The Rock on Which We Stand
There are moments when faith asks us a question that cannot be answered simply by repeating what others have said. The Lord draws His disciples away from the noise of the crowd and asks them a question that reaches into the heart of discipleship: “But you, who do you say I am?”
It is a question of personal encounter: not merely, What have you heard about Christ? but, Who is Christ for you? And from that recognition comes a deeper question: upon what foundation are we building our lives?
For Ireland, this question has a particular resonance. Ours is a land deeply marked by Christianity, by saints, monasteries, ruined abbeys and ancient places of prayer. Yet the Christian faith cannot live simply in memory. Stones and buildings can remind us of what has been handed down, but they cannot themselves believe. Every generation must encounter Christ anew and allow the Gospel to become a living reality rather than merely part of our cultural inheritance.
This is perhaps especially clear in monastic life. A monastery cannot finally place its security in its buildings, its history, its traditions, or even in the particular form its common life takes. At the centre must always be Christ.
The monk comes to the monastery because, beneath all the many voices of the world, he has begun to hear one voice calling him to a deeper simplicity, a deeper fidelity and a more complete gift of himself.
For Cistercians, this has always been expressed through a return to what is essential. The life of the monastery is deliberately stripped back so that the monk may learn again where his security lies. Prayer, work, silence, community and stability become ways of standing upon the one foundation that does not shift.
The monastery becomes, in a sense, a school of listening: learning to recognise Christ not only in extraordinary experiences, but in the ordinary demands of each day.
There is something particularly beautiful about this at a time when monastic communities themselves are changing. Communities may move from one building to another; abbeys may become smaller; old structures may disappear or be adapted; different communities may come together and discover a new form of life.
Yet the movement of the stones does not mean that the foundation has moved.
If Christ remains at the centre, the monastery remains truly a monastery, wherever its walls may stand.
Perhaps that is also a word of hope for the Church in Ireland. We may be tempted to measure the future by numbers, buildings, institutions or the influence Christianity once possessed. Christ invites us to look deeper.
The question is not whether we can recreate the past, but whether we are willing to build the future upon Him.
The Lord still calls people to leave behind what is familiar and to seek Him with an undivided heart. He still calls some to marriage and family life, some to priesthood and service, and some to the hidden life of the monastery.
Every vocation is ultimately an answer to the same question:
Who is Christ for me?
When that answer becomes more than an idea—when it becomes the foundation of a life—something unshakeable begins to grow.
Our visible circumstances may change, and much that once seemed permanent may prove otherwise, but the deepest foundation remains secure.
Christ is still building His Church.
Our part is simply to become, with humility and courage, stones that are willing to be placed where He needs them.