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.”