O Emmanuel and Our Need of God 2016

There can be no doubt about it. With today’s O antiphon we have touched rock bottom. All our fine phrases, our careful allusions to salvation history, our bold attempts to name God and so have some sort of power over him (as if we could!), come down to this: a desperate plea for a desperate plight. For the first time we address him as ‘Lord our God’ and humbly, brokenly, ask him to come and save us. Before we get to that point, however, we pile up title after title used in previous antiphons, as though to make sure we miss none out that might touch his heart. But there can be no disguising the fact that this antiphon leaves us stripped naked, acknowledging our need of God, just as, on Christmas morning, God in Christ will stand naked before us, needing our love.

O Emmanuel, Rex et legifer noster, exspectatio gentium, et Salvator earum: veni ad salvandum nos Domine Deus noster.
O Emmanuel, our King and Law-giver, the One for whom the nations hope and long and their Saviour, come and save us, Lord our God.

Many a Christmas sermon will dwell on the meaning of Emmanuel, God-with-us, but if we are honest, most of us know times when God, if there is a god, seems distant, unapproachable, not interested in us or our doings. We look at the latest disaster and ask, ‘Where was God when those children died, screaming in agony, in Aleppo?’ ‘Where was God when that lorry plunged into the crowd in Berlin?’ ‘Where was God when X died, or I lost my home or job, or I found out I had a terminal illness?’ These are legitimate questions, and the standard answer, that God was with us as we suffered, rarely convinces. We need a God not afar off but close at hand, and for many, God is not close at hand.

Perhaps instead of trying to answer the question ‘where was God?’ we have to explore the question ‘where is God?’ At first sight, that may seem like mere word-play of the most barren kind; but if we stop and think about it, it is anything but. To ask where was God is to ask a question of history, to go back in time; to ask where is God is to pray and enter into a relationship with him here and now. And that surely, is what the Incarnation has brought about in a most wonderful way. We cannot fear God or think him unapproachable when we know that in Christ he has taken human flesh and blood and been born, just as we are, just as dependent as we are. He cannot undo that — he has bound himself to us for ever and is with us to the end of time. Whatever happens, however low we fall, however much distress or failure we experience, the Everlasting Arms are beneath us. God is indeed with us.

If you would like to read more about Advent and listen to the ‘O’ antiphons sung in Latin according to a traditional plainsong melody, with a brief explanation of the texts and references, see our main site, here. Flash needed to play the music files as I have not yet replaced the player with HTML5.

Our Christmas Newsletter is available online here: http://eepurl.com/cukCsr. It has a stunning photo of the sun shining on the earth taken from space.


O Sapientia and our Need of Wisdom 2016

Tonight every monastery of the Latin rite will begin singing the great sequence of Magnificat antiphons known as the ‘O Antiphons’, beginning with O Sapientia, ‘O Wisdom’. Every year the antiphons take on a new depth of meaning and relevance and present us with a new challenge.

Our homely word ‘wisdom’ tends to conjure up visions of age and experience — kindly grandmothers nodding in rocking chairs, or elderly men whose mastery of some ancient skill or craft seems effortless. But the Wisdom of God is perennially youthful, ever at play in God’s presence, we are told; and how could it be otherwise when she is a pure emanation of the Most High, endlessly creative? The Wisdom of God turns topsy-turvey all our ideas about how things should be, but few of us have the courage to embrace that wisdom in all its fullness. Tonight’s antiphon turns our need of wisdom into prayer, and it is not one to be uttered lightly:

O Sapientia, quæ ex ore Altissimi prodiisti, attingens a fine usque ad finem, fortiter suaviterque disponens omnia: veni ad docendum nos viam prudentiæ.
O Wisdom, you come forth from the mouth of the Most High. You fill the universe and hold all things together in a strong yet gentle manner: come to teach us the way of prudence.

We find that our idea of God’s wisdom is too tame, too little. No wonder we must ask him to teach us, and the first thing he must teach us is prudence which, as St Benedict says, is the mother of all the virtues. To have a right view of God, the world and our own place in it, to have a right relationship with all these, we need wisdom and prudence, but we need most particularly divine Wisdom and Prudence. There is a danger, of course, that in concentrating on the ‘otherness’ of God, we may forget his tenderness and compassion and be filled with a fear that is not reverent but merely craven. God wants us to come to him as a loving Father, so the antiphon reminds us that the God of infinite strength is also the God of infinite gentleness. Paradox upon paradox, and at its heart, the mystery of love.

To speak of the mystery of love in a world grown cold and cruel seems, at best, ridiculously optimistic. We look at Aleppo, we look at our political parties, we look at the Church, and all we seem to see is bickering and division — and in the midst of it, the result of all that division, we see immense suffering, the suffering from which Christ comes to redeem us. We forget that the Wisdom of God is not like our human wisdom. We forget what I called the perenially youthful, endlessly creative aspects of divine Wisdom. Perhaps we should re-think our view of wisdom, with both a capital and a lower-case ‘w’. As we pray tonight’s antiphon, let us do so with hope in our hearts. His love will never fail or forsake us, and his love comes to us at Christmas not as an abstraction but as Jesus Christ our Lord.

If you would like to read more about Advent and listen to the ‘O’ antiphons sung in Latin according to a traditional plainsong melody, with a brief explanation of the texts and references, see our main site, here. Flash needed to play the music files as I have not yet replaced the player with HTML5.


A Darkness of Our Own Making

Earlier this morning, I listened to the sound of gunfire and bombing in the streets of Aleppo. The BBC World Service reporter said very little. There was no need. We already know there is a darkness at the heart of the world, but a darkness of our own making, created from our collective greed and obstinacy certainly, but also from our reluctance to get involved, our confusion, our not knowing what to do or how to do it. Apportioning blame, stridently accusing others, gets us nowhere. It does not lessen the darkness, it only adds to the sense of despair.

Advent is about hope, just as today’s feast, that of St Lucy, is about light; but how can we speak about hope and light when everything seems so black? I think the first Mass reading from Zephaniah 3 gives us a clue, especially these words:

I will remove your proud boasters
from your midst;
and you will cease to strut
on my holy mountain.
In your midst I will leave
a humble and lowly people,
and those who are left in Israel will seek refuge in the name of the Lord.
They will do no wrong,
will tell no lies;
and the perjured tongue will no longer
be found in their mouths.
But they will be able to graze and rest
with no one to disturb them.

Our mistake is to think that we can ‘do it all ourselves,’ without really changing our attitudes. Humility, truth, a recognition of our own littleness, these are not wishy-washy qualities. They are the mark of the truly great person, one whose trust is placed in the Lord and who relies on him; they are attitudes we must cultivate both individually and as nations, however much they may go against the grain. We know that the Sun of Justice will rise with healing in his wings and scatter the darkness  around and within us. May he shine upon Syria and all of us — soon.

We shall hold an informal Vigil of Prayer for the people of Syria between 8.00 p.m. and 9.00 p.m. tonight. Please join us in spirit and intention.


Remembering: Armistice Day and More

The last few days have seen events that have made huge demands on the world’s attention and understanding: the horrors being perpetrated in Mosul, the outcome of the U.S.A. presidential election and the diverse reactions to it, the ongoing squabbles about Brexit. At the same time, we have been marking some significant anniversaries: Kristallnacht, the fall of the Berlin Wall, Armistice Day. If what I have read is in any way typical, there has been a great deal of gloating and unholy glee manifested by some who are ordinarily kind and considerate, and a good deal of self-indulgent and self-referential grieving expressed by others. These will be thought harsh verdicts and I am sure many will leap to their keyboards to accuse me of being snobbish (because I am not a populist), stupid (because I do not agree with them) and, of course, ‘judgemental’ — which no one should ever be, least of all one who professes to be a Christian (I am being ironical). I hope you will allow me to argue my point, notwithstanding.

Armistice Day always makes me think of my grandparents and the people I knew in my youth: the wheezy old gentlemen, sometimes missing a limb or two, who would never speak about war or what it had meant to them; the maiden ladies whose fiançés had died at the Front and who subsequently lived lives of genteel poverty and loneliness; the tears shed by my maternal grandmother over her two sons killed in World War II; the pressed flowers from the Western Desert and the blood stains in one of my father’s books which told their own sad story. We children remembered, even though we ourselves had no part in the wars of our parents and grandparents; and as we stood during the Two Minutes’ Silence, we prayed for all the fallen of all wars and armed conflicts and asked God to grant us peace in our day. Today that prayer looks a little frayed round the edges. What is happening in Syria is barbaric; the souring of relations between the world’s superpowers is the stuff of nightmares; and the growing feeling that we no longer share any common sense of the boundaries between acceptable and unacceptable behaviour is deeply troubling.

The polarisation of society is something that should concern us all because, left unchecked, it does indeed lead to the victimisation of individuals and groups. If we value free speech, we need to be responsible about what we say and how we say it because, when all controls are gone, the very freedom it is meant to safeguard is endangered. We are all familiar with the way in which Social Media has been used to inflict pain and suffering through the repetition of untrue or unsubstantiated claims and through direct and sinister attacks on others. I think, however, there is something we can do which might help us.

As you might expect of a Benedictine, I always pray before going online or before writing anything. In effect, what I am doing is pausing a moment to remember what it is I am about and the people involved. Sometimes, of course, I get it all wrong and express myself badly or rudely or otherwise inadequately. Sometimes, however, I get it right; and instead of stoking the fires and multiplying misunderstandings, I manage to stumble across the words needed to defuse a situation. Sometimes, face to face, no words are needed, just a smile. You might expect me to say that prayer is at the heart of this, but I would say the act of remembering precedes prayer. It is what we need to do to allow God into the situation. Remembering, in this context, is not taking up a pre-determined position and going over (yet again) all one’s grievances. It is a little more difficult than that, and requires an act of will to accompany the act of remembrance. It means saying to oneself: this is a situation I have to deal with. I can make it better or worse. What do I have to do or change in myself to make it better?

Tomorrow, on Remembrance Sunday, many will stand beside War memorials and bow their heads in remembrance. Many others will not; or will utter some sort of protest at British imperialism or the arms trade or whatever. If what I have said above is true, what matters is what we ourselves do: how we remember, how we respond. It is no use lamenting the state of the world if we are not prepared to do something about it. We must start with ourselves, and remembering is a good first step.


The Henrician Act of Supremacy and Other Matters

On this day in 1534 Parliament passed the first Act of Supremacy. The Act recognized Henry VIII as Supreme Head of the Church of England and required an oath of loyalty from his subjects regarding the legality of his marriage to Anne Boleyn. My ancestors were no more given to martyrdom than I am, but some were just as obstinate as their descendant and preferred to stick to their principles rather than obey the king’s will. Over the next few decades they paid the price, which leaves me with a slight conundrum. Do I forget them and their sacrifice, taking the lofty view that we understand things differently now? Or do I allow them to prick my conscience and ask myself what it was they thought they were defending, and why they considered it so important? As often happens, we end up with a question of ecclesiology when we thought we were merely considering politics.

The question of ecclesiology (how we understand the Church) was given fresh emphasis yesterday when Pope Francis announced a commitment to seeking a resolution of the differences between the Catholic and Lutheran Churches. Excellent, one would say — except that commentators have homed in on two points that are going to cause some confusion and much theological heart-searching. Pope Francis reaffirmed the othodox Catholic view that it is impossible for a woman to be ordained to priest’s orders, then later talked about working towards a shared Catholic/Lutheran Eucharist. As some Lutheran Churches permit the ordination of women, there is clearly a major difference in the understanding of Holy Orders which will inevitably affect our understanding of other sacraments, including the Eucharist.

At this stage, it is difficult to see how such differences can be resolved; and if they are resolved, what the implications would be for the Catholic Church (I am not qualified to ask what the implications would be for the Lutheran Church). Already we have received a trickle of questions from ‘confused Catholics’ of various kinds. One thing I think we can assert with some certainty is that the resolution of Catholic/Lutheran differences will take a long time. It will not be ‘top priority’ for many people; and though it may not be so evident in Rome, it is not possible to pursue a policy of liberalism (if it is fair to call it that) in one area while demanding strict conservatism in another without some unintended consequences. Maybe the all-male panellists of tomorrow’s Core Values Conference in Rome will provide us with some indications of how the circle can be squared? Whatever happens, much prayer, deep learning and serious thought is required.


Lepanto, the Feast of Our Lady of the Rosary (formerly, Our Lady of Victory), and Living with Islam Today

The title of this post proclaims that I am both an insider, for I write as a Catholic and erstwhile historian, and an outsider, for I also write as a Benedictine trained in an English tradition which regards the rosary as a purely private devotion and I am clearly not a Muslim. However, it is the nearest I can get to ‘thinking aloud’ about the significance of this day and the focus it puts on something many of us find perplexing and, at times, troubling: how Christians in the UK live with Islam.

Some Obligatory Historical Background
If you want an overview of the Battle of Lepanto and its importance from a European perspective, I suggest you read this Wikepedia post. It’s not too long, and it does note the link between between the rosary and the victory over the Ottoman Empire. Pius V instituted ‘Our Lady of Victory’ as an annual feast to commemorate the victory, which he attributed to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Dedications to Our Lady of Victory had preceded this papal declaration. For example, Simon de Montfort  built the first shrine dedicated to Our Lady of Victory in thanksgiving for the Catholic victory over the Albigensians at the Battle of Muret on 12 September 1213.  However, in 1573, Pope Gregory XIII changed the title of the feast from ‘Our Lady of Victory’ to ‘The Holy Rosary‘. Pope Clement XI extended the feast to the whole of the Latin Rite, inserting it into the General Roman Calendar in 1716, and assigning it to the first Sunday in October. Pope St Pius X changed the date to 7 October in 1913, as part of his effort de-clutter the Sunday liturgy of devotional feasts and commemorations. In 1960 Pope St John XXIII changed the title to ‘Our Lady of the Rosary’.

A Contemporary Dilemma
You can see from the above that today’s feast confronts us with something our politicians are often nervous about: the Christian origins of Europe. Anyone who, like me, has been a student of Spanish history, will readily acknowledge the interplay of Judaism and Islam with the Christian history of Europe, including not only the contributions made by Jews and Muslims but also the terrible sufferings unjustly inflicted on those who did not conform to the religious norms of the day. The problem, as I see it, is that today we are both hesitant about identifying with our Christian heritage and woefully ignorant about the difference between mainstream Islam and the Wahabist perversion of it that has perpetrated so much terror and violence — chiefly, let it be said, against other Muslims.

When Emeritus Pope Benedict XVI, delivering an academic lecture in Regensburg, quoted (without any approval or identification with the sentiments of the author) a few sentences expressing a negative view of Islam, he released a maelstrom. Many commentators dismissed the pope as out of touch, prejudiced, etc, etc. They did not bother to read what he actually said, nor did they understand or care about the context in which he spoke. He simply failed to conform to their ideas of what was acceptable. Others seized on his words to ‘justify’ their hate-filled torrents of abuse (in both directions). It was ugly; it was unnecessary; but it was also revealing.

It would be foolish to deny that Christians in the UK do have a problem with Islam. Most of us have Muslim friends whom we love and respect and know to be as far away from from being terrorists (the usual accusation) as it is possible to be. We also know that the media aren’t very interested in stories about mutual co-operation and help. They bear a great responsibility for the negativity towards Islam in this country. But it wouldn’t be honest, either, to dismiss the concerns of people who are troubled by the way in which some elements of Islamic practice seem to be undermining historical freedoms and customs. Many are concerned, for example, about the operation of Sharia courts, instances of the separation of men and women at university lectures, or the use of Halal meat in general catering. It isn’t just an unease with difference (think how exotic Catholicism seemed to the average Englishman of a hundred years ago!), but a sense that something important we can’t quite identify and can’t in any way control is being changed.

I see today’s feast as an invitation to reflect and pray about my own attitides — from my wimpish silence at times about what I truly believe to my casual complicity with views I’ve been too lazy to think or do anything about. That may not sound very much, but in the past it has made me read the Koran and Muslim commentaries on the Koran. It has also made me challenge, at least interiorly, much of the media’s speculation about the motives of others and their narratives of Islam in the UK. I think it matters because to believe something untrue about another is a great injustice; it is an even greater injustice to act out of that untruth. It is also, for a Christian, wrong to deny our Christian heritage or play down or dismiss its importance for today. The key to reconciling these sometimes contradictory aspirations is surely the search for truth and the desire to live in peace and harmony with all. May Our Lady, revered in both the Christian and Muslim traditions, aid us with her prayers.


The Battle of the Somme: Thoughts from Inside a P.E.T. Scanner

Yesterday, at 5.00 a.m., I drove to Oxford to have another P.E.T. scan*. Usually, I spend my time fighting claustrophobia and trying to pray. Yesterday was slightly different. I had a box placed on my tummy to measure my respiration rate. It knocked against the inside of of the tube in time with my irregular breathing and induced a new panic: was I going to pass out there and then? I also discovered that the minor aches and pains attendant on my deteriorating condition made holding my arms above my head painful. I was just on the point of having to say, ‘I can’t hold this position any longer’ when the scan came to an end. It was then, and only then, that I thought of what I had intended to make the substance of my prayer: the Battle of the Somme and our need to learn the lessons of the Great War, not repeat them.

The discomfort I experienced inside the P.E.T. scanner was trivial in comparison with what soldiers on both sides experienced at the Somme. I didn’t die; I didn’t even have to put up with the discomfort for very long. But there are similarities, too. None of those who died or were wounded wanted to be; none of them wanted to experience the mud of the trenches, the rats, the barbed wire, any more than anyone really ‘wants’ to be ill or experience some medical procedures. Those who were fighting had to trust the judgement of others, or at least submit to it, with no very clear or optimistic view of the future. Idealism was wearing thin by 1916. The Great War for Civilisation was proving bloody and brutal, and there seemed no end to it. My paternal grandfather never spoke of it, couldn’t speak of it — the wounds in the mind last long after the wounds in the flesh have more or less healed.

Today we shall affirm our desire that Europe should never see war again. We shall proclaim our gratitude to those who gave their lives. We shall pray for their souls and surround ourselves with poppies and wreaths and national flags, but I wonder how many of us will be asking what more we should do, what more I should do? How do wars start? They start, surely, in the hearts and minds of people just like us. They start with wanting what we don’t have, or refusing to forgive some perceived insult or wrong, or believing ourselves superior to others, or even just exulting in physical strength and wanting to lord it over others. We may balk at such a description of ourselves, protesting that we are guiltless of such enormities; but the political parties to which we belong, the countries of which we are citizens, may hold such attitudes.

I don’t myself agree with those who are drawing doom-laden analogies between our present political chaos in the U.K. and the inter-war years in Germany, but I don’t think we can be complacent. If our leaders are in a mess, and the vanity and the in-fighting makes me think they are, there is no reason why we should be — but we will have to make sure we don’t blindly follow suit. This is a time for holding coolly to what we believe to be right and for working for the common good. How we define the common good will, of necessity, vary; but I think most of us would agree that we want people to feel secure, to have jobs, food, shelter, education, healthcare. Those of us who believe in Christ will know that this is more than just a vague wish or political ideal. It is a moral imperative, and Christians must be the first to take up the challenge. May I suggest that we need to think and pray about that today if we are truly to honour the sacrifice of those who died in 1916?

* Positron Emission Tomography. The process involves being injected with a radioactive sugar solution, drinking vast quantities of cold water on an empty stomach, then, after waiting an hour for these things to circulate round the body, half an hour or more of lying flat, arms raised above one’s head, inside a noisy metal tube. A three-dimensional image of the body is produced, which enables an assessment to be made of the progress of disease and how individual organs are affected.


Tolerance v. Indifference

From time to time someone will call me a bigot for the simple reason that I am a Catholic, or they will assume that I ‘don’t really believe all that stuff’ the Catholic Church teaches. Either way, it seems, I am an idiot and perhaps a hypocrite, too. The fact that such people usually live another day after making such pronouncements is, I think, proof of my tolerance; but isn’t it odd how often we accuse people of being intolerant when what we really mean is that they don’t share our beliefs/values — and then laud indifference, not caring, as though it were a positive value?

Pope St John I, whose memoria we keep today, had an eventful life but one which exemplifies the distinction between tolerance and indifference. He had the misfortune to be pope when the Arian Theodoric ruled Rome. While detesting Arian doctrine, John had no difficulty in wishing Arians themselves well and, despite his own frail health, went to Constantinople, to ask the emperor, Justin, to moderate the civil effects of his anti-Arian decree of 523. In this he was largely successful, but Theodoric seems to have suspected some double-dealing (for which there is no proof) and had the luckless pope thrown into prison at Ravenna, where he died of neglect and ill-treatment. John was tolerant; he wasn’t indifferent.

Our experiments with multi-culturalism in the West have often ended in failure precisely because we have confused tolerance (respect for the individual and the willingness to accept difference, however painful) with indifference (an unwillingness to consider whether anything is good or bad). Being tolerant is never half-hearted, never not caring; whereas being indifferent is the lazy way out and easily slides into not bothering at all. Ultimately, tolerance means welcoming the stranger, whereas indifference means ignoring them.

The example of a sixth-century pope may seem a little remote, but I believe it is worth thinking about and asking ourselves whether we are becoming more tolerant or more indifferent. The answer may be chastening.


Email and the Passion of Perpetua and Felicitas and Companions

The death of Ray Tomlinson, the creator of email, probably made many of us pause for a moment. Email is both a blessing and a bane. It is immediate, cheap and a huge help in keeping in touch with multitudes of people, especially for those of us who have not yet adapted fully to the smartphone and social media. It is also a significant time-waster, a source of scamming and dangerous when one is rattled about something. As far as I know, no one has yet published, electronically or otherwise, a collection of the world’s greatest emails; and I have a hunch no one ever will. Email is essentially transient, read this moment, forgotten the next.

What a good thing, therefore, that email didn’t exist when Perpetua wrote her account of the circumstances leading up to her martyrdom and that of Felicitas. It is a kind of prison diary, written in the first person and full of the sort of detail that gives the story an amazing vigour. There are two versions of the Passio, in Latin and Greek, with a little working over by our old friend Tertullian, which you can read here, and a modernized version of Walter Shewring’s translation into English here. It is one of the earliest texts, if not the earliest, written by a Christian woman to have survived. We are at once under the Carthaginian skies of 7 March, A.D. 203 and can feel the heat, hear the brutal cries and smell the sweat and blood of the arena where an extraordinary display of courage is taking place. There is pathos, too, for Perpetua, the nobly-born, is a nursing mother and Felicitas, a slave, is in an advanced state of pregnancy. As we read the text, we begin to realise that this account is not merely historical, something from nearly two thousand years ago that belongs to a vanished world. It is appallingly, violently contemporary; and the dreams and the arguments Perpetua records as leading inexorably to her death still have the power to shock because they have their dreadful equivalents today.

Let us pray for persecuted Christians in Africa and the Middle East, especially those who are subject to the brutality of IS and its imitators; and let us not lose hope. SS Perpetua and Felicitas remind us that death is not the end but the entrance into life, and that those who kill the body cannot kill the soul.


A Little Plea to Monastic Historians

Yesterday I was reading a book on monastic history by a well-regarded historian. No names, no pack-drill, as they say; but the more I read, the more uncomfortable I became. The monastic life the historian was describing and interpreting was so far removed from the reality I have experienced that I found it unrecognizable. Now, you may say that the monastic life of the twenty-first century is a world away from that of the tenth or twelfth, and you would be right; but as Georges Duby argued so persuasively when writing about medieval marriage, many things do not change. There is a commonalty of experience that enables the married person of today to understand much of the life of his/her medieval forebear. But when we come to a life we have not ourselves lived, we have to put our imagination to work very intensely; and that isn’t always easy.

Most people know what it is like to live in a family; comparatively few know what it is like to live in a monastic community. That can affect how we view things and, more important, how we interpret them. So, for example, unless we have experienced the liturgy day after day for years on end, we may mistake how formative it is in the life of the monk. Unless we have actually lived enclosure, we may fundamentally misinterpret how it is understood in the life of the nun. If we do not see how feast and fast flow together, we may stumble in our interpretation of diet. Above all, we may forget that most people, most of the time, are quite sincere about what they do and the reasons for which they do it. They may be mistaken; they may, at times, be unwilling; but, on the whole, I don’t think most people are cynical. Men and women in the Middle Ages didn’t see autonomy in the way we do; a parent’s right to choose one’s husband or wife or determine one’s occupation in life was more generally accepted than it is in the West today.

Therefore, my dear monastic historian, may I ask a favour of you? Before you start writing about monasticism in terms of liminality or achieved status or power elites, please would you familiarise yourself with some of the basic texts and practices of monastic life itself? Read the bible, all the bible (monks and nuns have a quite depressing familiarity with even the most obscure parts of it, and always have had); read the Rule of St Benedict and, if possible, learn it by heart as they do and did; immerse yourself in the silence in which monks and nuns pass the greater part of their day; think long and deeply about the role of the abbot or abbess and a life of single chastity, not as something to be resented or resisted but as that which is intrinsic to the monastic understanding of conformity to Christ. It won’t be time wasted, because it will give you some insight into a life that is, to be frank, a bit odd, a bit difficult to understand. Without God at its centre, monastic life makes no sense at all. Failure to see that makes pretty poor history, too.