What Emma wanted to ask some of the brothers.

 Here's what Emma said.

I have another question for the brothers, which I've had for a while, I just didn't want to post it too soon after the first one. I wasn't sure if I should ask it on the original post or just any post, so . . . here it is, and you can do with this comment as you want.

My question to ask them is about being myself without shame/hiding/tension/performance; not being insanely tense and on-guard about everything but being able to live freely and trust freely without filtering everything through "what is this person going to think of me if I do/say/be like this" and thus keeping myself in iron self-control about everything at all times.

I feel like I'd want to ask Father Francis this, because he seems to have had direct experience with it—performance, hiding, shame. I know he's already been asked a question about shame and healing, but if this is a different enough angle, maybe he would have thoughts on it too? Also, I wondered if you could catch Father Peregrine in the earlier days and get his thoughts as well, unless that's not possible. He always had valuable things to say to the brothers, no matter their struggle.

I guess it would be, in a nutshell: how do I be my own person? What does it look like to be true to myself (in Christ), instead of wrapping myself in so many layers of self-control, and being so good at mirroring others, that I don't even know how to relax and just BE, without fear or shame about how others could perceive me? (Or fear that "just me" is not enough, without endless effort and catering to others to avoid causing them any inconvenience or unpleasantness.)

The thing is, I WANT to be seen and known. But my default is still to hide from it, and it's so easy to do. All those layers of composure and self-control keep me at arms' length quite well with hardly any effort at all. I can and do sometimes speak vulnerably with others, on my own initiative; and I love when I get to have a conversation like that with someone trustworthy. But I'm realizing that that, too, is still something in my control: I'm vulnerable when I invite the vulnerability, when I choose to be, at certain times and in certain ways. Being uncensored in regular life just on a daily basis is an entirely different matter.

So . . . anyway. I'm not sure if I formed any good direct questions out of that. But if Francis, and Peregrine if it's possible, or anyone else you think might be good to ask, have thoughts on any of that, I would love to hear them.

I’m grateful that Emma left it to me to choose which of the brothers would answer her question — apart from Francis and Peregrine — because Father Felix, Father William and Abbot John also had something to say here. 

Going back in time is not the tricky thing about talking with Father Peregrine — but I can’t talk with him and the others together at St Alcuins, because time has moved on there. But they can meet up in the 'now' moment in my room. And although my room is small, space is not an issue because this is non-corporeal.

There was a time, late one night, and I will maybe tell you about it one day, when the abbot and the infirmary brothers (Michael, William, and Christopher) were together in my room in a ministry of prayer. Unexpectedly, Father Peregrine came to join them, which is how I discovered that was possible. When he came in, Father William said quietly, “Excuse me”, and he moved from where he was to where Father Peregrine stood. There he said what he had wanted and waited to say for so very long — which was (multiple times!) “I am so sorry. I’m so very very sorry.” And Father Peregrine said nothing, but he hugged him close, and it was all right after that. But back to what we are talking about — they can meet up provided it’s at my place not theirs. If it’s at their place they are bound by that timeline and some of them can’t therefore be present.

So (apologies for that detour) we sit in my room. I’m not even sure how that works because, as I said, the room is small. But it does. The room expands, somehow. 

There are no preambles, because it's not easy for the 14th century soul to hold presence in the 21st century, but I glance round to check that they are ready — and in so doing catch the moment of unspoken humour and affirmation in Father Peregrine's eyes as they meet Father William's. Then I read out to them what Emma has asked, and they pass round the piece of paper I printed it on.

Abbot John wants to say something, but he looks at Father Peregrine, in deference and for permission, and Father Peregrine nods and indicates that Abbot John should speak. 

Father John says this. “There are some matters here that I recognise as an infirmarian, and some that I recognise as an abbot. If Emma came to me in the infirmary, I would want to look at her diet. Tension, anxiety, and inner restlessness can almost always be calmed by addressing the way we eat. To know more about that, I think your friend Emma could write to you, Little Ghost, because in the timeline where you live I believe there are different parameters that might nullify the advice I would give from ours. I’ll leave that with you, but I think good work could be done there.

“Then — and I speak now both as an abbot and as an infirmarian, there is something about boundaries. To set in place relationships and attitudes characterised by both compassion and respect, it is essential we set boundaries. Each soul has a calling, a work of God to be done, entrusted to us by Jesus. It is important to guard against craving the good opinion of others. Sometimes they will blame us, sometimes praise us, like a wind gusting around us. Our work in this world is to hold steady the light that has been given to us, each one unique. The boundaries we set are like the lantern we fashion to hold and protect the light, so that the weather of praise and blame cannot blow it out.

“And then, I want to add something about being patient with yourself. See it, if you will, as though you had inside your inner imaginative world an older brother and a younger brother. The older brother is there for caution, encouragement, and reassurance. The younger brother is there for trying things out, for offering himself, for learning how to do things and for joining in. Let the older brother within you counsel and support the younger brother within, who will often be bruised and abashed and embarrassed, because it’s hard to get things right. There is more I could say, but let that be enough. Let the others speak.”

He bows his head, and everyone else then looks to Father Peregrine, who sits listening thoughtfully. You know, he still has his twisted hands and damaged leg, still walks with a crutch. I think in the world of light maybe he is free of all that; but here, much like Jesus, the familiar scars are the badge of beloved identity — beloved by us, I mean, not by him. They are our way in to who he is. So anyway, he speaks next.

“My greetings to Emma,” he says. “Yes, I know her. Shame and helplessness belong to being reduced, being of no account, being at the behest of others. They occur where we value and esteem someone else’s judgement over our own, where we are waiting for permission and instruction to allow us to be anything. Self-importance is never a lovely characteristic, but self-esteem is. What I want to say to Emma is — dearest, straighten your crown. Know who you are, daughter of Eve and redeemed of Christ, servant of the most high God and ambassador of the Gospel in a fallen world. You are holy. You are called, you are worthy. Every stumble is a sign that you are walking in the Way. Every mistake is a sign that you are a disciple of the Saviour of the world. When you get up in the morning, make your bed, wash your face — and claim your heritage. ‘The body of Christ: I am’. Walk through this world as a queen, as a light, as a shepherd, as someone of inestimable worth. “It is no longer I that liveth, but Christ who liveth in me.” For so it is. ‘You are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, belonging to God.’ 

“Take your place, dearest; straighten your crown. You have nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of, and you are loved beyond measure. Your sins are forgiven. You are a new creation.”

He stops speaking then, and there is a little silence; but I don’t let it extend too long, because I think it is a strain for them to maintain presence in my timeline. Sometimes one of them just fades out. They get tired.

So I say, “How about you Father Francis? Emma wanted to know what you thought.”

He smiles at me, and nods. “Yes, of course,” he said. "Thank you." He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and the others just wait peacefully until he is ready to speak. “I have found,” he says, “that expectation can be a force of tyranny. There is a state of mind where you feel you can never be good enough. It fastens around a person like an iron frame. It interferes with freedom and joy and confidence. Living up to expectations . . . ah, Jesu . . . it’s exhausting. I’m not sure, because I’m not entirely familiar with her circumstances, but it sounds to me as if Emma needs her proper community of grace — her tribe, as it were. She needs the affirmation and building up of those who regard her with unconditional love, who accept her just as she is. True belonging. I acknowledge this is not easy to find in this world. Perhaps the best I can say is that we are here for her, if she looks for us. A community of true belonging is a bulwark against the eroding force of expectation.”

He looks at me, and nods; that was what he wanted to say. 

So now I ask: “Father William?”

“Well,” says William, “yes. I certainly know about shame. I’m not over-bothered about what other people think of me, primarily because I got used to that being fairly awful.

“Can I take up this matter of boundaries, that Father John raised? I think this is key. The tension your friend mentions, the hiding of self, the performance so as to please and the terror of displeasing. This sounds to me — and God knows, I can be wrong, so perhaps I am — but it sounds to me like the difference between a servant and a master. The master commands and the servant obeys. The servant does everything at the master’s behest. The servant’s life and wellbeing depend on pleasing the master. This gets almighty wearisome in short order, if you have the misfortune to be the one born into servitude.

“In human society, it is usually the men who command and the women who obey. Money commands and poverty obeys. Aristocracy commands and peasants do as they’re told.

In Christ, so the apostle says, there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither, male nor female, neither slave nor free — there is no servant class and no inferior status. This being the case, whoever is in Christ has the right to set boundaries, to determine the agenda, to speak their mind and be who they are.

Maybe I should add a caution here — it is damnably easy to make enemies. Most people have strong opinions about all kinds of things; they all disagree vehemently and of course they are all, always, right. Arguing is generally unprofitable. It only adds to the cacophony. It pays to walk quietly through the world, to want little, and to trust your own judgement. Let them all go their own way, let them all do exactly as they please. You do what is right for you. Hold fast to it, Refuse to budge. Say to the mountain — but softly and politely — ‘No. You move.’

His eyes meet mine. That man is such a dear friend. “All right?” he says. “If it sounds like garbage, it probably is.”

So now the attention of all of us is on Father Felix, who at the present time appears to be quite calm and well, and not in the grip of the mental turmoil that so often afflicts him.

Father Francis has passed him the piece of paper. Felix looks down at it, and he says: “This. This is what speaks to me. I know it so well.  What does it look like to be true to myself (in Christ), instead of wrapping myself in so many layers of self-control, and being so good at mirroring others, that I don't even know how to relax and just BE, without fear or shame about how others could perceive me? (Or fear that "just me" is not enough, without endless effort and catering to others to avoid causing them any inconvenience or unpleasantness.)

“Absolutely. My heart goes out to her. I’ve been listening carefully to what the others have to say, and with such a sense of privilege and gratitude to be here. I esteem them so highly. I have very little to add. Only this: sometimes this is just part of who you are — the anxiety, the sensitivity, the love of precision which is — hopefully — also a love of truth. This will always be beautiful, the desire for truth, the love of the pure note. I have heard Brother Cassian say, at a music practice, ‘That was good, brothers, but you started a whole semi-tone high, which made it hard to reach the notes.’ There is in some people an acute sensitivity to when something is off, and when it is right on the note — when it is pure, when it is true. I can only recommend a slight shift of focus, trying to get it right still, yes, aiming for purity of mind and spirit, but letting that be determined by one’s own conscience, by the witness within, by the still, small voice of the Spirit that arises in one’s own soul. Nobody else’s opinion. No second-hand truth.”

“To get to that,” adds Father Francis, “there has to be a certain inner spaciousness. Being in, but not of the world, maybe. This is why living in simplicity is key. You cannot hone your practise, or quieten your mind to hear the inner voice, without simplicity. It’s just the same as clearing a cluttered house, but on the inside.”

Father Felix, who gets tired at the best of times because he finds life such a struggle, is already beginning to fade. He is almost see-through. This was how I know the rest of them will also be getting tired. It’s just that they are practised at maintaining presence, at standing firm. But obviously you don’t want to wear out your friends. So I thank them and I say goodbye; and I must have been right, because suddenly I am all on my own in my room, just like normal.