Author: Justin

Fr Henry O’Shea OSB

At the vigil office last evening we sang: ‘Columba commanded the
winds, restored the dead and put the plague to flight, alleluia.’

At a time when we have become used to the phenomenon of fake
news and so-called alternative facts, no-one is surprised that most of
the early lives of the saints contain much that is fanciful or fictional. At
the same time, a contemporary saying remains valid which claims
that, ‘The fact that it is fiction does not meant that it is not true’. A
novel, for example, can contain many insights that are true and
helpful. While early lives of the saints may contain much gilding of the
lily, many stock images and phrases, they can also contain a reliable
historical core.

And today, were are increasingly aware that every text has a purpose.
Every text is based on intentions and presuppositions, conscious or
unconscious. Lives of the saints were and are intended to nourish and
encourage faith and belonging, to instruct and inspire the language of
love.

This is the case of the saint we celebrate today, St Columba or Colum
Cille, patron of this monastery and one of the three main patrons of
our country. He was born in 521 and died in exile on the island of
Iona in Scotland in 597. Many of the stories about him are contained
in the work of an early biographer, Adomnán, one of his successors as
Abbot of Iona, who wrote around the year 697, a century after his
death.

Every human society, regardless of whether it recognises it or not and
regardless of the yardsticks it uses, is made up of a hierarchy or
pecking-order. Just to mention a few, these yardsticks can be money,

power, inherited status and privilege, elected privilege, celebrity,
online influence, political pull.

Columba’s Ireland was one where caste and clan were of the greatest
importance. He himself was born into the highest aristocracy and
shared many of its assumptions and presumptions. Hierarchy was
taken for granted and, as in every age, the poorer and weaker paid
tribute in goods or services to the richer and more powerful. Slavery
was widespread – as St Patrick experienced some decades earlier on
his first visit to our country. But it is also true that at its best, hierarchy
imposed responsibilities and duties on those further up the ladder.
Columba took it for granted that he was a leader and he led.
The society in which Columba was a vibrant and effective leader
possessed a sophisticated cultural life, a creative and sparkling
literature that we now know was to continue to develop for a further
thousand years, providing one of the first and greatest bodies of
literature the world has seen, both in quality and quantity. And this
literary world is reflected in the stories written by Adamnán about
Columba.

True, there is much violence in these stories. But the stories also
include much tenderness – as in the story of the care for a travel-weary
crane – a bird depicted, by way in the statue of Columba in his chapel
at the back of this church. The crane, the symbol, the embodiment, of
wisdom in Irish pre-Christian tradition, can be seen to represent the
transition from a pagan society to a Christian one, a transition that
was not always smooth, not without controversy and even violence. At
least in this case, it marks a gentle transition, where the best of the old
is refined by the best of the new.

Like Columba himself: prince and warrior by birth, abbot and cleric
by the call of God and by choice, founder of monasteries, lover of
learning and lover and defender of his native culture and its literature
against Christian zealots, lover of the land- and seascape. By all
accounts, he was choleric, impulsive, competitive, bossy but also
merciful, kind, joyful and humble.

But all this leading to the great sacrifice of his actual body by leaving
his beloved land, partly, we are told, in penance for deaths caused by
a battle over the copying of a manuscript, partly as a leaving of what
was most loved for the sake of Christ, joining an already existing and
growing Irish tradition of becoming a pilgrim for Christ, the so-called
white martyrdom which often entailed exile.

Today’s readings, From the prophet Ezechiel, from the Letter to the
Romans and from the Gospel according to St Matthew, are happily
chosen. Happily chosen because, while reflecting characteristics of St
Columba in his life and personality they also provide a map for each
of us in our Christian pilgrimage.

Ezekiel reminds us of the duties of the evangelist or missionary, and of
the rewards opened to, as well as the risks run by, those who spread or
fail to spread the Gospel message and those to whom it is preached.
“If I say to the wicked, ‘You shall surely die’, and you give them no
warning, and do not speak to warn the wicked from their wicked way,
in order to save their life, those wicked persons shall die for their
iniquity; but their blood I will require at your hand.” Cheerful stuff.
And while that preaching can take the dramatic form as exemplified
by Columba’s life as founder and missionary in Scotland as well as in
Ireland. It can also take the form of the example of a Christian life
well lived in vibrant, if tranquil, faith and love. St Paul reminds us, in
his usual trenchant way, that what is demanded of us is nothing less
than the total giving of our bodies, souls and minds, that is, our whole
selves, as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.

Paul does not demand that, as in the case of Columba, we physically
remove ourselves from a much-loved land and a community that has
given us much, or even all, of our identity, but he does demand the
sacrifice of love, which he tells us is our spiritual worship. And he goes
on to list some of the attitudes and behaviour in which this love
consists: brotherly affection, mutual respect, zeal, radiance in the
Spirit, service of the Lord and one another, joyfulness in hope,
patience in times of difficulty, perseverance in prayer, generosity in
prayer and hospitality. This could be a pen-picture of Columba as it is
of our best, baptised, selves.

The Gospel from Matthew invites us to climb aboard the ship of
Christ. It may not invite us to leave our native land as Columba did,
but it does invite us to take the risk of leaving the dry, even arid, land
of our ordinarinesses, our tepidity, our mediocrity, to acknowledge, to
confess and abandon our sinful deeds and omissions, our smug
certainties and spiritual laziness. We are invited into the storm that a
genuine hearing and living of the Gospel can entail, but always with
the assurance that when we are in the boat with Christ, he will see us
safely to harbour, even if we have a bumpy ride.

As Columba, rightly known as ‘the hope of the Irish’, put it himself in
a poem now accepted by most scholars to be his:
Having thus wherewith to glory,
All the wide world might adore
The high Godhead’s sole-possession
Everywhere and evermore.

And after this, our exile show unto us the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

Fr Lino Moreira OSB

At the foot of Mount Sinai, the people of God, who had just been set
free from slavery in Egypt, promised to obey all the commandments given to them by the Lord (cf. Ex 24:3). Then Moses sprinkled the blood of sacrificed animals – first on the altar, which represented God, and then over the people, saying: ‘This is the blood of the covenant that the Lord has made with you in accordance with all these words (Ex 24:8).’

By virtue of this ritual God and Israel became a single family sharing a
common life. But no sooner had the people made their promise than they broke it by committing the sin of idolatry. They fashioned a golden calf and prostrated themselves before it as the god who had brought them out of Egypt (cf. Ex 32: 8). And from then on they never ceased to violate the divine covenant bringing upon themselves a series of disasters.

God, however, remained true to his pledge, and eventually he
announced through the prophet Jeremiah: ‘The time is coming when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts’ (Jr 31:31.33). And about the same time God also addressed his people through the prophet Ezekiel as follows: ‘I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws’ (Ezk 36:26-27).

This promise of a new covenant was fulfilled when, on the eve of his
Passion, Jesus gathered his disciples to eat the Passover with them (cf. Mk 14:12.16). At that moment our Lord anticipated the sacrifice he would be consummating on the cross by giving his followers bread and wine, and saying: ‘Take; this is my body. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many’ (Mk 14:22.24).

The phrase ‘this is my blood of the covenant’ is almost a quotation of
what Moses said at Sinai, and the words that follow echo what is written about the Suffering Servant in the Book of the prophet Isaiah: he poured out his life unto death, and was numbered with the transgressors; for he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors (Is 53:12). So, at the Last Supper, Jesus fulfilled the core expectations formulated in the Scriptures and the worship of Israel in that he offered himself as a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of the whole world (cf. 1 Jn 2:2), and presented his own blood as the
seal of an everlasting covenant with his disciples and the entire human race.

That is why the author of the Letter to the Hebrews calls Jesus Christ the high priest of the good things that have come (cf. Heb 9:11) and the mediator of a new covenant (cf. Heb 9:15), saying as we have heard: He entered once for all into the Holy Place, not with the blood of goats and calves, but with his own blood, thus obtaining eternal redemption (Heb 9:12).

Indeed Moses, the mediator of the old covenant, helped the Israelites to escape from Pharaoh’s tyranny, but Jesus, the one mediator between God and humankind (cf. 1 Tm 2:5), sets us free from slavery to sin in order to live according to the Spirit, which is the new law written by God in our hearts of flesh (cf. Ezk 36:26-27, Jr 31:33): the blood of Christ will purify our conscience from dead works to worship the living God (Heb 9:14) – says again the sacred author. So let us our minds and hearts be cleansed as we receive from the altar of the Lord his own body as our food and his own blood as our drink, for only that can give us the strength to obey the promptings of the Spirit, which calls us to offer our very selves as a sacrifice of praise to the one true God through Jesus Christ, his Servant and Son.

The monks of Glenstal Abbey were pleased to host a conference titled ‘Resetting the Clock on Climate Change’ on Saturday 18^th May 2024 which brought together speakers, guests and representatives from church, academic, military and non-governmental spheres.

The conference’s keynote speaker was Admiral Mark Mellett, former Chief of the Irish Defence Forces. Mark spoke about the importance of the oceans, the story of evolution, our place in and with creation and the challenges of climate change. He concluded by suggesting ways we might meet these challenges through new technologies and outlined the characteristics required for leadership to drive the change needed.

Edward Burke, Professor of the History of War at University College Dublin and an Old Boy of Glenstal Abbey School gave a broad sociopolitical analysis of the climate crisis by outlining its stark challenges, including the security challenges posed by competition for resources and responses to ever increasing natural disasters.

Tobias Winright, Professor of Moral Theology at Saint Patrick’s College Maynooth, gave a reflection on non-violence and just war theories in the church and how these might assist in shaping responses to the climate crisis.

Br Cólman Ó Clabaigh OSB chaired a Q&A session to conclude the day’s proceedings. All three speakers spoke of how climate change disproportionately affects the poor and a question by an attendee asked if the proposed remedies mostly affected the poor – there was general agreement that this was the case and that public policy needs to reflect the needs of the poor when crafting responses.

The conference aimed to facilitate discussion on the issue of climate change and create a space where solutions might be explored together. Monasteries have long been concerned with the natural environment, and most recently the monastic and school communities at Glenstal have worked on a range of projects to reduce our carbon footprint and take steps to care for our common home in response to Pope Francis’ encyclical Laudato Si’. Indeed, earlier this year the monks welcomed the planting of 2,500 native Irish trees on a small plot of the Abbey grounds, part of a much wider project to plant 100 million trees across the country.

The monks of Glenstal Abbey give thanks to God for the gift of creation – a gift so wonderfully on display in the place which we are privileged to call our home – and pray that the challenges of climate change might be met in a timely and effective manner. Our hosting of the conference underlines our commitment to responding to the climate crisis and gives the monastic community new energy as we play our part in the response through the co-operation of one another, of our visitors, guests, students and co-workers.

Saint John Paul II once spoke of how in contemplating “with wonder the universe in all its grandeur and beauty, we must praise the whole Trinity.” May our contemplation of God’s marvellous handiwork lead us to praise Him, and prompt us to care for his gift to us!

Abbot Brendan osb

On the evening of 14 November 1940, bombs rained down on the city of Coventry for eleven hours. After the raid, Coventry Cathedral and much of the medieval city had been reduced to ruins. It lost hundreds of shops, public buildings and 43,000 homes; 554 people were killed. The raid was so bad that a new word was coined; to be coventried, meaning to be decimated. In February 1945, and partly in retaliation, bombs were dropped on Dresden, one of the world’s most beautiful cities, for three days. A firestorm developed, killing up to 25,000 people, and six and a half kms² of the city centre was obliterated.

Today, Dresden and Coventry are twinned cities, but the ruins of Coventry Cathedral are still visible. A new cathedral stands beside the old, but the old remains as a reminder of the senseless destruction and loss of life of which we are capable when madness takes hold. These cathedrals, new and old, side by side, have become symbols of peace and reconciliation.

Eighty four years later and our world is still disfigured by war and violence. People of good will desire to make common cause in the search for a worldwide community of fraternity and understanding under God. Peace is not just the absence of war, like a cathedral, it has to be constructed, patiently and with unshakeable faith.

What does all this have to do with Pentecost and your Confirmation? Everything. The cathedral of peace is built of many small stones. Each one of us has to become a stone in that beautiful edifice. Mistrust and division begin in human hearts. The Acts of the Apostles tells us, “There were devout people living in Jerusalem from every nation under heaven.” Each heard the apostles preaching in their own language. They communicated and understanding was the result. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. These are not just qualities that sound nice in a list, they are necessary if humanity is to survive. They are the fruits of the Spirit. Wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, and fear of the Lord, the Spirit’s seven gifts; wise people of integrity are what we need today.

Wherever the strong exploit the weak; wherever the rich take advantage of the poor; wherever great powers seek to dominate and to impose ideologies, there the work of making peace is undone; there the cathedral of peace is again destroyed.

“When the Advocate comes, whom I shall send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who issues from the Father, he will be my witness. And you too will be witnesses”. The ruins of the old cathedral constantly remind our society of its capacity to destroy. You are the stones building up the new edifice. You can see from our castle restoration works outside just how difficult it is to replace a broken stone. Be strong, firm and clear. Know for what you stand and why. Know that you are not alone, the Holy Spirit is with you and together we are many. This is the Church, whose birthday we recall with the coming of the Spirit. Find your voice and use it.

Fr Luke Macnamara osb

Some time ago, when on a train, I sat opposite a young woman. She was giving a final farewell through the window to her boyfriend on the platform. As the train pulled away she kept her eyes on him, stretching and squinting until he eventually faded from view. At that precise moment she rested back in her seat and closed her eyes for a good five minutes. She wanted to treasure and savour the memory. When she opened her eyes, she smiled broadly – happy to engage again with the world. Although her boyfriend was no longer present, she was fully conscious of his love for her.

How must the disciples have felt when the Lord was taken up into heaven? They were looking all the time that Jesus was being taken up into heaven and even after he has disappeared from view. Two angels direct their gaze back to earth with the promise that Jesus will return. The angels’ words confirm that their longing will be satisfied – Jesus will be with them again.

The disciples had grown accustomed to Jesus’ physical presence among
them. As we all know when we lose someone dear to us, a spouse or child, a grandparent, parent, or sibling, or a close friend, it is very hard to adjust to their absence. The more we love someone, the more we miss them. The special love shared between Jesus and the disciples must have made his absence all the harder. However, love has a way of bridging the gap.

Jesus, before his ascension, in his final instructions to his disciples sends them out to proclaim the Good News. As a caring parent gives instruction to a child when starting school, university, or perhaps a first job, so Jesus gives instruction to his disciples. Those who believe are to be baptised. Believers will be recognised as they will speak and act with the same power with which Jesus spoke and acted when he was with them.

Jesus reassures the disciples that they do not go out alone but that, wherever they go, he the Lord will be working with them and in them. The Lord is no longer a companion on the road as he was on the way to Emmaus. Through belief and baptism, Jesus is in and with each disciple every moment of every day. The relationship with Jesus is not broken by his ascension. It becomes closer than we could possibly imagine. We need not worry about the booming message of the train station loudspeaker “mind the gap.” Jesus’ love for us bridges every gap. Through faith and baptism Jesus’ love for us finds its full flourishing. The words of St Patrick’s prayer, on the wall in in his chapel on your left, are fulfilled – Críost liom, Críost romham, Críost i mo dhiaidh, Críost ionam, Críost fúm, Críost os mo chionn – Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me.

The words of the Lord in this Gospel are taken up in the final words that conclude the Mass: “Go out and proclaim the Good News.” We leave not only with this task but also equipped with the power of Christ to complete it. In a world so in need of the Gospel, may that power come to expression in our lives.

May this Good News find a home through us in our families, communities, the newly arrived immigrants, and in the people whose lives have been torn apart by war in Gaza and Ukraine. Go out and proclaim the Good News.

Fr Columba McCann osb

One day Jesus was in the temple at Jerusalem and noticed people putting money into the collection box. The rich put in plenty, but they were giving their leftovers. Then a poor widow put in a few cents. It was all she had to live on. It’s a good image of Jesus himself. At the Last Supper Jesus gave his disciples everything he had to give. There, on the table, was his life poured out for them, something which would come to completion the next day on the cross. He was loving them as the Father loved him. He loves us as the Father loves him, and invites us to the same table.

It is easy to forget about that kind of love, partly because it’s so big we can’t even get our minds around it. And sometimes we just forget about it. That is why Jesus says: remain in my love. Don’t get distracted from it; look for signs of it everywhere; bring your mind back to it whenever you get a bit of free mental space. We receive this love in every Eucharist; but it is good to savour the taste of it the rest of the time, especially in moments of prayer.

Nobody talks about the weather the way the Irish do, and when there are even just a day or two of sunshine we go crazy. We are out there in our shorts and t-shirts, working in the garden, walking the beach, having a drink outside the pub instead of inside, having barbecues. We bask in the sun.

Jesus invites us to bask in his love, a love which has no clouds, no sunset. He wants us to do this so that his joy will be in us. He wants us to experience the joy he gets from the Father’s love. Part of his formula is that we love one another has he has loved us. It’s easy to love someone when they give you what you want, or when they love in return. But let’s be honest: loving as Jesus loves is a tall order. It seems just too much. I don’t want to have to give up my little comforts and pleasures and convenience for someone else; I don’t want to let go of my desire for revenge when I fell hurt or put down; I really do want to have the last word when someone disagrees with me. I’ve got a problem with love. And only God can fix that. God is love.

The only way I can love like Jesus is if his love is in me. Which brings us back to his original invitation: remain in my love. Make your home in me as I make mine in you. The more we allow ourselves to receive from Jesus the more we have to give to others.

Fr Patrick Hederman OSB

Our Lord, Jesus Christ, when he came on earth used images to explain what he was trying to do for us. These images were taken from the day to day lives of the people with whom he lived. ‘I am the bread of life’ he said; ‘I am the door;’ ‘I am the shepherd;’ ‘I am the gateway.’ If he were here with us today, he might have used more up-to-date imagery to make us understand what is happening.

Instead of ‘I am the vine and you are the branches’ [John 15:5] he might have said: ‘I am the fibre optic splicer.’ Fiber optic splicing is one of the new professions in the telecommunications industry. You join two fibre optic cables together to create a continuous path for data transmission. The cable has at least two flexible fibres with a glass core
through which light signals can be sent. The Splicer makes a permanent connection between cables which allows each one of us to connect into the main branch. This is how we receive digital cable TV on our lap-tops, for instance. It comes through a network of high-speed fibre-optic cables.

Three weeks from today, on the 19 th May, is Pentecost Sunday, the day we welcome the Holy Spirit into our high speed networks. This completes the fibre optic connection between each one of us and the great power station that is the hub of the universe. We can either plug into this system or we can carry on paddling our own canoes. The choice at every stage of the connection is ours.

The second reading this morning gives us a clue: ‘Let us not love with
words or speech but with actions and in truth’ [1 John 3:18]. Let us be down-to-earth and practical as we prepare ourselves for our transfer to broadband. You don’t have to know how it works to find out that it works: just turn it on and benefit from your cable television. ‘We know’ Saint John tells us later on in this same letter, ‘that God lives in us because of the Spirit which God has given us’ [1 John, 3:24]. We all have that Spirit within us, that eternal source of God’s energy and power. All we have to do is activate that presence, by splicing the
fibre optic cables.

St Benedict tells us how to do this in the Prologue to his Rule: ‘whatever good work you undertake, ask him with most instant prayer to bring it to perfection.’ Whatever you do, whatever you say, whatever you hope for, stop for a moment and ask the Holy Spirit to help you. Instantissima oratione is the secret formula of Saint Benedict. Instantissima in Latin is the same word we use for ‘instant coffee’ or ‘instant soup.’ It is instant prayer. You can do it anywhere, at any time, in a couple of seconds; as long as it takes to say ‘I love you, help me.’
And it’s a question of getting into the habit, of going down into yourself and touching base. If someone asks you a question, instead of replying immediately, automatically, ask the Spirit to tell you what to say. The Holy Spirit is the finger of God, the extension of God’s right hand. The Holy Spirit is the Digitus Dei, digital divinity, The Holy Spirit is your ATM, your automated teller machine –telling you whatever you are meant to do; whatever you are meant to say.

If you allow the Holy Spirit to guide you there will be magic in your life ahead. You only have to learn to interpret the coded messages sent your way. These can happen through coincidences which can so easily be shrugged off or overlooked. Other times it is an impulse, sent your way: talk to this person, take down that book, walk in this direction, go into that church now. When we obey, we find that it leads to the unforeseen. The meaning of a particular hunch is often at the other side of our obeying it, of our doing what we are told. I have found that this instantissima oratio is particularly useful when doing examinations. Before even reading the question paper, make sure that the cables are connected and then continue working on evergreen energy.

Try it for yourselves when the Holy Spirit comes.

Abbot Brendan Coffey OSB was invited to deliver the sermon at this year’s Service of Commemoration and Thanksgiving at Trinity College Dublin on the occasion of Trinity Monday 2024.

Trinity Monday has long been a special day in the life of the College as its Honorary Fellows, Fellows and Scholars are announced by the Provost in a ceremony referring back to the foundation of the College in 1592.

After the announcement on the steps of the Public Theatre, the Service of Commemoration and Thanksgiving takes place in the College Chapel and is followed by the Trinity Monday Memorial Discourse in the Graduates Memorial Building.

Abbot Brendan preached as follows:

(Check Against Delivery)

Trinity College is a famous place of learning, education and tradition. If you ask anyone in Ireland they will know this. If you mention Trinity College to someone here or abroad, they will also tell you that this is where you go to look at the Book of Kells.

Books, learning and education go together. Wars have been fought over books; they are valuable things. In our digital age we can easily forget that. While some books became works of art and are absolutely exquisite, most were primarily books: storing information, learning and wisdom. In the past books were comparatively rare and people only wrote things down if what they had to say was worth writing down. Perhaps we could learn something from that today, starting with my sermon.

Reading a book is one thing, understanding what you read is another. Jesus was handed the scroll of the prophet Isaiah and he found the place where it is written “The spirit of the Lord is upon me.” He explained that today this text has been fulfilled in your hearing. Well, that put the cat among the pigeons. They were astonished, outraged actually. They even tried to throw him off a cliff. I don’t think that happens very often after a lecture today? The people of Nazareth reacted like this because he said something that challenged their certainties. He didn’t just repeat the same old, same old, he said something completely new and unexpected. Nobody fell asleep during that sermon.

I am a Benedictine monk and I belong to a monastic tradition going back to the sixth century. Monastics and particularly Benedictine monastics, love books. We are hoarders. You should see the rooms of some of my confrères. Monks have always been like this, they kept everything, especially books; even books they couldn’t read or understand, in the hope that one day someone would come along and help them understand.

These people were open and they didn’t see knowledge as something dangerous or threatening. They didn’t necessarily believe and accept everything that came their way either, as some people seem to do today on social media, they exercised their critical faculties and their discretion. They did, however, value knowledge and believed that all forms of knowledge helped reveal the creator of all things. And so St Anselm could say fides quarens intellectum, faith seeking understanding.

It was monastics like this who were responsible for the Book of Kells, the Lindisfarne Gospels and the many manuscripts emanating from centres on the continent. These enlightened people valued learning and left us an invaluable legacy. Of course not everyone back then had such an open mind, but there were enough people who had.

Somewhere down the centuries things changed. We became fearful, like the people of Nazareth. Anything that might seem to threaten our narrow world of certainties was pushed off the cliff. Be that Galileo or Oscar Romero. Today, I am sad to say that this attitude is still alive and well. We might have exchanged one set of certainties for another, but very little has really changed. Anyone who challenges the perceived orthodoxy is immediately taken to the edge of the cliff.

How can we learn if we continue like this? Irrational fear lies behind our recent spate of attacks, violence, arson, and xenophobia. In other countries too we see similar patterns, even in the land of the free and home of the brave. This is why true education, learning and knowledge are essential today. Not a knowledge which is closed in its own discipline, but one which is open to all disciplines.

Winston Churchill once said, “Show me a young Conservative and I’ll show you someone with no heart. Show me an old Liberal and I’ll show you someone with no brains.” Life should teach us lessons, however, we do not need to fear everything and everyone.

Permit me one example from our monastic past. Hermann of Reichenau, or HermanusContractus, was a fascinating individual. His parents Count Wolverad II and Hiltrud were of a noble family from Upper Swabia. His noble birth probably saved his life as a child, together with the fact that he had very loving parents. He was born 18 July 1013 and died on 24 September 1054. He was extremely disabled from childhood, having only limited movement and limited ability to speak. He had a special chair made for him and he was carried around everywhere in it.

At the age of seven, he was placed in the Benedictine Abbey of Reichenau by his parents who could no longer look after him. After he died he was buried with his mother, because he believed it was she who saved his life as a child. To their eternal credit the monks of Reichenau took him in and looked after him. The island of Richenau was the artistic and literary centre of south-west Germany during this period. This island became Hermann’s entire world. The famous Benedictine Abbey which had been founded there in 724, played an important role in scholarship, since it was a centre where manuscripts were copied.

Hermann was an extraordinary individual who studied under the famous Abbot Berno (about 978-1048) in Richenau. Hermann decided to become a monk in 1043, later, and somewhat amazingly, he was elected Abbot of the Monastery after the death of Abbot Berno on 7 June 1048, at the age of 35. He was Abbot for the last 6 years of his life. Despite his disabilities, being confined to a chair and hardly able to speak, he was a key figure in the transmission of Arabic mathematics, astronomy and scientific instruments from Arabic sources into central Europe. He composed works on history, music theory, mathematics, and astronomy, as well as many hymns. He was the first to make the lunar calendar of the Middle-Ages work, a huge scientific discovery that really changed people’s lives for the better.

There are two things, apart from the obvious, that I greatly admire about Hermann. Firstly, very few people have ever heard of him despite his many claims to fame. He was obviously not interested in the limelight, and, secondly, he lived a very full and by all accounts contented life. He wrote most of his hymns later in life after he went blind, as if he hadn’t a sufficient number of difficulties to contend with.

This is what can happen when enough people keep an open mind. When we are willing to listen to an unexpected teacher in the synagogue in Nazareth. When we engage with the stranger among us and learn new things. When we don’t judge a book by its cover, or a person by the colour of their skin, physical abilities, race, creed or nation.

Let us remember that there were indeed many widows in Israel in Elijah’s day and yet he was sent by God to a Sidonian town to the widow of Zarephath. There were many lepers in Elisha’s day, but it was Naaman the Syrian who was healed. Can we not learn from this and overcome our fear? This is a true education.

– Abbot Brendan Coffey OSB, 22.4.24