I had a message from my friend Wendy with a question for Brother Michael in the infirmary — but I want him to see the whole message, not just what she said to ask. So I copy all of it out to show him. It was early evening when I got her message, and I had a few end-of-day things to do still. In any case, I thought just then Brother Michael would be taking care of the old mens’ supper, then clearing up, then Vespers, then going round with the evening medicines and helping his charges get ready for bed. But by seven o’clock I decide he’s probably all done, and might have time to talk to me before Compline.
I gather Father William is still under obedience to spend at least two evenings a week in the calefactory — evidently Abbot John does not consider him to have overcome his antisocial tendencies yet! I meet him walking along the cobbled path toward the abbey buildings just as I'm making my way down to the infirmary. He lifts one hand in a kind of understated wave when he sees me coming his way. When we meet up, I ask him, “I know this might strike you as an odd question, but if someone asked you to describe Brother Michael, what would you say? What does he look like, in your opinion?”
I feel intrigued to hear what he might say. I mean, I know Brother Michael very well, I can tell you what he looks like with no trouble at all. For a start he’s Irish, although that's not an appearance thing, I know, but they have a look, the Irish, don’t they? Something humorous and quirky, a kind of wit, something merry but — equally — something decidedly immoveable and courageous . . . oh, do you know what I mean? Anyway, he’s of medium height, quite stocky but not plump at all. His hair is either light brown or dark blond, with just a hint of auburn. He has blue eyes. Fair-skinned. Level brows. A straight shortish nose. He walks gracefully, and has a purposeful stride when he’s going a distance — say, to fetch something from the abbey. He has a very ready smile. How am I doing? But look, you want to know what William said. Which was: “Calm. Kind. Competent. Perceptive. Understanding. Is that it? I’m so sorry — I absolutely promised Thaddeus a game of chess, and he’ll be disappointed if I keep him waiting any longer than I already have. Is that all you wanted?”
I assure him that yes, it is, and he does one of his almost-a-smile and courteous little bow, and the he's off on his way. I carry on down to the infirmary, interested that William didn’t specify anything physical at all. But he’s quite right — that is what Michael looks like.
Anyway, I expect you’d like to know the rest of Wendy’s question, and here it is:
“Hi Pen, I am absolutely loving these posts! It feels like such a luxury to be able to ask the monks a question! Actually, I have two, and they're both for Brother Michael. The first, which might be impertinent (and he doesn't have to answer if he doesn't want to) is "what did Father Peregrine say and advise when he and Francis confessed their attraction to one another?" The second is "How does he keep his state of abiding joy when he is beset by night terrors and can't be with the person he loves? Is the joy a blessing which comes naturally to him, or does he have to work at it? And if so, how?" I'd also really like to know what Brother Michael looks like. I can picture in my imagination most of the other monks, but I am absolutely stuck when it comes to him! Maybe Father William could describe him?”
Reaching the infirmary and going inside, I first come across Brother Christopher, folding some sheets they’ve had airing in front of the fire (it's been a soggy day, but infirmary laundry can't always wait on good weather). “Hello!” he says. “Who were you looking for? Brother Michael?” When I tell him that, yes, I was, he folds up the drying racks — wooden, with leather hinges — and invites me to sit down by the fire.
“I’m sorry to ask,” he says: “I'm not meaning to pry; but is this something private or not particularly?”
I tell him that I think this could definitely be rather private, yes; so he says in that case he’ll finish folding the bedding somewhere else. He bundles up the unfolded sheets on top of the folded ones, scoops them all up in his arms and takes them away, saying with a smile. “He won’t keep you waiting. He’s just setting out the night doses for later on. He’ll be here in two shakes of a duck’s tail. It’s nice to see you.” And then he's gone.
It surprises me how blasé they all are about me appearing and disappearing. I think those men see more of the invisible world than they let on.
I’ve not been there long when I hear the easy, unhurried tread that tells you Brother Michael is on the way. “Welcome!” he greets me, sitting down on the other chair at the fireside. “It seems like an age since I saw you! What a treat! Is all well? How’s the gut pain? The foot numbness? The dizziness? Are you surviving church? Less lonely? Doing any writing? Managing a walk each day?”
So we talk about that for five minutes, and then I hand him the email I’d copied out. I want to be sure he has time to think about it carefully before anything else intervenes to claim his attention. He takes it and gets up to bring the candle to the end of the table near his chair, so he can hold what I've written to the light. I watch his face as he reads it all through, serious and thoughtful — and as William said, calm and kind. Yes, he’s quite right. Yes, that is what Michael looks like.
He lets his hand rest in his lap, still holding the piece of paper.
“Two things,” he says, “before I answer what she asks. “The first is, please will you tell Wendy that I will be praying for her, and for her mother too. Every day. I will hold her in my prayers. We will walk this way together. And I will ask Father William to say Mass for her. Please let her know. We are with her. Yes, we are. The second thing is this — I have no way to evaluate how an answer might be received, in your times, to what she asks concerning Father Peregrine. This . . . would it hurt anyone’s faith, if we touch upon such things?”
So I tell him — and I hope I’m right — that 2023 is a very different time from 1326; social attitudes have moved on. Thinking about it now though, I do wonder. People have been very good at not necessarily saying things, haven’t they? Since forever.
Brother Michael listens to that carefully, and nods in acceptance. “Well then,” he says, “let’s get that out of the way first, shall we?
“We went together to see Father Abbot, Francis and I. We told him how we felt and what had passed between us. He listened, and he said that of course there are many kind of loves, and this has always been so. He thanked us for coming to tell him, for trusting him, for being honest with him. He said we must surely know it happens often enough. He said that sometimes it has a poisonous quality — concupiscent, manipulative, predatory. But he said sometimes it is love pure and simple, something that flowers naturally; only, then we have to decide what to do.
“He asked us, each of us separately, first Francis and then me, to tell him what the quality of it was — not the expression of it, but the inner reality, the power of it. He said, please be honest; and we were. Francis said it had the quality of a flower or a sunset, or a butterfly, or a song or a flight of birds across the sky; something that enraptures your whole being such that you never want to let it go, but you know it has to end. It was all a long time ago, to be sure, but I shall never forget him saying that. And me . . . I could only say it was just the dearest thing, precious, a treasure lodged in my heart. For always.
“Father heard us both; and then he asked us — so, what about your vocation? What about your vows? And we explained that’s why we'd come to see him; we needed help to find the courage to let it go. Not to deny it but to release it. We — both of us — we wanted Jesus to be our first love. We wanted the thing we had come for, to live the way of the cross, to live with an open heart. To make ourselves both vulnerable and available, nothing closed off for a particular and primary relationship. He took our word for it. He trusted us to make and keep it so. And we did. We always have. I know, and he knows — Francis — that the song abides, the beautiful flight of birds, the heart’s treasure, the simple love that cannot be erased . . . and should not be, I think.
“But there’s what you feel and what you do, isn’t there? This is the tension of faithfulness, the discipline of love. And we have kept faith. The unexpected beauty of it is that, in keeping faith with the whole community and the vow of celibacy, I realised I had also kept faith with him. There was no discord, as it turned out. It has its fulfilment in the wholeness — the integrity — of daily life, of love.
“Father also said to us that in the practice of consecrated life, there always has to be the discipline of restraint; because, he said, the very nature of temptation is that it deceives us into mistaking a problem for a solution. In grasping for relief, for what temporarily feels good, we mire ourselves in deeper. You cannot be a disciple if you can’t say no.”
He looks at me. “Yes?” he asks me. “Is that . . . ? Do you see? Does that tell you what you need to know? This will not be unsettling for anyone?”
I thank him, and I say that yes, it's just perfect, and that I think if anyone has a problem with that then they're the problem, not him.
“Very well,” he says. “You judge it appropriate to write it down then, in your . . . er . . . thing?”
The electronic world is not a concept they easily grasp, I have found.
“Yes, I do. Oh, thank you, Brother Michael,” I say. “Thank you ever so much. And then — about the abiding joy?”
[Shall I remind you what Wendy asked?
“How does he keep his state of abiding joy when he is beset by night terrors and can't be with the person he loves? Is the joy a blessing which comes naturally to him, or does he have to work at it? And if so, how?”]
He smiles. “There’s quite a bit in that, isn’t there! One by one, then. Night terrors: there comes, in my dreams, this dread — an absolute horror — suffocating, consuming — of being overwhelmed, being insufficient, being engulfed by the need and pain and suffering of others. That there will not be enough of me, that I will not be able to hold steady for them, that they will drag me down with them into the hell that has hold of them, and I will not be strong enough to pull them out onto terra firma, offer them the hope and stability they need. It haunts my dreams — only sometimes, and especially when it’s been a long and tiring day, a difficult day. I start out of sleep panic-stricken and distraught. But when that happens, I whisper the name of beloved Jesus, I reach for his presence; and gradually the spring of joy inside me re-establishes, and I can go back to sleep in peace.
“As to being with the person I love — well, I am. I think your friend might have noticed that nothing draws us closer together than a common vision and a shared task. Two people can be in a marriage, or work together in a farm or at an inn or something, or they can be part of a circle of acquaintance trying to have a good time. But if they have no shared task and no common vision it comes to feel hollow, it falls apart. The apostle said we must not be unequally yoked, and Jesus commended us to take his yoke upon us. If we do that we are together — the bodily relationship as lovers is a very secondary thing. Love is fulfilled and consummated in shared vision and common task. We have that, Francis and I. We are — both of us — Christ’s. Nothing can ever take that away from us, and it unites us. Yes there is renunciation in it; but deeper, there is joy.
“Then, her question, is it something that comes naturally or do I have to work at it.” He stops, and laughs. “I’m so sorry to be mysterious, but no. Neither. It is in me but not of me. It is there for any of us. The spring of life, of hope, of joy, the fountain that wells up to eternal life, it is the presence of the Spirit of Jesus. It is the consequence of being loved, of being his. It’s not mine, you see — it’s his. It’s just that I find it on the inside; it isn’t located in any external reality. It’s at the core of my being. And yours. And Wendy’s. It’s there for the finding, for those who belong to him. Abiding joy. Yes.”
“Blimey, Michael,” I say. “You are something else!”
He looks at me somewhat quizzically, and I realise what I just said was not really fourteenth century idiom, was it? But he doesn't question it; all he says in reply is, You'll not forget, now, will you? You'll remember to tell her — I'll be praying for her, and for her mother. Every day."
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