abbot looks up at him with affection. “Aye and amen,” he says. “All of that. And I’m thinking about how Jesus prayed that we might all be one, as he and the Father are one. I think it must be the case that heavenly bliss is relational, in some sense. I know we won’t have physical being any more, the pleasures of the senses will be over; and yet, love will abide. Faith and hope will be lost in completion and fulfilment, but love is eternal, immortal, primal. I suppose bliss could be experienced in solitude, but I think in heaven there will be, in some sense, love. Companionship. Heaven won't be lonely.”

He looks down the table. “William? Do you know anything about bliss?”

A gleam of amusement shows in his friend’s face. “A little, Father. Not much.” He glances up at his abbot. “I like to think, certainly to hope, that in heaven nobody will be angry with me. I hope my sins will be forgiven, and the wrongs I have done put right. I hope everything will stop hurting, and there will be no more bewilderment. I hope I can stop going through life braced for whatever’s going to hit me next. And I hope I will meet Jesus, and that he will find me — by his grace — acceptable. If he will just let me in to heaven, I will do my utmost to be worthy of his love.”

“That starts now,” cuts in the novice master, firmly. “You are acceptable. You are loved — by him and by us. Your sins are forgiven. And you have met Jesus, haven’t you? And wasn’t he all you hoped for?”

William lets Theodore’s gaze find and challenge him. “Yes,” he answers, softly. “Yes, I have, and yes he is. Thank you. All right, then; let’s start now.”

Travelling Light — because this is of relevance to the Gospel set for today in the lectionary

Today's reading was about Jesus calling his disciples — in John's gospel that call is "What are you looking for? ... Come and see."

This sets the theme for John's gospel, Jesus as light of the world. In this gospel, the cross is portrayed as glory, the light lifted high to be seen and to draw all people to himself. This in turn references various aspects of Greek thought (the Logos, the Monad, and the Platonic cave where people wait in darkness, no realising they are free to walk out into the light. You can see the resonance of that in the raising of Lazarus, which in John pairs with the Greeks coming to Philip, saying "Sir, we would see Jesus" — and so is triggered the decision by the temple authorities to put him to death.

But in today's story of the call of the disciples all that is yet to unfold. For now we see only the beginning of this theme of "seeing the light", as Jesus tells Nathaniel that he saw him long ago, sees the inner reality of his being — and thus Nathaniel sees Jesus for what he is, sees beyond cultural externals to spiritual reality. 

The reading referenced is John 20.3-8. It's given in this post.

The pictures referenced are also in that post, and are these:

Brother Elias 2nd April 2025

A question from Tena about Abbot John and his enemas

My question is for Father John to find out how he learned about the practice of administering the monthly (If I remember rightly?) enemas. I know he eagerly read and collected texts available to him and was always learning. And because I have friends who have benefited both physically and emotionally from the practice, I’d love to know if he was aware ahead of time of the possibility for the inner healing that some of the brothers experienced.

*        *        *

Father John suggests I go to the infirmary at the end of the day, after Vespers, when there will be a chance of Brother Michael, Father William and Brother Christopher all being free to have a conversation. He says he’ll let them know, and come across to join us. 

So that’s what I do. The three of them have settled the residents of the infirmary in their rooms and given out the evening doses a little early, to make some time free to talk with me. When I show up in the infirmary frater, I find them sitting round such low embers as remain of the fire, now — at the end of the day — it’s no longer needed for cooking the porridge and heating up the water for washing and hot drinks. Springtime varies for temperature, the evenings still coming in chill, so I think they must be glad of that last glow of the embers and the residual warmth coming off the stones of the fireplace. I know I am.

Father John has told them about Tena’s question, and when I get there they’re already discussing it. Father William makes space for me to sit beside him on the bench (with a quick glance, and an almost smile), and we hear the door latch click and the quiet tread of the abbot coming along the passage to join us by the fire.

As ever, once the abbot is with us the sons of his house fall quiet to wait for what he wants to say. And as always, no time can be wasted on preliminaries because getting these men all together and unoccupied in one place and time is a rare treat and not to be used up by bland courtesies.

“Obviously I knew how valuable enemas are for health,” says Father John, “because everyone does. My mother was a wise-woman, and the folk from our village would come to her for help with their various ailments, which was the way I first learned how to care for people’s wellbeing. She used enemas sometimes, with good effect. Then, when I came into monastic life, I learned a lot from Brother Edward, who also used enemas to cleanse the blood and the digestive tract; and the books in our library recorded how reliant on enemas were the physicians of the ancient world — Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Arab, all of them.

    “But it wasn’t evident to me how helpful they are for soul health, for the wellbeing of mind and mood, until we began the practice of taking them regularly rather than just responsively because of illness. In particular, enemas promote serenity and calm — which has to be a blessing in a community, does it not? When the liver is relieved of congestion, of toxic burden, it becomes apparent that it is a restful organ, it generates peace. And that makes sense, doesn't it, because it filters out poison from the blood, cleansing is a significant part of its rôle. If we assist that work of cleansing, it then can itself rest. And you feel it. But what do my brothers think? Michael?”

I can feel a sort of slight defensiveness in his tone. I get the impression that this is something he has had to argue and advocate, that acceptance of his proposed point of view has not been simple. Brother Michael smiles at his abbot, and pauses to gather his thoughts. Then he says: “I didn’t know anything much about care of bodily health until I came here, so almost all of what I know I learned from you, Father John. And now it’s very familiar. So I find it hard to distinguish my own opinions from yours. 

    “I think my main observation is that what you’ve put in place includes a hot bath as well as an enema — and I think the warm water, infused with herbs and flowers as well, helps the pores of the skin open up, and allows poison to leave the body and nourishment to go in. Also the men find the bath comforting and relaxing. And they are relieved of the tasks of the day, and the bath house is quiet and calm, surrounded by birdsong and the fragrance of herbs, and you can hear the water flowing in from the freshet: I mean, it’s lovely.

    “So, I think the whole experience induces peace, which is absolutely as it should be. I think having someone to tend to them, having the sheepskin to lie on in the confinement of the empty bath, having a blanket to tuck around them — it’s reminiscent of childhood, of infancy. There’s something very soothing about it all. 

    “Don’t mistake me, I entirely accept what you say, John — er, Father John — about the natural peace of the liver relieved of its toxic burden, about its restfulness as an organ of the body, but for accuracy in assessing what we’re doing, I believe we mustn’t overlook these other aspects of the whole experience. They amount to more than mere accidentals.”

He glances at his abbot for approval of this estimation, and Abbot John nods in thoughtful affirmation. “Absolutely right,” he says. “Christopher? What do you think?”

Brother Christopher frowns at the fire, thinking deeply. “Most of all what I notice,” he says then, “is the sense of trust that pervades it all. It’s an intimate procedure, isn't it? It requires surrender, it implies vulnerability, and there’s something about that . . . it . . . I mean . . . it ends up with a closeness, an entrusting of the man into the hands of the brother caring for him. For me, giving the enema, it feels like a privilege, because I can so keenly sense the vulnerability, the man entrusting himself into my hands, trusting me to be gentle, to be respectful, to be . . . er . . . to give him back his dignity, to restore him, if you see what I mean.”

“Absolutely,” says Abbot John; and, “Exactly that,” says Brother Michael.

“Well, friend?” The abbot looks across at Father William, sitting beside me, who has said nothing so far. “Out of all the men in this monastery, not one resisted having any such thing done to them as vehemently as you did. What’s your verdict now?”

Because he’s sitting next to me, I can’t see William’s face. He’s leaning back on his elbows on the refectory table behind us. I don’t feel anything nervous or tense coming from him, he seems just relaxed.

“I still think my initial response was reasonable,” he says. “Something can be both reasonable and wrong, can’t it?”

His abbot is looking at him, his gaze playful and affectionate. “Say more?”

“Oh, well then — nothing in life had led me to suppose that making myself that open and vulnerable to my brethren in community was likely to end well. For the most part they wanted more than was intended to be on offer, and they were far from gentle and respectful. I don’t mean here in this house, I’m talking about my general experience of how I expect to be treated. 

    “But that’s where I was wrong, and I suppose I should have been able to work out that whether something is intrusive and abusive, or whether it’s — oh, God, what should I say? tender? gentle? kind? — depends more on who does it and less on what it inherently is.

    “And now? Do I look forward eagerly to having a horn nozzle inserted into my anus and a quart of herb tea poured up into my gut? No, not really. But is it good for me? Is it healing? Yes, in every sense. And every time — every time — I am moved by the gentleness, by the respect, whether it’s Michael or Christopher who does the business, by the competence and kindness and the sense of a dear and beloved physician. Would I recommend it? Probably not. I’d say it should be very much a matter of personal choice. Have I found it helpful? I have. Sometimes . . . well, it’s been cathartic and restoring, and allowed the poison of my soul to be drawn out along with whatever is sloshing around in my blood and gut. It’s reached startlingly beyond what I was expecting, to where body and soul divide or become one.”

Abbot John says quietly, “Body and soul are one, Brother. And yes, I agree with you — a lot of the time it's not the method, it's the man. Not so much what you do, as how you go about it. Healing comes that way, and harm as well.”

What Isolde wanted to know

 Isolde said...

I'm not sure which of the brothers I should direct this question to, and I haven't read all the books yet so it's possible there's one who'd be a perfect fit and I just haven't met him yet.

But my question, for people who live in community and have to be careful not to have exclusive relationships, is about how you avoid playing favourites/choosing sides and getting tangled up about "loyalty". For instance, my family is big and loving but a bit cracked, and there's something I want to tell my grandfather and a couple of uncles about, but I've never discussed it with my father and I don't know if he'll ever be able to receive it if I try. And normally this might not be a problem, except that my father and these other relatives are estranged from each other, and so I can't help feeling that by "choosing" one "side" to reveal my heart to, and leaving the other out of it, I'm playing favourites. How can you tell the difference between having favourites and whatever the legitimate alternative might be? Especially in a context where you shouldn't be splitting up into cliques — whether because it's monastic life or another type of family living in a fallen world.

*        *        *

I climb the day stairs to where the library is, and the robing room, the brothers’ cells — and the novitiate schoolroom. I’m hoping Father Theodore will be there. I asked permission of Abbot John to talk this through with him, and he said, “Yes, good idea,” somewhat distractedly because he was trying to get through a pile of correspondence before Vespers, but he’d only just begun, and people kept interrupting him, including me.

The door stands ajar, and it is all exactly as I hoped. Theodore is by himself, quietly moving round the room setting things to rights: checking the ink supplies, putting books away, ordering the circle of stools and benches ready for tomorrow morning. The fire is still glowing on the hearth, but very low, enough to air and fragrance the room and send out a little warmth.

He straightens up from what he’s doing. “Oh, hello. Welcome. Were you looking for me?”

So I say yes I am, and that I’ve brought a question from a friend if he’s got time to talk about it. If he’s too busy I can just leave it with him for later because I’ve written it out for him. He smiles and stretches out his hand for me to give him my bit of paper I'm holding, with Isolde’s question.

“Would you like to sit down?” he says. “I do have time, I’m free now until Vespers. This is an excellent time to talk.”

Good. That’s what I was hoping.

He collects a short, thick candle burning in a holder from the table, and carries it with him to the hearth, where he sits down on the hearthstone beside the fire, and reads through Isolde’s question carefully and thoughtfully. I sit myself down on one of the low stools just nearby, and wait. He looks up at me. “This is worth asking,” he says; then he reads it again.

After that he lays my piece of paper down on the hearthstone beside him, weighting it in place with the candle in its holder.

“Let me say straight out,” he says, “that yes, sometimes there are favourites and factions in monastic life as there would be anywhere, and it can all get suffocating and toxic and be difficult to purify, to put right. That can certainly happen.

“But let’s assume Isolde’s situation is different from that — not toxic, I mean, not suffocating. She wants authentic relationship. She has something to confide, but her father — who she feels is unlikely to receive it well — has distanced himself from the men she really wants to tell; her uncles and grandfather.

“It may be unwise to jump to conclusions, but what comes first to my mind is that one man in that situation sounds almighty hard to please. He’s fallen out with his father and brothers, and Isolde thinks he’ll probably object to whatever it is she wants to share. Hmm. 

“So, hesitantly, since I can’t actually be present with that group of men to come to my own conclusions, I would proffer this: a relationship is a two-way thing. If you cannot tell your father what you want to tell your uncles and your grandfather, maybe that’s not favouritism or a clique but just that he has indicated he cannot be trusted with your truth. Trust is given, but also earned. Maybe. I cannot be certain if I’m reading it right, but that’s one possibility.

“Setting that aside, there’s the matter of time to consider — because things have a way of working out if you give them space and peace — and, as well as time, timing; waiting for the kairos. It might be a possibility to hold the intention to bring her father into her confidence when the moment is right, when she feels ready to trust him with her truth.

“Because, look, you don’t have to tell everybody everything. There are things I would choose to say to Francis or Michael that I would be unlikely to say to Richard or Gilbert. And this can be a question of mutuality, or reciprocity, or whatever you want to call it — that some things you might want to share belong to this relationship but not that, will be readily understood by this man but not that. I think that has to be all right.

But this brings me on to the more general aspect of what Isolde says — about what is appropriate and what is exclusion, and how we manage that here.”

He draws the paper out from under the candleholder, and reads through it again, tilting it to the illumination of the flame, then carefully replaces it.

“This is easier for me to answer, because it’s certainly something we think about and I know how it works in this house.

“We understand there can be pitfalls in this matter of relationship and confiding, closeness and trust. It's aspect of our commitment to celibacy — availability as well as restraint. There is meant to be an openness to how we love, a generosity of spirit that welcomes and includes. But at the same time, you can’t force people to be loved and included; sometimes they just want to stand there with their arms folded, glaring at the ground and saying ‘Shan’t!’ through gritted teeth; and we all have to live with it as best we can until they thaw — or leave. I think you know, loving Father William was a very long-term project, that paid off handsomely in the end. We had to stay open and accepting; and I tell you, ‘hard work’ doesn’t begin to describe that man when he first came here, but it was worth it.

“And then, when we make the choice to take our way together, that requires us to develop a habit of acceptance, not of jealousy. If Father John wants to talk something through with Father Francis and not with me, it’s part of the discipline of holy chastity that I refrain from getting defensive about that, I don’t let it drive a wedge between me and Francis, I don’t go all frosty on John; I just respect his right to have conversations with whoever he wants, whoever he finds most helpful. Because, why not? Another time I’ll be the one he wants to confide in; it all depends what he wants to talk about, I suppose.

“As well as that, in the monastic way we make a regular practice of confession, when we take time to talk in depth privately with our confessor — and what we say there is sub rosa and absolutely nobody else’s business. Just having that aspect to monastic life frees us from the supposition that everyone has a right to know everything that’s going on. They don’t. End.

“There’s also the way we handle privacy here. Each man has his own cell, of course, and we each spend a substantial amount of time alone; but even so, living in community is very  . . . er . . . exposing. We do end up knowing one another very clearly, very well. We see one another’s mistakes and indiscretions, everyone’s faults and foibles are on view. We see one another’s disappointments and the antagonisms that arise. We behold one another’s grief and humiliation. All of that.

“So, privacy here is a gift, that we make to each other. It’s part of the attitude of respect and compassion we each bear towards our brothers. There are times when you weigh up whether to see — or not — a man’s tears or his immaturity or his vulgarity. Or sometimes a person just wants to be left in peace. We have to learn to weigh it up, and decide when to see and include and comment — and when to just let something pass, decide we didn’t hear, didn’t see. Otherwise we’d all go crazy from being altogether over-observed.

“In monastic life, we have a name for this clear choice to not see: mortification of the eyes. It’s how we give one another privacy, and also how we protect ourselves against temptation. ‘What the eyes don’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.’ Something like that.

“And of course, we spend a significant chunk of every day in silence. We come out of Compline into the Great Silence that lasts all the way through until after the morrow Mass, and we keep silence in the cloister and go about the work of the day in silence for the most part.

“It allows us to get things in perspective, to refrain from hasty judgements, to bring whatever’s bothering us before the sacred heart of Jesus to be restored to peace and properly understood.

“Silence, solitude — I hold firmly to the view that everyone needs these as much as good food and sunlight and sleep. They are necessary for the spaciousness that allows generosity, and the peace that nourishes the human spirit.”

“George Fox,” I tell him, “said ‘Carry around some quiet inside thee.”

Father Theodore considers this, and smiles. “Did he?” he says. “Yes, I love that. Who’s George Fox?”

“Well,” I say, “he lived about 200 years after your time. But I think you would have liked him. George Fox was heavily into silence. And peace. He proposed four testimonies, in terms of how we live — peace, simplicity, equality and truth.”

Father Theodore takes this in, and nods in appreciation. “Yes,” he says. “I think you’re right about that. I would have liked George Fox.

“But, look, do you think any of this will be of use to Isolde? I dearly hope so, because there’s the Vespers bell, so I’ll have to love you and leave you — in the nicest possible way. Is that all right?”

And I certainly hope it is, because he had to go.