Even The Stones Cry Out
In the summer I was in North Yorkshire staying with friends and once more I visited the ruined Cistercian Abbey at Rievaulx, in the Rye valley. I had visited the Abbey several times before because it has a special meaning for me. My oblate patron St Aelred was abbot there for 20 years (from 1147 to 1167 when he died). It was the first Cistercian monastery in the North of England and was established in 1132. Aelred arrived as a novice two years later. At that time the embryonic community lived in temporary wooden buildings and not the imposing and expansive Abbey which Rievaulx became.
Nevertheless, something attracted Aelred about the community and the place before continuing on his mission for his master King David of Scotland. The mission was to Thurstan, Archbishop of York. He made his return journey from York via Rievaulx. As the legend goes, perched on his horse, he looked down on those small wooden buildings huddled in the valley from the hill up above (now known as the Terrace) and something stirred in his soul. He asked his companion who had travelled with him if he would like to revisit the community. In his mind he decided that if his friend said ‘Yes’, he would go back to the community to join them. His friend did say “Yes’ and so he did.
As I walked round the ruined abbey on my first visit (in 2009) I said ‘yes’ too – yes to positively exploring the oblate path, which I had considered before. It is strange that these ruins, now a historical monument, administered by English Heritage, somehow spoke to me. Perhaps the valley itself is a sacred space as much as the abbey. Perhaps the valley had an effect upon Aelred as much as those unprepossessing wooden buildings which he visited.
Or was it that the stones of the ruined abbey themselves spoke to me in some way? There is so much prayer in those stones after all. I remember as I was exploring the site I instinctively touched the stones and the pace of my exploration slowed down. Ever since when I have visited a ruined abbey, like Jedburgh and Kirkstall in Yorkshire or Melrose in Scotland I have touched their stones reverently.
The ruins are roofless now and reminiscent of the ‘bare ruined choirs’ of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73. Shakespeare must have seen a number of ‘bare ruined choirs’ on his own travels as the Dissolution of the Monasteries, took place 30 years or so before he was born in 1564. The roof of a church creates a confined space. It is perhaps easier to sense the presence of God in a confined space like a church or cathedral or even more so in the intimate space of a chapel. Yet somehow in this windswept open space – and I remember that afternoon in 2009 was rainy and squally – I had a sense of the presence of God and of His call.
On my most recent visit to Rievaulx, I sat in the ruins of the oval shaped chapter house for a while and prayed the afternoon office using my mobile phone. Beside the remains of the entrance is what was originally the shrine of William, the first Abbot, who received Aelred into the community. I looked at the ruined seats opposite me bedecked with moss, weeds and here and there wild flowers, imagining the numerous generations of monks who sat there, listening to the Rule and spiritual conferences. For a moment I felt one with them and close to God again there. That special stillness. Near the entrance to the chapter house a young woman sat down in quiet reflection. Perhaps she sensed that special stillness too. It was as if we had both walked into a church and sat quietly in a pew.
Up above near the remains of the abbey’s church some children were climbing and running around, mirroring the birds flying carefree overhead. They would not have been playing and running around if they were in a church, I imagine. But to them the ruins were an open space to explore. When I went into the ruined church myself later to pray where the shrine of St Aelred stood originally behind the high altar, one or two people stood still in reverence and a young parent stopped his children from playing and moved them away.
My visits to Rievaulx have reminded me that the Word of God comes to us in so many different ways and not only in the pages of Scripture. Our role as oblates is to be attentive, seeking the Word of God in all things. For St Benedict encourages us to ‘Seek Peace and pursue it’ in the Prologue to his Rule and the Word of God brings us true peace.
St Luke’s account of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem on the donkey surrounded by cheering crowds relates how the Pharisees call out to Jesus to tell the crowds to stop. He replies to them, ‘I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would cry out.’ (Luke 19. v 39 NRSV). Here in these ruined abbeys, the stones do not cry out, but perhaps the prayer that was lifted up day after day within their walls still echoes in them.
If we listen with the ear of the heart, as our Holy Father Benedict bids us, we will hear those faint but present echoes, not only in ruined abbeys but in all things.
Neil Zoladkiewicz
Oblate of Ealing Abbey
Chair of the UK Oblates Team
