Chapter Two

So what's the difference between monasteries and hippie communes?

Well, the people are one thing. But then there's this small thing called God.

God meant nothing to me. He was an old geezer with a beard in illustrated text books or comedy sketches. He was a figure of fun and parody. Like everything religious in the outside world.

Religion is mocked and belittled for the purposes of entertainment, and having spent years working in the media and in advertising and TV, I'd done my fair share of cynical mockery of everything the Church stands for and those who choose to use what it has to offer.

God doesn't exist. Church is for old people who smell of wee. Priests are running from life. Theologians are on a meal ticket attempting to answer the unanswerable question of the existence of God, and will flesh it out until they retire to Spain... etc.

So I needed some convincing. Yes - monks are lovely, they love each other, they love God, they love everything. But if God doesn't exist, which I didn't think he did, wasn't this whole monastery lark just a bit of a cop out?

You're well fed, you don't have to work, you don't have to battle it out on the Northern Line or the M25, no one can get at you and everyone thinks you're great.

All you have to do is say you believe in God and go to Church a lot … And wear the dress. It beats working and it beats signing-on on, plus at Worth you get to live in a beautiful house with a 500-acre back-garden straight off a picture postcard.

So what I needed to find out first was whether they were all convinced, or whether the monks themselves were all having a laugh at our expense for an easy life.

Looking back I think I approached the monks quite aggressively, like I was cross-examining a dodgy witness or trying to catch-out Blair at Prime Minister's question time.

(Father Christoper? A monastic Tony Blair? Now there's an interesting comparison.)

And this convincing came very quickly. Not suddenly, but quickly.

The overwhelming sense of devotion and service of God which brings these men together for the six daily services is an overwhelmingly powerful force and one that cannot be contrived or created artificially.

Standing in the Lady Chapel at night listening to Salve Regina being sung en mass in Latin enveloped me like a potent elixir and drove away any cynicism or doubt of these men's integrity and intent.

And within a few days I was engaging in the Monastic process from the heart, inspired by this intangible and inexplicable thing which is faith, and love of God, expressed through prayer and community living.

But these men aren't gods themselves. They're men. And they're human beings, and they're not perfect.

And that's what makes them as people. Because like us five participants, they had all come from different, varied and interesting lives. And from that came their humour, wit, intelligence and insight, and most importantly their humanity and individuality as people.

Although it's fair to say they are all singing from the same hymn sheet.

So after a week I had faith in them. But I didn't have faith in God. And I wasn't really expecting it.