Scrupulosity: When Faith Feels Like Fear — Debra Peck

Do you know the work of my friend Debi Peck? 

She wrote a particularly excellent book called The Hijacked Conscience — a book about a form of OCD called religious scrupulosity — which has become a must-read resource for pastors, and is illuminating for anyone who goes to church. I am fairly certain that even if Debi's struggles aren't the same as your own, you will know a fellow-Christian who has faced the same challenges and will find her wise and kind and brave account very helpful.

Recently Debi's son Brenton has launched himself upon the unsuspecting world as a podcaster — Yay! Go, Brenton! — and the very first person he wanted to interview was his mother.

Here they are, settling down for a chat on the subject of scrupulosity — when faith feels like fear.

Listening to Lucy

Until this year I haven't spent much time thinking about polarisation. 

Our divisions, whether political or racial or religious, seemed unnecessary to me. I had a curiosity about people who were different from me, and enjoyed seeking them out when I could, to discover their point of view; but like most people I tended to swim in particular seas (ideologically) and assumed what people said was what they meant, and it all seemed fairly straightforward.

But the shifts and changes combined with the explosive acceleration of communication affecting the ideological landscape have resulted in a very different terrain from where we were before the pandemic. Truth has emerged magnificently at the same time as lies have proliferated astonishingly. It's hard to pick a way through the muddle. Everything is in such a confusion of development and emergence that it's tricky to spot the path the light shines on. It's there, of course, it just takes patience and time and spaciousness (simplicity), watching and waiting until its fragile light strengthens up into a clearly discernible thread.

Adding to the chaos is polarity. It's hard to discuss anything with somebody who holds the view that if you believe this then you must believe that. It's like getting out the hair that gets stuck in the plughole of the sink. You pull out what seemed to be just a little bit, only to find it has all kinds of accumulated crud attached to it. It has become impossible to have a perspective on any topic without it being assumed you have internalised all the rest of the ideological package.

Because of all this, it is only with my husband — who has different politics, different spiritual understandings, and a different cultural outlook from mine — that I feel free to discuss these things frankly and in depth. He is very patient with me.

Then a thought occurred to me today that I found helpful. Have you read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (C.S.Lewis)? I think you probably have. If you haven't, or read it years ago and no longer have a copy, just at the moment you can get it free on Kindle (at Amazon).

I wanted to quote you a snippet from it, but when I went back to it I realised there isn't a short part encapsulating what I was remembering. You really need to read the whole chapter (Ch.V — Back on this side of the door) , but I'll summarise and explain why I've brought it to your attention.

This is the chapter where Lucy's older brother and sister (Peter and Susan) begin to think she must have lost her mind because of the nonsense she's spouting (about the existence of Narnia — ridiculous, right?). They ask the opinion of their brother Edmund (who has also been to Narnia), but he lies about it and pretends that she is just making it up. 

Troubled, and unable to pick out truth from lies/make-believe, thinking that Lucy might actually have become a little unhinged, Peter and Susan go to ask the Professor (I've given him capitals because in a story like this a professor is a wisdom/authority archetype and I think Lewis expects us to recognise that). 

He listens to them very carefully, and then he asks them, "How do you know your sister's story is not true?"

He asks them which they would evaluate as the most reliable — the most truthful — their sister or their brother? And Peter says that up until now he'd have said "Lucy" every time. So the Professor asks the same question of Susan; and she says that she likewise would have said the same as Peter — but that what Lucy is saying couldn't be true. She admits they have been worried there could be something wrong with Lucy's mind.

The Professor says it is very clear Lucy is not mad. He says that logically there are only three possibilities: either she is mad, or telling lies, or telling the truth. He says that, since she is clearly not mad and they know she does not tell lies, they must assume she is telling the truth.

Now, in the landscape of confusion and dissension where we currently find ourselves, we have to acknowledge there is a fourth possibility: that a sane and truthful person could simply be mistaken, given the depth and breadth of muddle that surrounds us. They might be confused, might have been taken in by the propaganda of others, might later change their mind. So they might be sane and truthful, but gullible and misinformed.

Even taking that into account, I think in our present position, we should be quietly bypassing Edmund and listening to Lucy (whoever is the equivalent in your own life).

So, in picking your way through the chaos, trying to find your bearings, I'd recommend asking yourself, "Who let me down in the past? Who deceived me? Who played me? Who tried to blag me and manipulate me? Who used me?" Discount them as a reliable guide.

Then ask yourself, "Whom have I found trustworthy in the past? Who turned out to hold the wise perspective? In circumstances of conflicting narratives, who told me the truth before? Whose life and practice do I hold in esteem?" And listen to them. Listen to Lucy.

Look at the people you know, and select the ones who are wise and honourable, people of integrity, people who have sheltered others and built up something good and brought order out of chaos. Listen to their opinions. 

Of course we should pay some attention to everyone, because sometimes surprising individuals hold the luminous vision, and if we simply ignore them we could miss that. As Max Ehrmann said, "Speak your own truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and ignorant; they too have their story." But in general, the ones whose lives are a mess, and who rely on others and let people down, are less likely to offer you a trustworthy evaluation. As someone else said (Chuck Swindoll? James Dobson?), "If your Christianity doesn't work at home, it doesn't work: don't export it." 

And then, of course, what Susan and Peter did next was to go through the wardrobe themselves (in their case by happenstance, but we could go on purpose). They listened to Lucy and did not dismiss her (or believe her), but it was making their own exploration that changed their minds. And the same applies to us; we can do our own diligence. Listen to the voices of those you know from experience are holding the light (even if their views sound improbable or are unpalatable); then take the time to do your own exploring. Go and look. Thoroughly. Go into the territories beyond what is familiar to you, and see for yourself. Then you will be in a better position to decide what is wise, what is true.

Listen to the spiritual voices, not just the political ones. Listen to what is visionary and weigh it up against what is practical and realistic. Be cautious about adding your own voice to the cacophony. If you want to act prophetically towards bringing in the Kingdom, do so by small acts of kindness and love in your immediate circle. Roaring and waving flags is not always necessary. Sometimes holding your light steady is more effectively accomplished in quietness.

I hope that helps. Your own thoughts??

Vicki's blog 'Written Down Big'

 Do you know Vicki Kauffman's blog Written Down Big ?

I really like it.

It's a haven from all the snarling stuff, but without being trivial or shallow. It's thoughtful and interesting and well written. 

She has a subtitle for it: "on living expansively, honestly and hopefully", which I love.

Just recently Vicki and I did an interview because she had some questions abut my Hawk & Dove stories. It's here if you think you might enjoy reading it. 

All this turbulence in the world — does it bother you?

 So, how are you doing, friends? All this turbulence in the world — the extremism, polarity, accusation and fear — does it bother you?

Are you someone who has made the decision to stay high on your eagle's perch to avoid being dragged down into the mire?

Are you very politically engaged, and if you are — what is your perspective? Left? Right? Centrist? Floating voter? Has your perspective changed in the last few years, or are you steadfast to the course you'd set?

And if you do feel tossed about by everything tearing the world apart, what are your preferred ways of keeping your equilibrium?

From the wise spiritual people I listen to online, I'm hearing unanimous recommendation that we do well to find solidarity in groups that lift us up and encourage us. Are you in a group like that, or are you more isolated? If you are in such a group, do they keep you steady? How? By what means?

And your group — is it near (walking distance) or do you have to travel to meet up, or can you meet only online?

So many questions! I hope you don't mind!

It's a gloriously sunny day here on England's south coast, as you can see.

Of other news, our kitchen is now fixed and — praise be to God — when the cabinet came out so we could inspect the damage, the disastrous effects were mainly restricted to that one cabinet. The work tops had to be replaced, but the floor was okay, and the wall behind it. It's all calmed and back in place now, looking like this.   

I've got ox-tail pieces in the slow cooker, making meat broth.

Wish me luck!

 There's always something needs doing when you move into a new house, isn't there? Something you haven't thought of.

We knew there were interventions needed in the garden and, Gott sei dank, the weather held good all through August while we tackled that, which involved jackhammers and poured concrete and dismantling and Freegling as well as hedge removal.

But we didn't think there were any issues inside the house — apart from the disentanglement of more wiring and installations than I could ever have imagined to be likely. However, we were wrong.

The sink and the counters in our kitchen are black — our tenants' choice when we installed a new kitchen for them a few years ago. 

These tenants were the best — clean and responsible and conscientious; they were brilliant.

So I think they must simply have been unaware that, for nobody knows how long, the kitchen tap was dripping badly.

So badly in fact that the cabinet into which the sink is set, and the counter top, are essentially dissolving. And what's happening with the wall behind it and the floor underneath, we do not yet know.

Ever the optimists, we did check if our house insurance would cover it. No it won't; what were we thinking? But the surveyor the insurance company sent round to check was a cheerful young man called Adam who used to be a carpenter and joiner before he got involved with the insurers. "Oh, I can do that for you," he said. Hallelujah!

So he will be on our doorstep at 8.30 sharp tomorrow morning, and thus I have spent the evening re-organising the functioning of our life. Because really, what is a home but a kitchen with armchairs and beds to the side?

I didn't do this spontaneously. I have been thinking through it and planning and mentally moving things for several days now.

Would you like to see the result?

The kitchen is all emptied and ready for Adam to start work.

Our kitchen has a little pantry, and I have put in it a small cookie station for his snacks. We'll make him cups of tea/coffee when we do our own, but he'll need something to nibble on and somewhere to put down his mug of tea, as the counters will all have been removed.

I have the new sink ready for him, propped against the wall just outside the kitchen door in the hallway.

At the other end of the hallway, opposite the front door, I put the fridge-freezer, with the thing on top that filters our drinking water from the spring.

I took the cutlery drawer out of the cabinet — all the under-counter cabinets needed emptying because the ones surrounding the sink will be ripped out and the counter tops likewise, so the inside of the cabinets will have to be washed down afterwards — and put it on our dining table in the front room, where I also set out all the crockery I thought we'd be likely to use.

On the other side of the room I put the air-fryer which cooks most of our meals, and our Jackery power station — because presumably Adam will need to turn off the electricity if he's dismantling the kitchen.

Meanwhile in the back sitting room I hung the cloths and oven gloves ready on the radiator —

— and turned my desk into a tea station, with the trash bins underneath it and the compost scraps bin perched on my shelves.

The trolley table for tea and coffee is handy to put the propane camping hob.

And then I set up a washing up station in the corner, because I should think the water will be turned off until everything's done.

Having the water off means we won't be able to flush the toilet, so I drafted in the watering cans from the garden, filled them up and set them ready in the bath.

We have no idea how long this will go on for — it all depends on the state of the walls and floor when the cabinets come out.

But now I'm tired —

— and listening to this song.

"Whom resist ye, steadfast in faith"

 The Office of Compline begins with the words:

The Lord almighty grant us a quiet night and a perfect end

which I always think is particularly beautiful and full of peace.

After that comes the short reading from the first epistle of St Peter:

Brethren, be sober, be vigilant, 

because your adversary the devil goeth about as a roaring lion,

seeking whom he may devour; 

whom resist ye, steadfast in faith.

I think that admonition is peculiarly apposite for our times.

This last week we have seen a dizzying outpouring of responses to the death of Charlie Kirk. 

On the one hand were those from the political Left, saying such things as that they felt sorry for the bullet having to enter his body, or that they wished his whole family — or President Trump — had died as well. The more moderate among them contented themselves with a few sentences denigrating his character, followed up by a pious remark about how they, personally could never condone violence.

The political Right, meanwhile, seems to have elevated this good man to the level of sainthood, planning statues in his honour and donating huge sums of money in his memory, beyond what is moderate and proportionate. There has been a swathe of sackings and cancellations of Left-leaning people who offered tasteless and negative comment about him.

Both approaches seem to be making political capital out of what is simply sad and awful.

On the Right, many are asking what has happened to the Democrats, saying they have lost their minds.

Those on the Left have been anxious to suggest that the person arrested for the crime had nothing to do with trans-sexuality but was in fact a Right-wing heterosexual, while voices from the Right have been raised to point out that his partner was trans and insist that he had been radicalised by the Left.

Meanwhile, as all this was unfolding, the Democrats report that on Fox News a presenter, live on air, proposed that homeless people be killed: "involuntary lethal injection … or something. Just kill ’em."

The presenter made this suggestion because of the death of Iryna Zarutska, whose killer — a homeless man — left the train where he stabbed her saying (repeatedly) "I got a white girl".

Before that was the horrific shooting of children in Minneapolis by a trans person.

But of course, horrific crime continues to be committed by people who are not homeless or trans, who may be of any political persuasion or none.

Vocabulary is extreme from both Left and Right, insisting those criminals whose ideology is opposed to their own are sub-human, or not human at all, or are demons. Citations of criminals from the opposing side are brandished in increasingly toxic discourse, a dialogue of the deaf.

Meanwhile in England we are in a flag war, with Union Jacks and the English flag raised everywhere in grassroots protest against unchecked immigration, partly in reaction to the Palestinian flag being flown en masse in a variety of locations over this last year, because of the hideous situation in Gaza.

Flags in support of the various expressions of sexual identity have also been raised, or their colours incorporated into clothing and décor. Opponents have stressed the importance of family and having children.

People are being criminalised and arrested by an increasingly stressed and overwhelmed government/police force for both Right and Left opinion — whether that be speaking up for a pro-Palestinian organisation or for posting opinions online of a racist or Islamophobic nature, or for praying (silently) near an abortion clinic. One man was even arrested for calling somebody a muppet. 

I could go on, but I am sure you are aware and know all about this.

Both Left-wing and Right-wing politics have histories of unthinkably cruel régimes of oppression to cause them shame. Either the Right or Left approach could work as a method for ordering society, applied by just, moderate, conscientious, wise, humble people of integrity.

Yes, if you go through what Charlie Kirk had to say (a lot) with a nit-comb, no doubt it is possible to find regrettable remarks.

Yes, a trans person did shoot those children.

Yes, a homeless person did kill Iryna.

Many of the accusations and vilifications have evidence to substantiate them. But the thing is, this travels in both directions, so it isn't "the Left" or "the Right" at the root of the toxicity.

I have several socialist friends and several conservative friends, and all of them are kind, gentle, generous, compassionate, thoroughly lovely people. If you put them all together to run one organisation, they'd manage to do it splendidly without killing anybody at all in the process.

In times of such immoderate polarity and incontinent expression of views, it may be that we can pause and consider how we might be of help.

I expect that, like me, most people who come and read here have very little money or influence or say in how anything is run. All we can do is engage in a steady practice of quantum activism, patiently addressing ourselves to bringing about a new world of peace and kindness through the minutiae of our daily and ordinary dealings with one another, observing other people with understanding and compassionate imagination.

Looking at the modern world, I can see the wisdom of my parents' generation in keeping religion, sex and politics out of social conversation.

In the same way as it's inadvisable to touch with your bare hands a hot iron pan taken straight off the stove, so maybe for a while we would do well to take our hands off these topics, just to let it all cool down.

Surely if a person is a Muslim, Christians can respect that, or if someone is a Christian then a Muslim can likewise respect that.

Surely if there are dangers in trans ideology, one can just discuss those discreetly with one's children, without starting a campaign of hatred against people who identify as trans.

Surely a family can incorporate members whose sexuality or faith or race may differ, and still love one another.

It's not the sexuality or the race or the religion or the political affiliation, or whether people are rich or poor or even homeless, that is at the root of the problem; it's all the same old human sins — rage, greed, violence, lust for power, selfishness, discourtesy, ambition, intolerance. It's looking for where others are getting it wrong rather than taking a while to think over one's own shortcomings. 

This does not mean that we should adopt a laissez-faire approach to life, abandoning all sexual morality and celebrating unchecked illegal immigration and ceasing to put in place any kind of wise boundary.

But it does mean being kind and considerate and forbearing with the individuals we personally encounter as we travel through life, and saying sorry when we get it wrong, and helping those who are poor or ill or disabled or homeless or in trouble — helping them first, and addressing the causes after that.

We are here to hold our light steady, to anchor the light, in and for the place and circumstances and community where we personally live.

If we notice ourselves getting anxious or irritable or angry or overwhelmed, that's the time to step back before we begin to add to the toxic load.

We are here to practice simplicity, living within our means and leaving something over to help other people. We have a responsibility to live so simply that we can stay spacious and peaceful, not overrun by material possessions or oppressed by a packed schedule or bewildered by too many encounters and responsibilities. It behoves us to take the time to educate ourselves, to look deeply, to find out what causes irritation in the nervous system and discontent in the soul. We do well to practice a discipline of eating simple wholesome food and being cautious with pharmaceuticals and staying away from drugs and alcohol and sugar. And we do well to ask many questions and listen to a balance of opinions before we add our own conclusions to a conversation — going beyond habit and received 'wisdom' and preconceptions.

Perhaps if we try such a course of action, we can not only refrain from adding to this horrendous and dangerous instability, but begin to establish a radiance of kindness and peace, to facilitate a change of direction, and provide shelter from the storm to those who are battered and distressed by it all.

xx Pen

 

Ordinary time

 I'm sure you know that in the Church of England the designation of the main portion of the ecclesiastical year was changed.

The Church year begins on the first Sunday of Advent, and rolls around through Christmas, Epiphany, Candlemas, Lent, Easter and Pentecost to Trinity Sunday. Then there's that long section going all the way through to All Hallows and All Souls, taking us back to Advent again. If you go to the Book of Common Prayer, you'll find the long green bit (green vestments in church on a Sunday) designated as the Sundays after Trinity. At some point in the Methodist Church (and maybe in the Anglican Church too I don't know) they altered that to being Sundays after Pentecost. But meanwhile, I think in the Catholic Church (correct me if I'm wrong about any of this and I'll come back to amend what I've written), these Sundays after Trinity were called Ordinary Time. The Methodists and Anglicans also adopted this phrase, but I think stuck with "Sundays after Pentecost" for the lectionary.

I love tradition, for which reason alone I have a nostalgia for the Sundays after Trinity, but for the most part it's Ordinary Time that speaks to my heart. Because that's where we live, isn't it? Ordinary time. And "ordinary" has both an everyday sense of "normal" but also a liturgical sense — "ordained" or "called", subject to the Word of God.

I like it that in the ecclesiastical year there are feasts and fasts, special times of observation, but that most of it is a long slow peregrination through ordinary time. We saunter through it. That word, "saunter" comes from saint terre (holy ground) and was the term for how pilgrims walked. You can't go quick march on a pilgrimage, it's just too long, you have to take it slowly, you saunter.

This is how we walk, in ordinary time, how we move through the fields of grace in simplicity, sauntering home.

Not long ago Tony and I moved to a new home. We have lived fifteen years with Alice and Hebe in their house in Beaufort Road, and we loved that house and loved our shared life with them; but — do you know this song? — you gotta move when the Spirit says move, so that's what we did.

We are very happy in our new place.

This is what it looks like from the outside. That tower block behind it is one of four that are slowly but surely to be dismantled and replaced by low-rise apartment block over the next few years.

It's an ordinary house in an ordinary street that looks like this.

It's a dear little house, just right for us. We had a bit of decorating to do, but not too much. Our front room now looks like this, very peaceful and cosy:

Our back room looks like this — well one corner of it does:

It's where I'm sitting right now.

Here's the other side of the same room, with evening falling now.

The feeling of the house is very happy and welcoming, and as we've settled in we've found a steadily increasing sense of peace.

There has been a dizzying amount of work to do — the day after tomorrow our very modest-sized kitchen —

— will be turned inside out because there are problems of damage cause by a long-term leaking tap. 

There are details like this still to fix — 

— the legacy of televisions having been installed in every room, plus a satellite dish, a CCTV camera, and some defunct aerials and internet sockets from former times.

And my bedroom has some decor issues!!

— which we are slowly addressing. The wardrobes used to be just black, adorned with panels of peel'n'stick dark grey glitter textured wallpaper. Yes. Anyway, moving on; though the room will in due course be painted a soft shade of green, my friends are there already:

So that's OK.

We began with the garden, which had a hedge too large and dominant for our capacity to maintain. We like hedges but said farewell to most of it, and are now slowly replanting with other choices.

And these — don't you think? — are the matters of Ordinary Time; the place where we shape our lives, where we work patiently to repair and maintain, the place where we pray and eat and think and lie down to sleep. What I love about Ordinary Time is that it is essentially our home, the spot of Earth where we are formed and challenged and loved, the place where we meet Jesus and are steadied by his voice.

It came to my mind today, as I was enjoying looking at the posts of Lynda by the River, that maybe now is a time for those of us separated (and even isolated) to draw closer to one another online, for the peace and comfort of one another's company in these wild days of unrest and antagonism. 

Peace to you, then, my friends. Waving from East Sussex, this little patch of England.

This I know: "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well." Our work is to hold the light steady. We are all anchorites now, anchoring the Light to our local spot of Earth, in our ordinary homes through this most extraordinary ordinary time. 

God bless you. xx

Rest in peace, Charlie Kirk

Humble request of readers — can anyone help with this, please?

 Friends, would you be willing to help us with something?

As you know, reviews are very important on Amazon, and the Amazon publishing body has been in touch with me expressing concern about customer disappointment with regard to my book The Hour Before Dawn. They blocked the book and removed it from sale.

It became apparent in our correspondence with the decision-making body on Amazon that we were dealing with bots not humans, and we could not make any headway in establishing what the problem was. All they would do was link us to a page detailing every possible problem it could be — everything from offensive material through to copyright infringement. 

At the time of Amazon blocking the book and withdrawing it from sale, our Humilis edition of The Hour Before Dawn had only one review, and that was a one-star review without any comments. 

However, the previous edition (published by Lion Hudson) was still available through Amazon in second hand copies. It was published in 2015 and has been for sale on Amazon ever since then. It had 155 reviews (all positive) when I last looked, and is still up on Amazon now.

So the problem seems to be the lack of positive reviews.

As they blocked the book and refused to discuss it apart from sending us obstinate refusals to budge from bots who would/could not specify the problem, we were in a bit of a fix. It's an integral part of the Hawk & Dove series, so we didn't want to be lost.

What we have done is to republish it with a couple of minor editorial tweaks; we removed 2 quotations from the beginning in case they were thought to infringe copyright — though they actually did not because I sought permission for one and the other was in the public domain. But we couldn't think of anything else to do, and if the issue was 'customer disappointment', I have no idea how to fix that.

So the republished Humilis paperback edition is here on US Amazon and here on UK Amazon.

On Kindle e-book it's here on US Amazon and here on UK Amazon.

What will protect its availability is positive customer reviews. I think you can leave a customer review without having to purchase another copy.

So please please please — if you have read this book and have any comment to make on it, would you be willing to go along to Amazon at the links above, and say what you (honestly) think of that story?

I hope that will protect it from being removed.

And if you have the time and inclination to leave a positive review on any of the other Hawk & Dove books, that will help keep them available and I will be so very grateful.

Thank you so much, friends.

God bless you.

A Day and a Life in the Humilis Hastings imprint

***UPDATE*** 

21st August

A Day and a Life is now available as a Kindle e-book as well as in paperback.

During July Tony (my husband) and I moved house. We wanted to publish the new edition of the last volume in The Hawk and the Dove Series 1  — A Day and a Life — before we moved, and we almost made it; we managed the paperback.

Tony does all the last checks on the e-book version and publishes it, and since life goes on in parallel with the mountain of Things To Do that are an inevitable part of moving house, it's slowed him up a bit, so it'll still be a few days before the e-book comes out. I'll let you know for sure when it's available.

Meanwhile, if paperback is your preference, A Day and A Life is now out, and it looks like this.

You can find it here on UK Amazon and here on US Amazon, or it'll be in stock in whichever branch of Amazon serves the area where you live.

But if you're waiting for the e-book, fear not, it'll shortly be all good to go.

The Beautiful Thread is now published in our Humilis Hastings imprint

In which we meet Brother Conradus's mother.

It's here on US Amazon, here on Amazon UK, and will also be available worldwide in whatever is the branch of Amazon for your country — either as Kindle e-book or a paperback.

The Breath of Peace is now published in our Humilis Hastings imprint

 The Breath of Peace, the 7th book of The Hawk & the Dove series 1, is now published under our Humilis Hastings imprint, and available on Amazon in your region (paperback or Kindle ebook). It's here on UK Amazon and here on US Amazon.

Maria asks the brothers about heavenly bliss

 I would like to ask the brothers how they imagine heavenly bliss. Anyone who wishes to answer. What does it look like from their point of view?

*        *        *

 

It’s a really beautiful spring evening — dry, for April. Outside in the abbey gardens, flowers are everywhere in bloom: violets and celandines, primroses and the little wild daffodils. The early plum is in blossom, and the flower buds on the cherry boughs in the infirmary garden are just starting to break, but the apple trees in the kitchen garden are biding their time. In the daytime now, if the wind drops, the sun is gloriously warm, but the nights still come in chilly. Up until the last week or two, the weather has been cold, which has meant the early spring flowers have lasted well, including the ramsons — the wild garlic — that Brother Conradus so prizes for salads and flavouring cooked food. The tri-cornered leek grows abundantly in every nook and cranny, invited and encouraged or not; so just now the kitcheners can call upon both kinds of garlic, and that makes them happy. In the last fortnight the marjoram and mint have come on properly, and the lemon balm, so these can be added in to the pottage; the winter season relying on bay and rosemary and sage is past. 

All of this means that the men around Abbot John’s supper table are feeling relaxed and happy. They are no longer so cold they hardly know how to go on living; and, even though it’s Lent so there’s no meat or fish or eggs or butter or milk or cream, tonight’s pottage and hot herb bread is absolutely delicious. And Brother Conradus has made them a sweet course, rice and ground almonds cooked long and slow in milk from oats, spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon, sweetened with heather honey. They eat it in happy silence. Conradus is a genius; everyone agrees on that.

Brother Thomas has lit a fire on the hearth, a small one because it’s true the year is turning, but nonetheless a cheerful, warming, fragrant addition to the evening.

Even in Lent, wine is not forbidden, and a pilgrim staying in their guesthouse last week brought the abbot a keg of smooth ruby red wine all the way from France; so he has broached it to share with them tonight instead of the usual small beer.

And now he wants to ask them, on behalf of our beloved sister Maria in Russia — any of them, whoever has an opinion on the matter — what is their idea of heavenly bliss? How do they imagine it? 

There are several men gathered around the table — Father Francis the prior, Father Josephus the schoolmaster, Father Theodore the novice master, both Father William and Brother Michael from the infirmary, and Father Felix. It was actually the sacristan Father Bernard whom the abbot had originally invited, but yesterday he went down with a cold, and has gone to bed early, bundled up in a shawl, sneezing. So Abbot John asked Father Felix if he’d like to come along instead, seeing as Felix is now the assistant sacristan.

Brother Christopher felt honestly jealous that both William and Michael were invited to sup with the abbot, but not him because someone has to stay on watch in the infirmary. He sees the sense of it, but can’t help feeling disappointed.

Brother Thomas is there too, of course, after a day out on the farm helping with the new lambs; but he’s waiting on their table. That doesn’t stop him offering his opinion, but only when asked by his abbot.

Heavenly bliss, then. How do they imagine it?

This is met with predictable responses. The abbey gardens and England in spring fairly satisfy their requirements for happiness. What more could you ask? 

Father Theodore volunteers the suggestion that heaven would fall a little short without music, and Father Francis can’t imagine bliss being altogether realised without the scent of roses, and lavender, and maybe also a cat stretched out asleep in the sun.

“Yes,” says their abbot. “Dig a little deeper?”

“I think — well, I’m sure,” says Brother Michael, “that heavenly bliss is the shalom of God, which is fulfilment and completion; the place where health and peace work together to produce wellbeing. I think any kind of bliss, even earthly, implies health.  Surely? And in heaven, I trust all our infirmities will be healed. The troubled mind and the body’s pain will be over.”

Father Josephus, nodding in acknowledgement of the truth of this, adds, “In our earthly lives we place significant emphasis on knowledge, and the power it brings. We value being right. We likewise revere the wisdom of experience. But I think — I hope — that in heaven we will add to knowledge and wisdom the beautiful grace of understanding. I mean, our capacity for insight will be expanded so that we see how things were for someone else, we see their point of view. The seeds of war and the enticement of competition will be left behind. We will have a more generous perspective. And I think that will bring deep contentment.”

Father Theodore nods thoughtfully at this, swirling his wine gently in the footed ceramic cup he holds in his right hand.

Father Felix, speaking rapidly and low, says then, “Honestly, for me heavenly bliss is synonymous with peace. An end to worry and striving. An end to failure and shame. A quiet mind. A state of being where there is no more nagging anxiety, nothing to get wrong. And being — completely — with Jesus.”

Father William watches him quietly across the supper table.

Father Theodore says: “What Matthew’s gospel calls ‘the beginning of sorrows’ is to do with the hurt we inflict on one another. War. Greed for what someone else has. Theft. Rape. Destruction. Violence. Torture. Domination and oppression. Even the smaller versions of the same things — touchiness, a critical spirit, grumbling, unkindness, selfishness, unwillingness to forgive. If you take away all of that, what you’re left with is not a tabula rasa, but heavenly bliss. I think life, being, nature, whatever we call it, is blissful — if only we would consent to stop mucking it up. I mean, we could start it right now, if we had a mind to.”

“Amen,” says Father Francis. “Heaven begins with kindness. The reign — the reach — of Christ. His kingdom. It can come on earth as it is in heaven. It must be so; why else would we pray for it?”

“Brother Thomas?” the abbot asks.

His esquire smiles. “I’m not too sure I have much to add. Something that bothers me at times, when I think about heaven, is what it must be like when earthly life stops. I know heaven is meant to be sublime, but . . . if there is no sunrise, no evening breeze on my face, no lark singing high in the summer sky, no smell of new-mown hay, no woodsmoke, no hot bread with butter melting into it . . . I don’t really know how to imagine it, how to call it bliss. So, if it’s all right with you, Father, I’ve started mine early. I’m beginning now. There is so much to delight in, so much to rejoice in, here, now.”

His abbot looks up at him with affection. “Aye and amen,” he says. “All of that. And I’m thinking about how Jesus prayed that we might all be one, as he and the Father are one. I think it must be the case that heavenly bliss is relational, in some sense. I know we won’t have physical being any more, the pleasures of the senses will be over; and yet, love will abide. Faith and hope will be lost in completion and fulfilment, but love is eternal, immortal, primal. I suppose bliss could be experienced in solitude, but I think in heaven there will be, in some sense, love. Companionship. Heaven won't be lonely.”

He looks down the table. “William? Do you know anything about bliss?”

A gleam of amusement shows in his friend’s face. “A little, Father. Not much.” He glances up at his abbot. “I like to think, certainly to hope, that in heaven nobody will be angry with me. I hope my sins will be forgiven, and the wrongs I have done put right. I hope everything will stop hurting, and there will be no more bewilderment. I hope I can stop going through life braced for whatever’s going to hit me next. And I hope I will meet Jesus, and that he will find me — by his grace — acceptable. If he will just let me in to heaven, I will do my utmost to be worthy of his love.”

“That starts now,” cuts in the novice master, firmly. “You are acceptable. You are loved — by him and by us. Your sins are forgiven. And you have met Jesus, haven’t you? And wasn’t he all you hoped for?”

William lets Theodore’s gaze find and challenge him. “Yes,” he answers, softly. “Yes, I have, and yes he is. Thank you. All right, then; let’s start now.”