What Abbot John said to Abbie

 This is what Abbie wanted to ask Father John:

“Hello, I would like to hear what the brothers think about what it means to lead and influence in the way of Jesus. Of course we are not meant to seize power and influence nor do we need to clamor for our voices to be heard. But many people around me (in the church and outside) expect me to lead and influence and speak. And I do feel I have ideas and words that ought to be shared—but to whom and when? Perhaps Abbot John would be willing to speak about leadership that is humble and self-giving like Jesus. (He and Father Peregrine and the rest have already taught me so much, and I am grateful).”

I don’t ever knock on his door (nor he on mine). We just suddenly and surprisingly find ourselves in the same place. So here I was, this late September afternoon, sitting across from him, the other side of his big oak table where he’d been writing something. He looked up and saw me, and smiled. He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, and I told him what Abbie wanted to know. He listened; and he laughed.

“Expectations? Oh yes, by all holy, I surely know about expectations!” He looked at me, his eyes kind of merry and bright. And then he said: “But, you see, there’s a big difference here between me — us — and your friend’s situation, because of our vow of obedience.

“Sometimes, here, we can say ‘no’, or more likely ask if we may be relieved of an obedience, but in general what it comes down to is we do as we’re told. If I take Cormac out of the kitchen and send him to the checker, well, that’s where he goes. He wasn’t too delighted when that happened, either. This is why we call the role we play in the community an ‘obedience’ — because that’s exactly what it is.

“What your friend Abbie is dealing with is something more subtle and potentially confusing. If I have it right, the aptitudes she has are giving rise to a situation where she feels pressured to volunteer. But then, because these may be real gifts she has, the roles of leadership and teaching are probably attractive to her. So the inner conflict arises between wanting to step into the ministries of the word and positions of leadership — and being encouraged to do so — and also wanting the humility and simplicity of Jesus. She doesn’t have the straightforward option of simply being told what to do. I can see that’s not easy.

“Where we do feel the weight of expectation here is once we have actually taken on the obedience. If the books our scribes have laboured hours to make are mishandled or the covers go mouldy, that’s on the librarian. If our cook serves up underbaked bread, he has to watch thirty or so men struggling to eat it and coping with indigestion, courtesy of his ineptitude. Every morning the whole community hears a chapter of the Rule, and then sits quietly waiting for what I have to say, poor lads. Everything anyone does affects all of us. There is a significant weight of expectation upon us because of that. Everything we do makes a difference.

“I’m interested, by the way, that there is a possibility of her leading and teaching. I think your times are different, maybe. I haven’t known this happen except in a house of religious sisters or else a mother in her family home. Otherwise our leadership figures in both religious and secular life are men. It’s not a thing I’m opposed to, though — the leadership of women. My own mother was wiser than the men who hated her for her knowledge of healing, and that she could read and write. She’d have done better service than they did, in all sorts of ways.

“I can never be sure I’m right — even if I think I am, I still can’t be sure — but my instinct is that the heart of what will keep Abbie steady is authenticity. I mean, really being herself. Being open and honest and truthful, and always offering her true self to other people.

“Expectation can often lead to pretension. If others put you on a pedestal, your whole life can become the balancing act of trying not to fall off.

“I think maybe if Abbie, knowing that she influences others whatever her formal role may be, can remain just humbly honest and never pretend to be what she is not — if she won’t fall for the temptation of trying to polish up her image — then the service of leadership won’t become a poisoned chalice. Just to say, ‘I don’t know,’ or ‘I’m sorry, I got that wrong,’ or ‘Can you explain that to me because I don’t understand,’ will help. Not to be afraid to defer to others with greater knowledge, and listen with humility to the wisdom of older men, and the fresh insights younger men bring. Or women. To see that there are different ways of doing things, and we can all learn from one another. Nobody has to be the fount of all wisdom, that’s not realistic. Just each day, humbly to do your best, and start again when it all goes badly wrong.

“Every day, please tell your friend, I absolutely beg the Lord Jesus to lead me. I don’t mean just guide me or show me the way or give me a map — truly, you have no idea how obtuse I can be and what a colossal muddle I am capable of getting into. I ask him to actually lead me, as he would lead a donkey or a packhorse, literally. And he does. When I look back on the way I’ve travelled, I see how it all fits, how necessary it all was, how unexpectedly right; because I trusted him to lead me, and he did.

“And then, as for knowing when to speak and who to speak to — I think it might be so simple it sounds as if I’m not taking it seriously — I am, though — just speak to who is listening and when they ask a question. That, and have the courage to speak when they’ve got something badly wrong and are about to do themselves a mischief. We can’t just stand and watch people fall off the bank into the Strid* without even warning them.

“Now look, my little sister — if I don’t get these requirements for guests written down and delivered into Brother Cormac’s hands before Vespers this very day, I think he might personally eviscerate me; they’re already late.

“So can you remember all this to tell your friend Abbie? And maybe say one more thing to her — not to be afraid. There is absolutely nothing like a position of leadership for revealing with shrivelling clarity how unequivocally stupid one can occasionally be. If pride is what she fears, that’s unlikely to happen. But take one day at a time, and trust that our Lord Jesus would never, under any circumstances, let her down. Maybe just take the next step. And, for heaven's sake, if I’ve missed the mark completely and not properly addressed what it was that she wanted to know, please assure her she can always come back to me. I’m usually here.”

That’s what he said.

 

*The Strid.

Abbot John's atelier (where I went today)

I think you’d like Abbot John’s atelier — his work room. There’s a big oak table, very well used. It looks as if it’s been there a long time. It has plenty of ink stains, that I sometimes glimpse between stacks of letters and scraps of vellum with notes on. He has an ink horn in a stand, a small container of sand, two quill pens, his seal and a sack of sealing wax, some vellum to write on, a breviary and a missal, with a gospel on top of them. I told you it was a big table! 

There’s a candle on his table too, securely fixed in a very stable holder. The wood of the table has been polished with beeswax times beyond counting, and in fact the whole room has a vague fragrance of beeswax and woodsmoke, and the smell I can’t really describe, of stone.

It’s a spacious room, but not big. There are actually four doors leading into it (or out of it, of course). One is the way in from the cloister, one opens out onto the abbey court; then there’s a low, not very obvious, narrow door in the shadows, that goes out onto the land between the cloister buildings and the river, where there’s a small grove of silver birch.

The abbot’s chair is not especially massive or imposing —comfortable, more. He sits there long hours every day, engaged in all the study and preparation and administration to be done. There are two low stools near the hearth, and two chairs, also comfortable, but they don’t have cushions. 

The windowsills are deep and low. There’s a scribe’s desk under one window to catch the light. Around the room in half a dozen place there are candle sconces, and a hook near the cloister door for the lantern that burns through the night.

Oh — I didn’t tell you about the fourth door. I leads into what used to be Father Peregrine’s bedchamber; he needed to be all at ground level because stairs were tricky for him, and in a spacious enough room to accommodate a bed for his esquire as well. Abbot John inherited this room, but over time they changed that to be a dining room where he could receive guests; it saved moving all the stuff o his work table and re-organising the furniture all the time. So Father John has his bedchamber up that little stone staircase that opens out of his atelier and winds up to a modest sized room above. It’s nice and snug up there, built against the chimney from the abbot’s atelier, as also is the prior’s cell next door to it.

The fireplace in the abbot’s atelier is large and beautiful. I’ll find a picture from modern times to give you an idea of the kind of thing. Oh, no I can’t. Just about everything is copyrighted. Boo. Well, you’ll just have to imagine — the rough stone walls, and the amber light coming in from the western and southern sides in the afternoons (the abbot’s house is on the south-west corner of the square), and the great big stone fireplace with logs glowing on its floor and a hearth stone big enough to sit on. 

What with the fire and the candles and (depending on the time of day) the light filtering through the windows, the whole place has a kind of comforting glow, if you can imagine that. It feels peaceful and lifts care away. It's like how going home is supposed to feel.

Anyway, that was where I went today in search of Abbot John, to ask him about what Abbie wanted to know. But trying to help you imagine it has all gone on a bit long, so I’ll tell you what she said and what he said in the next post.

What Father Theodore said to Tina

 Hey! Father Theodore wrote back — and on vellum, no less! There were two little splashes of candle wax on his letter, so I think he must have written it at the end of the day.

Let me remind you of what Tina asked the brothers: —

“My question is about vocation. As one ages, there is that space between vigorous service and death. It seems as though in St. Alcuins there is such a wonderful attention to where people would best fit, where their service and their joy come together, like Conradus in the kitchen. I am wondering how to take some of the wisdom of that and apply it to my current season. Of course, I'm not in the more insular world of a monastery, so how to find that appropriate place of service and joy in the broader world at my stage of living. What principles or insights are practiced there that are applicable here?”

This is what Theodore had to say (a lot):

“Greetings from all of us at St Alcuins, dear sister. I’m sorry Brother Ignatius didn’t think to ask you more about the note you sent. It puzzled me a little, but Father William looked me out after Vespers and explained the questions were from your friend Tina rather than from you. That made more sense. What you wrote on was paper, yes? So remarkably fine. You must tell me how they make it, and how they incorporate those faint blue lines to guide the lettering. I was interested also to read your hand. A different style entirely, and a very cursive script. But, to the point.

I thought first about the difference between living within and outside the monastic enclosure. The key issue is monastic obedience of course — here we do what our abbot asks of us and that’s the end of it. A good reason to think hard when the time comes to elect a new abbot. We are blessed in Abbot John. We got it right, thanks be to God. Beyond the wall, people operate under the responsibility of choice; I think that makes it harder for your friend; it seems to me, this is at the heart of her question — how to choose when there is no direction, no one to guide? Maybe where she lives, there will be a house of women in consecrated life, and perhaps their abbess could offer counsel? She might find that helpful. If she is a married woman, and not a widow, I imagine there will be a structure imposed on her by the needs and temperament of her husband. From what she says, if she has children, they are grown — but family responsibilities, even so. These limitations to freedom help to some extent, by reducing options. To be cheerful and courteous and patient with her family, to encourage them and play her part in the common life; here already is a pattern of service, and as our strength declines with passing years, it becomes no small thing.

This circumstance dispenses with the issue of our commitment to holy chastity; but even if she is married and we are not, both we and she will live to some extent in community, it's not so different after all.

But we are vowed to holy poverty, and that simplifies so much in our lives. Nothing is complicated for us by the restless work of acquisition and choosing. Our environment is restfully plain. We eat what is set before us. Of course our cellarer has many choices to make, and our cook rarely stops thinking about food, but in each case it is a single duty not a bewildering plethora of matters to claim our attention, and that sets us free for the work of prayer and contemplation, the adoration of God. Your friend, then, living outside a monastic setting, has the task of deciding for herself how to so simplify her life that she makes place for solitude, for quiet, for prayer — because this now takes us to the heart of the matter.

On the Day of Pentecost, the Holy Spirit was poured out upon all flesh. Before that, the charism of prophecy was held by specific individuals (Elijah, Isaiah, Ezekiel, etcetera), but since then we have all been charged with the responsibility of prophetic life. It is the ministry and service of every believer. There are two parts to prophecy. People think of a prophet as declaring, foretelling, forth telling, denouncing sometimes. They think of it as a spoken ministry. But there is more to it. The clearest message lies in the patterns and shape of a life. It speaks more clearly than the spoken or written word, and is more easily received. A steady example of faith when people are losing conviction, of kindness when there is dissension, of love in a time when people are afraid, of honesty and authenticity when men are bewildered and can no longer trust what anyone says, of hope when despair takes hold of those around you, of calm and quietness of spirit when everything is in fearful chaos — in short, holding your the light steady so others can see the way home; this is the prophetic life.

While the outer, seen work of the prophet is to shew forth — to both speak and live — the eternal truth of God, there is a corresponding inner work as well. This inner work is crucial for guidance, to find the path the light shines on, and so this is of particular importance to your friend as she looks for the way to go.

Do you remember the passage from the book of Isaiah, in the sixth chapter; the one that begins with words tingling with wonder: “In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord”?

And do you remember that he hears the Lord ask, who will go for me, whom shall I send?

Isaiah responds to this with an interesting Hebrew word, “Hineni”. It means, “Here I am”, and is rich in meaning, in import and implication. Glad service is characterised by the spirit of Hineni, “Here I am”. It is a wholehearted giving of oneself, no withholding. It is a readiness, being present to life in this moment, bringing oneself to the encounter with what constitutes the now moment — the kairos — of today. And do you see, the “hineni” was spoken into the encounter with God in solitude, rather than outwards to the business and activity of service in community?

It is something like when men sing together in harmony, in polyphony; each man has to bring his attention to the music as a whole, be ready for his moment to sing, to blend, to add his voice. You can’t get it right if you aren’t paying attention. The paying attention is necessary if you want the singing to go right. When it's not your moment to sing, you aren't doing nothing, you're watching and following and waiting: you're paying attention so you don't miss the moment to come in.

In effect, this means a significant proportion of each day should ideally be spent in silence and solitude, paying attention, being present to the divine presence, waiting upon the Lord. You can’t just shout “Hineni!” to the four winds and hope for the best. You have to listen first, in order to discern what to do, which way to go. "Hineni" is not a initiative, it's a response.

I wonder if it might be possible for your friend to build into her life a rhythm of making retreats? What the Lord Jesus said to his followers who were so hemmed in with things requiring their response: “Come ye apart to a quiet place, and rest awhile.” And notice he said “come”, not “go”; he was intending to be with them.

So, although I do not know her and her circumstances personally, if I were her confessor I might presume to suggest to your friend that her first task is to make space for a regular time of quietness and listening — a daily, weekly, monthly, yearly rhythm of smaller and greater lengths of time. Just her, not her and her husband. And apart in a quiet place, not in her home where everything her eye rests upon reminds her of tasks unfulfilled. That in these protected times of solitude and quiet she brings the spirit of Hineni — “Here I am” — of wholehearted presence, really paying attention, waiting upon the kairos, watching for the moment to add her voice to the complex harmony the world is singing.

So, in summation, I think I would counsel her thus: if you can find a wise guide, someone to talk things through with you, that will serve you well; and to put in place a discipline of rhythmic solitude, to listen with full attention for the voice of the Lord. This may help you in discerning vocation, in responding to the kairos for this season of your life.

I humbly offer these thoughts, and if she has further questions I am always here. I’m sorry I missed you when you came, but I hope this is of help.

Your affectionately in the Lord Jesus,

Dom Theodore Smith OSB.

What Tina asked the brothers of St Alcuins about vocation and glad service.

 In the comment section to the last blog post, Tina said: “My question is about vocation. As one ages, there is that space between vigorous service and death. It seems as though in St. Alcuins there is such a wonderful attention to where people would best fit, where their service and their joy come together, like Conradus in the kitchen. I am wondering how to take some of the wisdom of that and apply it to my current season. Of course, I'm not in the more insular world of a monastery, so how to find that appropriate place of service and joy in the broader world at my stage of living? What principles or insights are practiced there that are applicable here?”

She didn’t say who at St Alcuins she wanted to ask about this, so I started off with Abbot John. 

When I finally ran him to earth — he was crossing the abbey court from the guest house to the abbot’s lodging — I have to say he was looking somewhat harassed. I’d written down what Tina had said, and I showed it to him. He scanned it quickly, frowning, then ran his hand over his head as he handed it back to me, saying, “Oh, glory, I don’t know! We just  . . . er . . . just do what we think is best. I mean, basically we just send people where there aren’t enough hands for the work that needs doing.”

He looks at me. Then he says: “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s not good enough is it. I expect your friend was hoping for an intelligent answer. It’s just . . . well . . . I’m rather pushed today. I’m sorry. Tell you what — how about you ask Theo?”

This seemed sensible to me; after all, if anyone’s spending time mulling over questions of vocation, it’s likely to be the novice master. So, having been given permission by Father John, I went into the abbey buildings and up the day stairs to the novitiate. I should probably explain that they are used to me being around. There’s quite a big gap between the fourteenth century and the twenty-first, and they don’t exactly see me physically, but they do see me. They call me the little ghost, and it doesn’t surprise them any more when I turn up. When they come here to the twenty-first century, they travel by the Earth paths that join up one layer of time with another. For some of them it’s an effort and they fade out before we finish talking, but some of them can stay here for ages. But on this occasion I was there. Obviously there is no place for a woman roaming around their monastic enclosure, but it’s different with a ghost.

As I reached the top of the day stairs, one of their novices — Brother Ignatius — came out of the room where Brother James makes robes; he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me. I don’t think he’s seen me before. He blinked. “Hello,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“Is Father Theodore teaching just now?” I asked him. He nodded. He seemed a bit nervous. I don’t know quite how I look to them, but they wouldn’t call me the little ghost if I didn’t look ghostly, would they? 

“Then can you take him this message?” I asked. 

Still rather uncertain, he reached out his hand. I wondered if my piece of paper would even cross into the fourteenth century, but it did. He looked down at my handwriting, and then felt the paper carefully between his first two fingers and his thumb, turned it over and stroked the surface of the paper. Then he said he’d give it to Father Theodore. And I said thank you, and that I didn’t want to disturb their lesson, and I’d come back another time to see what Father Theodore had to say.

Brother Ignatius looked at me as if — well, as if he’d seen a ghost. “He . . . Who shall I say gave me this?” he asked. “Does Father Theodore know you?”

“Yes, he does,” I assured him. “Tell him it was from the little ghost. He’ll know who you mean.”

So he nodded, and went on his way to the novitiate, just looking back once to see if I was still there.

After that I wasn’t sure what to do, especially as I didn’t have the question written down any more. I turned round and went back down the day stairs. But I wanted to go to the infirmary, because I love it there, so I headed in that direction. And sitting on the bench under the cherry tree in the infirmary garden, there was Father William. Now, he didn’t look a bit surprised to see me. “Oh, hello,” he said: “It’s you.” (And how right he was.) “Nice to see you. Did you want something. Were you looking for me?”

So I told him what I could remember about Tina’s question, which was how an older person who doesn’t live in a monastery could slot into place in her own circumstances, finding ways to make a real contribution that would be a glad service at the same time as fulfilling for herself. What would be, I asked him, her equivalent of finding the right obedience?

And he said, “Are you going to sit down?” So I sat beside him on the bench while he thought about it. 

Then he said, “It’s not entirely about jobs that need doing — though of course somebody has to, so it might as well be yourself, on any given day. In terms of the context she’s in, I’d say to look for what isn’t there — and keep that not too specific. So, not to ask yourself if someone’s needed to compose music or stitch a set of vestments or make some church incense; because the first thing that would happen is you’d simply say that’s too difficult or you don’t know how. But stay a bit more abstract. Ask yourself, is kindness missing here? Are these people competent but desperate for money? Do they lack someone to take time to listen to them? Is this place cluttered and disorganised because nobody’s taking care of it? And it's enjoyable finding a creative way to bring what's needed into reality. In my case, of course, the question is usually ‘How about the accounts? Are they up to date and properly ordered?’ Usually the answer to that one is, 'No, they’re not’. Other than that, anyway, what I have to offer, and indeed even my actual presence, is as often as not unwelcome. Though Brother Michael was kind in making a place for me here. So you just fill the gap according to whatever skills you have, you do your best. In reality, much of the time people simply need someone to help with the washing up or close the gate so the cows don’t wander off, not very difficult things.

“But if you just leave it at that, looking for gaps to fill, it can all get unbearably tedious quicker than you’d ever thought possible. Everyone else would be fine, but she’d be a drudge and seriously out of pocket. So then the question is, what are you good at? What kindles your heart? And if you look at your life as it’s unfolded, generally there are consistent themes. 

“Sometimes I’ve thought even if I was nearly dead, I’d be able to check the ledgers and leave the accounts in good order, one last time. It pleases me.  Same, even if Theodore had forgotten his own name he’d be able to talk to you about transubstantiation and the theories of the Atonement. It’s in his blood, you know?

“And I would say this, too. If there’s something you don’t like doing — whether that’s cooking or tending the sick or whatever it might be — well, then, do it if the situation absolutely demands it, but otherwise let it go. Life is short, you know? Do what makes your heart sing.”

Then he stopped, and looked at me. “Any use?” he said.

“I can’t be sure,” I said, “but I’ll tell her.”

“This isn’t your friend Rachel who had a hard time imagining me blowing her a kiss?” he asked; and I said, “No, this is someone different. This is Tina. She speaks French and she loves music. She’s very warmhearted, the type of person who makes the house she lives in homely and friendly. She’s full of laughter, but very thoughtful too. An honest person. She sort of gathers people around her without even really meaning to. She’s kind.”

William nodded. “Should be more of those in he world,” he said. “Well, say hello to her from me.”

I told him I’d left the same question with Father Theodore. “Oh yes, that makes sense,” he said. “Good. Anything he has to say will be a lot more elevated than my mundane outlook on life.”

I wanted to tell him that his point of view is always shrewd, always worth hearing — but it’s hard staying in a different dimension. I realised I’d run out of staying power; I just faded out before I could say what I wanted. So that was the end of our conversation.

I’m not quite sure how or when Father Theodore will get back to me, but I’m confident he will. I’ll let you know what he says.

What Rachel wanted to ask Abbot John

 Rachel said, "I would like to ask our beloved Abbot John how his theology has changed over the years in the monastery and how it has changed the way he oversees the abbey."

So I asked him. He thought about it a bit, and then he said, "Look, come and sit by the fire." So we did.

He thought about it a bit more, drew breath to speak and stopped a couple of times, and then he said this —

"I think, maybe, there are two aspects — two sides — to theology. There's the ageless faith and teaching of the gospels . . . well, all the Bible really, but anyway the gospels, the teaching of Jesus . . . and of Holy Church. Our pathway of faith shaped and structured by prayer and study and debate and trying to live it all for hundreds of years. That's one part of it. And it's a well that never runs dry, you know? Every time — and I do mean every time — I go to the gospels or the Rule, looking for inspiration and some kind of guiding light for a Chapter address or a homily for Mass, or anything else really, I find something new. It's a living flame, isn't it? Eternal but not static.

"So there's that. And it always served me well, right until I was made abbot. After that I discovered a second aspect, which . . . well it changed me — I mean, changed the man I am and shaped the choices I made.

"It was because of William, really. Trying to care for him pastorally and see things from his point of view. I think the root of it was that I'd never come across anyone so damaged, struggling so hard to create peace when his instincts all led to chaos by the shortest possible route.

"And the thing is, people responded to who he was and how he conducted himself by wanting to punish him. In all honesty, I think they just misunderstood him, but if that's the case then add me to the list of people who did, because he's not always the easiest man to live with.

"But then I had to make choices, because he came to me for refuge. Suicide is a mortal sin, and he tried to kill himself, and if he ever apologised for it, it certainly wasn't to me. But then our bishop wanted him brought to account for it, and since he was effectively apostate at the time — it was while he was away from us, with Madeleine — that might have meant they'd have hanged him. Even if they hadn't succeeded with that, because he was in fact still a priest, I shudder to think what other cruelties they might have enacted upon him.

"So I had to think what on earth to do to keep him safe. Which ended up with me being less than candid with our bishop Visitor, concealing William's whereabouts, and altogether being more economical with the facts than my conscience was used to.

"But that wasn't all, was it? Because, yes, what about Madeleine? He was in holy orders, wasn't he? Living under obedience and vowed to a consecrated life of celibacy — but — Madeleine! And yet, as it all unfolded, I saw how healing it was for him. To be held, intimately, to share a bed with someone, to be touched. I mean, for his whole life long, touch had mostly been violent and brutal. He needed what she did for him. 

"But then, what about taking him back? He was never sorry about his time with her, far from it — he treasured its memory.

"So, every step of the way it all took me further and further off the beaten track of orthodox interpretation of, and faithfulness to, everything I'd always thought inherent in our Rule and doctrine and the accepted norms of Holy Church.

"But it was the principle, do you see? Something, maybe about righteousness . . . that it's not about being correct but being true — to yourself, to one another, to love, to what's real in any given set of circumstances. I mean, if you don't start with reality, well, where can you go from there that's any good?

"I've searched my heart over and over about this. I love him for sure, dearly, but I don't think I was indulgent with him. I think — I'm not certain — that I just gave him the help he needed to leave his past behind. But doing that took me off what I'd always seen to be the strait and narrow, leaving the rules and customs behind, just hanging on to the principle and making up the rest as I went along.

"So I came in the end to the second aspect of theology — as you might say, the practice as distinct from the theory. You know how a recipe is made up of two parts, the ingredients and the method? Well, I think the  scriptures and the tradition put the ingredients into my hands, but the method of combining and shaping them came from experience arising from particular circumstances. It was the same ingredients — love and truth and faith and hope and patience and humbling yourself and forgiving, all of that — but once they were all chopped up and mixed together and put through the fire, they looked a lot different from at the start. And not only that, but yes, you can have a recipe and it all looks fine on the page — but sometimes in real life you need to substitute what you actually have, for what the recipe says you should use. Something like that.

"Look, am I . . . does that . . . is any of that any help at all? So I'd say — please pass this on to your friend Rachel with my greetings and my love — that the teaching of Holy Church and the scriptures are abiding, unchanging and universal; but how you apply them can differ startlingly depending on life circumstances.

"I hope I remained faithful, though. I really hope I did. It all proved to be more complex than I ever imagined. I tried to keep it simple. I tried to hold on tight to the foundational principle of love. Is that all right? Does that help?"

That's what he said.