We spent yesterday at Rievaulx Abbey in North Yorkshire. The site contains the ruined remains of a Cistercian community who lived, worked and prayed in the area for over 400 years.
The condition of the ruins, along with the thoughtfulness of the information provided by English Heritage, make it easy to imagine the Rievaulx ways of life. But, more than this, half a century of faithful prayer and simple living have left spiritual footprints on the area that are impossible to miss.
Faced with this ruined grandeur and remnant spirituality, I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if history had been kinder to Rievaulx.
What if it hadn’t struggled so badly in the 13th Century with livestock loss and debt?
What if it had not been pillaged by the Scots in 1322?
What if it had not been struck by the Black Death in 1348?
What if more than 15 monks (down from 650) had survived to the end of the 1380s?
What if it had not been suppressed and dismantled in 1538?
What if the dissolution of the monasteries had not taken place?
What would Rievaulx be today?
These questions turned naturally on their head, to the institutions and ways of life that I know and love. The ones that seem strong, and yet are as fragile as Rievaulx.
What if the bricks in the wall of my life – the bricks that offer security and hope and a future – one day lie as ruined as this once-great abbey?
Rievaulx’s most famous abbot was also one of its first: Aelred. As Aelred watched his community strengthen and prosper, I wonder what he knew about life’s ebb and flow?
Did he hope that Rievaulx would become one of the richest abbeys in England?
Did he fear the challenges that eventuality brought it to its knees?
Did he wonder about the imprint of holiness that his community would leave on the area for centuries after its death?
Halfway through our visit, we set up a groundsheet on the site of one of the many chantry chapels. The significance of sitting down for a picnic where, centuries earlier and for hundreds of years, monks and locals had gathered to break bread, was not lost on us.
And so the questions that have stayed with me – questions about me and about the institutions and ways of life that I take for granted – are these:
When I am gone and forgotten, who will picnic on the remains of my chapel?
What spiritual footprints will I leave?
How might my holiness (or otherwise) impact a place?
What grandeur I see now will lie in ruins?
What of these ruins will people wonder at?
Rievaulx was a good reminder of life’s ebb and flow. We grow, we prosper, we struggle, we fade away; leaving only our footprints in time.