This article originally appeared on VICE Belgium.
Despite my devoutly Catholic grandmother’s warnings that I’d go straight to hell, my parents never had me baptized. It was an unusual decision to make in Belgium in the late 80s, particularly if you grow up in a town known around the world for its abbey.
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Westmalle’s Trappist monks have been resident in the area since the abbey’s construction in 1794. Theirs is a life of prayer, work, and brewing some of the best-regarded beers on the continent. Beer has been brewed in monasteries across Europe since the Middle Ages and in Belgium today, you’ll still find five abbeys — Chimay, Orval, Rochefort, Westmalle, and Westvleteren — full of unspeaking, beer-happy monks doing their thing.
Though laypeople are prohibited from simply wandering into the abbey for a casual glimpse into monastic goings-on, the brotherhood is open to visits from anyone willing to take things seriously: anyone, however secular they may be, is entitled to embark on a silent, boozy retreat on the property.
Never one to turn down a new experience, or for that matter, a decent beer, I decided to email Brother Albericus. In a very formal reply, he confirmed that, yes, they would permit me to attend. So it was that one Tuesday morning, I found myself standing outside Westmalle Abbey, ready for a few days of prayer, confession, and beer.
I wasn’t unfamiliar with the abbey and its giant entrance. My parents took me there every New Year’s Eve so we could see the new year in with a song or two. If those nights taught me anything, it was that God was generous: the brother working the door would hand over entire bags of sweets to the few children who’d made the trip.
Twenty years on, it’s birdsong and the contemplative near-silence of the abbey’s garden I’m thankful for. There might not be any sweets, but I’m struck by what a gift that simple peace and quiet are for a 30-something city-dweller.
Brother Albericus then guides me to my room, handing over sheets, a bed cover, and a series of Psalm books, one for each section of the day’s prayer cycle. There’s Vigil (at 4 AM), Lauds (7 AM), the Eucharist (10:45 AM), Vespers (5:15 PM), and Compline (the cycle comes to a close at 7:30 PM). He’s already informed me that I’m under no obligation whatsoever to participate in the readings, but I am, of course, welcome to do so.
The room is simple. There’s a desk, a sink, a bed, and a Bible. I leaf through the book, marveling at the delicacy of its pages, thinking about how it contains the stories everyone here knows, the stories they live their lives by. Stories I’m, personally, not familiar with.
Lunchtime rolls around, and I’m thinking about beer. Specifically, I’m thinking about how I’m going to negotiate the fact that though there are four of us sitting around the table, there are only three bottles of Westmalle Extra — a beer that until recently had only been drunk by the monks themselves but was slowly finding its way around Belgian supermarkets — on the table. Given that this is the only meal of the day where speech is permitted, things feel tense.
The ice is broken by a nun who’s visiting from Bruges. She tells me that of the other 15 nuns attending the retreat, she’s the only one who indulges in a drink with her meals. True to her word, she cracks open a bottle of Extra. Handily, the chaps we are sharing the table with are happy to abstain from drinking, and so I, too, open an Extra. It is fantastic. It is as light as a lager in alcohol but so much richer in taste.
For the uninitiated, here is a quick crash course in what makes a Trappist beer, well, a Trappist beer. Anything given the label has to meet three criteria. It must be brewed on the grounds of an abbey under the watchful eye of monks; the brewery has to be financially dependent on the monastery; and the profit, usually used solely for the monks’ sustenance, has to be given to charity. In other words, drinking a Trappist beer is contributing to a good cause.
Our evening meal is simple, and we tuck into toast with cheese and butter provided by other Belgian abbeys. Eating in total silence with people you met and spoke to just a few hours ago feels every bit as strange as you’d imagine.
Wanting to hear a human voice, I took Brother Albericus’ advice and joined in with Compline, the final prayer of the day. I’m astounded by the monks’ voices even as I struggle to find my place in the psalms, losing myself in the endless Gods and amens.
But the singing truly is something special, immeasurably calming. I’m still thinking about it the next morning when I meet a man also on a silent retreat. We manage to talk while doing the dishes and agree that when, and if, religion disappears from society, we’ll go on searching for meaning elsewhere. These repetitive rituals bring people peace. Outside the abbey, outside religion in general, you see it happening. We do yoga, we meditate, we subscribe to mindfulness services, hoping to hone in on that sense of calm.
My new friend and I also discuss confession, a central part of the monastic way of being. We consider it in the context of therapy, thinking about how the confessor, like the therapist, is a non-judgemental figure there to listen, removed from most of your connections to the world. The man tells me that he’s got an appointment to see the confessor that morning. He’s going to tell him everything.
Later that day, I found myself talking to a priest from western Flanders who made the trip to Westmalle to visit his (biological and theological) brother, who arrived here as an 18-year-old. He’s 81 now. It’s difficult to comprehend how living such an unvaried, routine, cloistered life must feel.
That evening, having been given permission by Brother Albericus to have an additional post-Compline beer, I’m joined in the garden by my new friend. We talk earnestly about the impact the retreat is having on us and how we’re feeling increasingly philosophical in this hallowed, hushed space.
Night falls as we talk about everything and anything. As I watch the lights of the abbey go out one by one and another day’s cycle comes to a close, I’m almost certain that this is exactly what a retreat should be: confession, prayer, reading the Bible, and quietly drinking beer. Before my time at the abbey, I was afraid of silence. Now I think I’ve made a new friend.
