Every other Monday is YAV Meeting Day. The place is an empty office in Belfast city centre, and the time varies depending on how fast we can walk from our house to the city. Actually, the issue of time usually goes beyond walking speed; you could probably trace it to how long it took Allison to finish her cereal or whether she forgot that one last thing upstairs. I know that comes as a surprise to all of you.
Our meetings are simple. They start with coffee, scones, and a bit of housekeeping, followed by a short devotion. Then Doug heats a pot of soup on his portable hob, and we lean on the table to share stories about the weeks past. The meeting closes as most of us squeeze into the tiny office kitchen to help with the dishes—a time which inevitably involves someone bursting into spontaneous song. I’m still not sure how the rest of the office feels about that.
But a few weeks ago we changed the routine. Doug had been thinking about taking us to visit a Benedictine monastery about an hour’s drive from Belfast, and he decided that there was no time like the present. So by 10:30am we found ourselves in the trusty white minivan, twisting and trundling down the country roads to the village of Rostrevor. By 11:15, we were making tighter turns and passing lorries with more urgency. The Eucharist Service was to start at 11:30.
“We…might be cutting it a bit close,” Doug admitted quietly, and his hands tightened on the wheel.
But, in the end, we arrived with two minutes to spare (it’s not often I get to say that). The bell was ringing in the narrow grey belltower. A green lawn sloped down from the edges of the small grey monastery, and the hills rose steeply behind, brown and gold and green with firs.
The monastery itself is fairly new—it was founded in 1998 by a community of Benedictine monks from the Abbey of Bec in France. The chapel has curving white walls, warm wooden pillars, and a smooth floor of dark tiles. Even in the dregs of a Monday morning when the clouds are spitting rain, the chapel is cool and bright. We took our seats on the wooden benches and waited for the service to begin.
I have to admit, I was a little nervous. I hadn’t been to a Catholic service before, you see. This wasn’t because of a lack of interest or desire—it was mostly because I’ve never been quite sure how to cross myself. Do you touch a finger to your head first, or is it your shoulder? A couple years ago, I watched a movie that explained the action like this: head, stomach, watch, wallet. Up, down, left, right. Goodness knows you can’t trust everything you learn at the movies, but I’ve kept that bit of knowledge at the back of my mind—you know, just in case I found myself sitting with 7 other Americans at a Eucharist Service in a Benedictine monastery in Northern Ireland. As you do.
In the end, though, I didn’t need my carefully gleaned knowledge. The service was led by the community of six monks—four from France, one from Northern Ireland, and one from Mexico. I listened to Scripture passages read with the rhythm and lilt of French and Northern Irish accents; I received a blessing; and I heard the swelling notes of the Kyrie and the Amen. That is the bit of the service that I remember most: the way that those men with their glasses and bald heads and thin fingers could sing so beautifully, the room filling like a lung.
Head, stomach, watch, wallet.
After the service, one of the monks came up to greet us. He wore round glasses, he folded his hands against his slender chest, and he smiled widely. His name was Brother Tierney.
“You are Presbyterians?” he asked in his soft French accent. “This is wonderful. My habit was made by a Presbyterian.” He nods at the thick white cloth. “Now,” he continued, “do you need a place to eat your lunch?”
Brother Tierney showed us to a little room connected to one of the monastery’s kitchens, then he slipped away to eat his own meal in silence with the other monks. When he came back to check on us, we were still munching on our chicken caesar salad. He sat on the edge of a table in the room, swinging his legs and smiling. He answered our questions, telling us a bit about the Benedictine order and about the Abbey of Bec. He said that the monastery in Rostrevor was founded in response to the conflict and divisions in Northern Ireland. He explained that the monks use their own mixture of Spanish, French, and English to communicate with one another.
Then, somehow, Brother Tierney knew that we were wondering how a monastery—a place and a community set apart—could make a difference in the conflict in Northern Ireland. Maybe one of us asked him—I can’t remember. But I do remember his answer: “There is so much doing in life. You are always doing, doing. Sometimes you need to stop and take a good look at your relationship with God. A long look. And you need to take the time to be with Him.”
Finally, John asked the question that was heavy on all our minds: “Why did you decide to be a monk?”
I have to admit, Brother Tierney’s answer surprised me. “When I first came to God, I saw so much happiness in the people who followed Him. I wanted that happiness, but I learned that I would have to give of myself to find it. So I gave some of my time away. I thought it would be enough. But no. I read the Bible, I served other people. I thought it would be enough. But no.” Brother Tierney’s face was serious now, but he was still swinging his legs. “Then I realized this: I will never be truly happy unless I give my whole self to God. My whole self. So here I am.” He gives a little shrug. “You know this, don’t you? You will never be fully happy unless you give everything to God.” He smiles again, obviously amused. “Do not worry. This giving looks different to different people.”
It was the happiness that took me by surprise, I think. Not just the happiness that he spoke about—it was the brightness of his eyes behind his round glasses, the slight curve of his mouth. It was the calm French voice, the careless swinging of his legs. It had never occurred to me that someone would want to become a monk for the sheer happiness of it.
And here’s me, worrying about the right way to cross myself.
Psalm 37:4
[Photos courtesy of the one and only Jo Lanigan]
I love how you tell the stories of your experience. And how apt they are. And "the room filling like a lung" - *beautiful*
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