Mont Saint Michel

Last week I was in Brittany, and despite not being a Roman Catholic and not speaking French, I went to Mass at Mont Saint Michel. The whole place felt like something out of a dream. The church was freezing cold, and you could see people's breath merging with the incense. The austere soaring church, with its great grey stone pillars, seemed to be carved out of the bones of the earth, and the disembodied voices singing words I could not understand moved me to tears. I am still strangely comforted by the knowledge that there are 12 people there who, day in and day out, hold up the world in prayer.

Then, of course, I walked back out to the hordes of tourists and ridiculously tacky postcards (almost worth buying for their tackiness) and overpriced fast food (no McDonald's, but almost as bad). I could understand how Jesus felt when he overturned the tables at the Temple: "Is it not written: 'My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations'? But you have made it 'a den of robbers'."

I wondered how the Abbey's community of monks feel about the rampant commercial exploitation of the tourists who pass through the village. I wondered how they feel about those who visit the Abbey to admire its architecture and marvel at its engineering and soak up its history, but not to acknowledge or participate in its spiritual life. I wondered how they feel about those of us who attended the Mass. And I wondered how I felt about my visit. Often I'm not sure if I go to such places as a tourist or a pilgrim - or as something in between, a sort of 'spiritual tourist', and if the latter, whether I'm really just there for some kind of spiritual "experience". There doesn't seem to be an easy answer...