One day, we ventured to Ireland for a conference. Afterwards, he decided to show me the most fascinating place on the island, the Ring of Kerry. We arrive in the town of Killarney with no idea where to stay, but as soon as we arrive, a stroke of luck (the secular way of referring to Providence) provided us with perfect accommodation. For a couple of days, we wandered around in the pouring rain (the best way to contemplate the green Irish landscape). But Jonathan, knowing my love for ancient monasticism, guessed my secret desire to visit the Skellig Islands.
The Irish monks didn’t have deserts at their disposal to withdraw into solitude with God. So, they either became pilgrims (and invaded the whole of Europe) or went to remote oceanic islets, deserts of water instead of sand.
We rang an old sea captain: “Can we set sail tomorrow?” From the other end of the phone, an immediate response: “Ask the Man above!” Jonathan and I didn’t have a direct line to the Man above. On the other hand, since in Ireland the weather is always a puzzle, who knows what the answer would be. But the next morning, bright and early, we set off for Portmagee, a few colourful houses lined up on the edge of the sea.
Despite the rough sea, there we were on a small powerful motorboat heading towards a famous monastery built in the 6th century on one of the Skellig Islands, two rocky masses devoid of vegetation and water.
The waves were high. When we descended between one wave and another, the horizon disappeared, when we rose on the crest, the vastness of the threatening sea was visible. How did the monks do it in their small boats? (In fact, the archives contain stories of many deaths, as crossing the sea was riskier than crossing the desert).
Upon reaching the island, a path of stone steps led us to the top of the steep mountain. Before us, the spectacle of a monastery built entirely of dry stone. The cells, the community hall, the church: original dome-shaped buildings that immediately reminded me, as an Oblate, of the shape of Eskimo igloos. With the help of a guide, we reconstructed the sites and the lives of the ancient monks, who disappeared during the Viking raids. All that remains of them are these relics, the destination of discerning and cultured tourism. Some Germans were with us, admiring the antiquities.
Why are so many places of prayer, here as elsewhere, reduced to museums? I have a rebellious impulse. I push Jonathan into the small church, and despite the Germans, I shouted to him, “All this is yours. You are a monk, you are a Benedictine, you are the heir to this life. Reclaim the monastery, make it come alive again!” And among those ancient stones, at least once, the Lord’s Prayer rose again to Heaven.
This is a page from my diary, dated: Killarney, 5th September, 1998.
On 17th January, 2024, along with the Lord’s Prayer, Jonathan ascended to heaven.
