A Time to Die Read online

  The last breath, the last look, the last beating of his heart had an air of victory. At the sound of the death knell, the brothers arrived. In the room where Brother Vincent had just died, they knelt down. A few moments after his death, the community was around him. They looked on the beautiful face of the one who was dead. The brothers were crying, the brothers were praying.

  At the end of the morning, the infirmarians were busy with the young deceased. They asked the canons to leave the room. The time for women had come. The Father Abbot felt as if they were embalming the body of Christ before placing him in the tomb.

  Brother Vincent remained six days in the mortuary chapel. A few days after his death, Robert Cardinal Sarah arrived at Lagrasse to attend the brother’s funeral. He had known him since the autumn of 2014: we had come together to visit him. The cardinal had been impressed by his spiritual strength. I will never forget the beauty of the expression on their faces at the moment when these two men met for the first time. The cardinal came as a friend, to support a sick person and pray with him. I was also present when he entered the church where the dead man’s body lay.

  The emotion of the cardinal was immense. I was fortunate enough to be the enthralled witness of this story—the silent friendship between a young sick man and one of the most important prelates in the Church. Even today, it is difficult for me to think of those moments without crying.

  Brother Vincent was the first to die in the community. The canons wanted to spend long moments in his presence. Father Emmanuel-Marie sent children, religious, and sick people to pray in the chapel where Brother Vincent reposed. Everyone felt an extraordinary peace and joy upon leaving the oratory where the sick man had attended Mass in the past.

  On the day of his burial, solemnity and joy penetrated even the stones of the abbey. His grave had been dug two years earlier—the brothers had so often believed that they would lose him. An important crowd accompanied the young man. When the canons were closing the coffin, his mother asked to kiss him on the forehead one last time. Then the wooden lid was closed.

  The climb to the cemetery affected the whole community. The long procession passed through the gardens and the avenue of olive trees. Nature was magnificent, the birds were singing, and the blue sky dazzled the canons. One day, they would walk the same path as Brother Vincent. Through him, eternal life had become tangible.

  Ten days after Brother Vincent’s death, Father Emmanuel-Marie was informed of inexplicable phenomena obtained through his intercession. Several terminally ill people had been suddenly cured without any medical explanation. In the medieval garden, at the apse of the abbey, a canon told me with confidence “The brother works in heaven as he did on earth, with passion, precision, and discretion. He is a saint with a method.”

  Today, friends and strangers come to visit Brother Vincent in the community’s cemetery, which has become a pilgrimage destination. His grave is simple and modest. The tall trees, the little wooden cross, and the young boxwood are a perfect final backdrop.

  Two months after the burial, Father Emmanuel-Marie organized a meeting of the whole community with a person responsible for palliative care in Montpellier. The brothers said distressing things they had never expressed before. Some of them were able to speak about their fear of death, others about the fear of illness and anxiety in the face of suffering. Some religious explained with emotion that they could no longer enter Brother Vincent’s room. Through him, they also mourned other loved ones. Still others described their sadness after his departure. Some of them suspected life-prolonging treatment. On the other hand, the canons wanted to be sure that the doctors had not pushed him toward death. There are as many reactions to death as there are men.

  The brother infirmarians, Brother Théophane and Brother Bernard, had great difficulty accepting his death. The day Brother Vincent died, they were not at the abbey. For both men, it was a terrible shock. They would have liked to be present. Brother Théophane and Brother Bernard felt guilty. The two religious were so attached to him that they did not want to see him die. Brother Vincent finally understood it. He waited until they were away to leave. He knew he could not die if his guardian angels were standing near him. They would have succeeded in reviving him. In his own way, Brother Vincent had run away. After his death, his absence became all-consuming. The brother infirmarians had spent three years, night and day, with Brother Vincent. Even now, the brother’s room remains unoccupied.

  At the final moment, Father Emmanuel-Marie did not cry. Now when he speaks, his throat knots up. The violence of the suffering, the brevity of the life, the injustice of the death of Brother Vincent opened a chasm beneath his feet. It reminded him of the servant in Isaiah, of the lamb who would be sacrificed. Brother Vincent never raised his voice in the face of suffering. Multiple sclerosis did not get the better of his humility, his kindness, his simplicity, his greatness.

  Brother Vincent is a mystery. The canons always felt he was happy. The physical suffering was terrible, unbearable, but the spiritual joy was greater. During his agony, Brother Pierre often asked him this question: “Brother Vincent, is it very difficult to bear? Do you suffer greatly?” He responded “yes” with a blink. His anxiety, his distress, his fear hurt his brothers. Physical ailments are difficult, but mental suffering is immeasurable. The obvious reality of being nothing, of losing the most fundamental abilities, is even deeper than the greatest physical wounds. At thirty-five, Brother Vincent had no more dreams.

  He certainly had the feeling of having been abandoned.

  Forgetfulness will perhaps sweep away Benoît Carbonell’s memory. Soon, newcomers to the community will not have known him.

  The canons were like children on a beach protecting a sand castle. The sea rises, and the beautiful construction is doomed. So the little ones take action with the naïveté of young pirates and the energy of those who know they will lose the battle. The inevitable happens; the water rises to the heart of the castle, and the walls of sand collapse in an instant, without making a sound. Brother Vincent was a friable castle, a castle on a scaffold. The religious who were close to him were transformed by the suffering of Brother Vincent. Fragile and nervous brothers became rocks.

  The day of the funeral, Father Emmanuel-Marie addressed Brother Vincent. A simple phrase still resounds in our memories. “Your pulpit was not a pulpit but a white bed of immobility.”

  Brother Vincent was a giant. His body melted like the snow in the spring sunshine, but his soul was lighter every day.

  He fought like a lion cub who knew the end of the battle. Savage beasts tore his muscles and broke his bones. Brother Vincent emerged victorious.

  II

  The Shadow of the Black Mountain

  En-Calcat Abbey

  Between Castres and Carcassonne, the valleys are battered by the Autan wind. There, among imposing, late-nineteenth-century buildings, a church of dressed stone, a shaded cloister, workshops, orchards, undergrowth draw the face of a beautiful and singular abbey. Not far from there, in the countryside of the little village of Dourgne, Sainte-Scholastique is the domain of the nuns. The monastery resembles a castle of Ludwig II of Bavaria, lost in the Tarn fields and foliage.

  I came to En-Calcat to meet Dom David Tardif d’Hamonville, the eighth Father Abbot since its founding in 1890.

  The fifty Benedictines who live at En-Calcat are the spiritual sons of a master builder, Dom Romain Banquet, who willed this large monastery with all his might. Since then, despite the storms, the squalls, men have made the abbey a spiritual homeland, from novitiate to the final hours of life.

  In the middle of the twentieth century, sheltered by the great walls of its enclosure, the abbey experienced a glorious period. The composer Dom Clement Jacob, Guy de Chaunac-Lanzac, one of the greatest names in contemporary tapestry making, in religion the famous Dom Robert, as well as the pianist Thierry de Brunhoff are some of the illustrious figures who have stayed at the abbey.

  In this sunny countryside, vocations were nu
merous. Young men continue to knock at the door, but older monks form an important part of the community. A year never passes without the abbey burying several monks.

  I loved En-Calcat. Every morning, at eight fifty, I heard the bells peal. Soon, daily Mass began. In the choir, the contrast was painful between the young monks and elderly brothers, with slightly lost expressions, stooped bodies, hoarse voices.

  I had the same feeling in the refectory. The table of great elders moved me deeply. There were six of them. Tomorrow, perhaps, one of them will have left this earth. A monk dressed in a big white apron watched all their movements. Wedged against the back of a wheelchair, Brother Olivier was eighty-nine years old. An emaciated face, white complexion, hollow eyes, a black woolen cap on his head, he slowly swallowed his vegetable soup. At every meal, I found these men who had reached the end of the long monastic road. Their asceticism, their immobility, their weaknesses touched me.

  In the church, the old monks of En-Calcat listened to the services from the gallery on the first floor, close to heaven. These Benedictines no longer sang. They simply followed the psalms in their books attentively. The brother infir-marian stayed close to them like a guardian angel. He knew word for word this passage from the rule of Saint Benedict: “Care for the sick should take precedence. We will serve them truly as Christ, who said: ‘I was sick and you visited me.’ ”

  Near the monastery, the monks’ cemetery resembled an English garden. In this month of April 2017, the springtime was joyful. Scattered flowers around the tombs, tall grass in the paths, the gentleness of the sun, and the magnificent blue sky gave the enclosure of the dead an enchanting air. At the back of the garden, a craftsman was working to restore an ossuary beneath a courtyard. Below, an old monk was returning slowly from a walk; another, younger, in sportswear, was tearing across the courtyard to begin a run.

  I observed the names inscribed on the little steles. They told well the history of the Benedictines of En-Calcat: Brother Lambert Kampé de Feriet, priest, died January 15, 2009, Brother Olric de Bouvier, priest, died May 27, 2009, Brother Antoine de Lambilly, priest, died November 28, 2010, Brother Marie-Bernard de Soos, priest, died March 13, 2012, Brother Victor de Champlouis, priest, died December 21, 1991, Brother Pierre de la Jonquiere, priest, died February 2, 2000, Brother Bede des Rochettes, priest, died August 17, 1998, Brother Paul-Benoît d’Azy, priest, died March 8, 2000, Brother Guy de Maurepas, priest, died October 25, 2001. And, near a tall cross, lost in the undergrowth, the enigmatic tomb of the third abbot of En-Calcat, Father Marie de Floris, died in 1994.

  In a light-filled and comfortable sitting room, Dom David d’Hamonville told me without affectation about the death of his brothers. He spoke with the intelligence of an artist and the heart of a good, sensitive, and sensible man who has just lived through painful moments.

  The year 2016 had been particularly difficult. Within six months, the community had accompanied six brothers on the road to the cemetery. The first week of November, the abbey lost two monks. Dom David was in Ivory Coast when, on the 26th of October, he learned of the death of brother Xavier. Then, the night of All Saints, in a terrible crescendo, Father Michel-Marie died in his turn.

  The latter was sixty-two years old. He suffered an oligoastrocytoma, an inoperable brain tumor. He could no longer be saved, even if chemotherapy had prolonged his life for several months. Exhausted from his African voyage, Dom David returned to the abbey in the afternoon on October 31st. The patient was dying. His breathing was a battle, his face no longer had any color. The Father Abbot came to see him three times in the space of a few hours: “During the night, a monk knocked softly on the door of my cell to tell me that Father Michel-Marie was in heaven. He was freed. Still, I did not sleep that night. On November 2, in the homily for the Mass for the Dead, I recalled that in the old days, in the monasteries, one prepared a long time for death. We said that the whole monastic life was meditatio mortis. The role of the Father Abbot was always to encourage the old monks to face the end of the road. Today, there is no longer any question of that. At the moment when life hangs by a thread, there is the emergency medical service, the firemen, and before the day of final departure, there are many small departures in white cars or red vans; oxygen, transfusion, antibiotics, then life resumes, for a few weeks or a few short years. Why worry an elderly brother by speaking to him about the last things? When I visit a monk to tell him that heaven approaches, I have to be certain of his state of health. If not, the spiritual path no longer has meaning.”

  Dom David has known monks who refused death, persuaded that doctors were going to find the right cure. How can one understand the obstinacy of an elderly brother who does not want to accept the inevitable? Dom David told me of a religious who was between life and death. At any moment, he could die. His heart mysteriously continued to beat. The monk dozed for most of the day. A relative asked the monastery for treatment to delay the fatal outcome.

  How could Dom David respond? The Father Abbot of En-Calcat had always believed it was not right to struggle to keep a very elderly person alive: “If a monk allows himself to be dragged into this game, he loses the meaning of his religious profession, which consists in the knowledge that we owe our lives to Another.” Dom David does not trust a system where medicine alone gives meaning to life. “Where is God in these complex mechanisms?” He is afraid of this transfer from the divine to medical power.

  A number of monks have died in the hospital; the brothers are no longer fools. Sometimes, economic management takes precedence over the care of the sick: “The doctors are wonderful. But they can treat us like livestock. Do they need a hospital room? The sick brother is sent back to the monastery. The day before, there was no question of a return. Our infirmarian saw an ambulance arrive without having been warned”, Dom David attests. He feels uncomfortable with these questions. When a doctor calls to tell him a monk is going to leave the hospital, it is not unusual for the monk to be almost in a coma. He has little time to accompany him toward death. Before the doctor comes to recognize that he can do nothing more, the monks have lost precious time. Dom David has fought with doctors who try hard to keep the very old alive: “Shouldn’t a ninety-year-old brother who suffers from terrible pneumonia return to God? I can hardly oppose a medical decision. The doctors have the power to delay the definitive meeting of a religious with his Creator. The scenario is often the same. The moment we call emergency services or the ambulance, we lose control over the patient.”

  En-Calcat has twenty monks over the age of eighty. Seven of them are over ninety. The doctor comes several times a week. Dom David fears the young physicians because they do not dare take risks. With them, rapid hospitalization is most often the rule. In the monastery infirmary, the atmosphere is peaceful. The doctors and nurses appreciate their visits to the abbey. They understand that the elderly brothers live there in peace. But they do not give up practices that are in contradiction with monastic life. Sometimes, the doctor is brave enough to admit that the end is near.

  Listening to Dom David, I thought of the rule of Saint Benedict: the founder of monasticism reminds us that the novice will be warned “about the hard and bitter things by which one goes to God”.

  The Father Abbot spoke to me for a long time about Father Michel-Marie, whose death was exemplary. Despite his brain tumor, he remained joyful. Up to the end, even when his cancer had deprived him of speech, he spent long hours in prayer. He died as an obedient, faithful, and humble monk.

  Father Michel-Marie was the eighth child of a beautiful family. He had been the prior, master of novices, responsible for the African foundation of En-Calcat. He was a balanced man. An engineering school graduate, tall, handsome, intelligent, he had all the qualities for success. But he preferred to become a monk. Father Michel-Marie and Dom David were together in the novitiate; they had walked together for thirty years. After Dom David was elected abbot, Father Michel-Marie was his right hand, his shield, his counselor. Father Michel-Marie had a special gi
ft for understanding the psychological and human poverties of his peers. He knew he was free of it, but he said that those who suffered martyrdom because of their depression were very important to God. He believed sick monks were closer to heaven than healthy ones.

  A year before his death, during his remission, Father Michel-Marie received a journalist. He was afraid of suffering, and yet he gave him this wonderful speech: “Knowing myself thus affected by the sickness has made me hypersensitive. I realize at what point life is not important. At the same time, it takes on all of its importance. I am now clearly aware of the end of all things. But it is necessary to get up and fight for life. I am very nervous about dying, like I was before taking an exam. The immensity of what awaits us in heaven is frightening. Yet, I have a role to play in this greatness. Here on earth, everything I do prepares what I will have to live in heaven. But this is beyond me. I have realized the incredible immensity of what waits for me on the other side.” The power, the light of Dom David illuminated his funeral.

  The monks prepared the remains. Dom David placed a cocoa pod between his hands, a souvenir from his life in Africa. Father Michel-Marie had brought it back from Ivory Coast. It was pressed against him when the brothers lowered his body into the grave.

  In a monastery, as in regular life, the question of psychological illnesses is a subject of concern. How to help elderly monks who have become senile or to help depressed monks? How to understand their needs? In February 2017, Brother Elie died at ninety-five years of age. Prior, cellarer, he had held all the important positions at En-Calcat. In his final years, he had been huddled up in a world to which the community no longer had access. Little nods of the head took the place of sentences. Brother Elie said he had gone deaf. In reality, he heard perfectly well anything he wanted to know. The monk had walled himself up with God. He listened to the services in his room thanks to a broadcasting system. Faithful, he had recited his rosary up to his final day. After his death, Dom David read his spiritual notebook. His intimate notes revealed to him how the workings of autism had triumphed over the richness of his past life. Brother Elie was an artist and a man crushed by administrative tasks for which he was ill-suited. At sixty, when he was relieved from all his duties, he became a ceramist. Little by little, Brother Elie isolated himself without ever speaking of the suffering that had consumed him for so long. He sank into a deep depression. Dialogue with others became impossible.