Would Jesus have drunk beer?

Definitely yes, says the Rev. Martin Grassel, 58, the general manager and chief brewer at the Benedictine Brewery in Mount Angel, Oregon.

“Jesus was a man of his culture,” he said. “He goes to peoples’ homes, he has dinner with them, he turns water into wine. Had he been from northern Germany, he would have been at home with beer. There’s nothing wrong with alcohol; you just have to make sure you don’t abuse it.”

Located at the foot of a forested butte with spacious views overlooking a marvelous texture of fields, pastures and several acres of hops — for making beer — the brewery benefits from its closeness to Mount Angel Abbey, the oldest Roman Catholic seminary in the western United States.  

The taproom, which opened Aug. 31, 2018, has a covered outdoor patio overlooking the hops fields, the Bavarian-themed town of Mount Angel less than a mile away and the Oregon coastal range about 50 miles to the west. Inside are bare concrete floors, furnishings made of Douglas fir and reclaimed oak and an earthy, classic feel in a place geared for good beer, light food and enjoyment of God’s creation. 

It’s one of three monastic breweries in the country — others are in New Mexico and Massachusetts — and its beer comes with a theological lesson. Beers are named after saints, angels or elements of Benedictine life. They are also dubbed with the geographic region from which they sprung. Three are named after archangels: “Michael,” a light Munich-style lager; “Raphael,” a Belgian-style tripel described as “golden, sweet”; and “Gabriel,” a Belgian-style dubbel, or dark ale, with raisin and maple accents. Or there’s “Margery Dunkel,” a dark Munich-style lager with hints of cocoa, named after a 14th century English mystic who owned a short-lived brewery. 

Other choices include “Tyrant,” a Cascadian dark ale named after the “tyrants of the soul,” such as gluttony, lust, anger, pride and other evil inclinations; “Black Habit,” a dark Belgian ale; or “St. Benedict,” a light farmhouse ale. 

Grassel is a firm believer in the happy properties of the beverage. He is not alone. Benjamin Franklin said, “Beer is living proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” 

Beer is actually a Catholic tradition. Saint Benedict, the late fifth-century founder of the Benedictine order, created self-sufficient communities in which the monks could grow and make — and brew — their own food and drink with crops from church-owned lands. Beer was thought of as a more nutritious alternative to water, as the barley provides calories and therefore energy. Because it also requires boiling a barley, water and yeast mixture, it may have been cleaner than tap water. 

By the time of Charlemagne (A.D. 800), brewing was standard practice in monasteries around Europe. The practice still endures in locations around the region, even if the monasteries that birthed them no longer exist. 

The monks who founded Mount Angel back in 1882 had a brewery on the property, according to the diary of its founding prior. The monks started another brewing venture a century later, but that fizzled. The current effort, founded as an LLC in 2013, took five years to bring to fruition. One of the monks spent some of that time apprenticing at other breweries to learn the best practices of brewing.  

Part of the motivation for restarting the brewery, Grassel explained, was fundraising. 

“Charitable giving is down among the young,” he said, “and faith-based giving is declining. The older generation is supporting the latter, but the next generation may not do that, so we had to look at other ways to bring in income. We have bills to pay. Most of the rich people aren’t interested in monasteries.”

Beer seemed a natural inroad for younger customers. Currently, the brewery makes about $100,000 a year. Grassel was investigating a move into online sales until 2021, when taproom sales rose about 70% from the previous two years.

 “We have a good local following — a lot of regulars — plus, we’re a destination for people exploring new breweries,” he said.

The money goes to support some 50 monks, 40% of whom have been at the monastery — on the butte next to the brewery — less than 10 years, which means lots of new blood for a vibrant, active community. There is plenty of parking on the grounds of the monastery, which has put in much effort to become visitor friendly and a daytime destination. 

Catholics and non-Catholics alike can take part in the daily prayers in the Romanesque chapel, sip java at a coffee and gift shop with expansive views of the Willamette Valley or — for those on a retreat — stay at a light-filled guesthouse, remodeled in 2018 and stocked with 80 pieces of art and a private dining room with views of fields to the south. A few hundred feet away is a natural history museum packed with all sorts of curios and stuffed animals, including a 6-foot-tall buffalo, an eight-legged calf and a Siamese twin deer with two rear ends and six legs. 

If that’s not enough, visitors can also drop by the monastery library with 300,000 titles, including medieval manuscripts dating back to the 13th century. Designed by Finnish architect Alvar Aalto, its curved white walls undulate, allowing natural light to pour in. Duke Ellington sang on the mezzanine for its 1970 opening. It may be a relatively small abbey in rural Oregon, but it’s amazing what can be found there.

As the abbey procurator, or business manager, Grassel was used to the idea of revenue streams and start-ups. He decided not to try gimmicky innovations like fruit beers. “Monasteries are traditional institutions,” he explained. “We don’t have radical, trendy products. People expect abbey-style beers.”

Brewing is an 8-12-hour venture, and Grassel dresses down for the job in a protective black plastic smock, green rubber gloves and boots. He learned his lesson after boiling caustic cleaner sprayed across his torso while was cleaning a tank, causing second-degree burns. “Thank God for Beer” is on the sign over a door leading to the brewhouse, where several gleaming silver vats sit with an array of knobs and temperature gauges. 

The morning I was there, he was making St. Rafael tripel, a golden, sweet ale. Pouring 443 pounds of malted barley and 14 pounds of high-quality brewing yeast into one vat with boiling water, he stirred the porridge-like mixture with an oar while perched atop a ladder. The smell of wet barley, also known as malt, filled the air.

“You have to keep the consistency right: not too thin nor thick,” he explained. “It has to be done within a 20-minute window.” He was also trying to lower the mash temperature to exactly 149 degrees.

“You’re trying to get sugars out of the malts. There are enzymes that break them down, but you need the temperature just right to make this happen. This is how a batch of beer starts, but it has a long way to go.” The resulting mixture will need an oxygen boost the next day and 10 days to ferment. 

From there, it will be cooled for at least two weeks. Then some of it will be bottled, and the rest of the mix will be carbonated and kegged for serving in the taproom.

“I can do this all day,” he said, “but craft brewing is a physical job. You need good technique. You have to know when to add the malt because if the mix is too dry, you can’t stir it. Too wet, you get dough balls. You learn ways of stirring quickly and getting everything hydrated and well mixed.”

He used to depend on the gym to stay fit, he told me, but brewing has replaced that. When the mash starts foaming at the top, those are the enzymes breaking down the sugars in the malts. He took the temperature, which had reached 149 degrees. 

“Voila,” he said. He shut the top of the vat. As the mash sat for an hour, he handed me a sample of St. Michael to taste (it was good) and told me about the brewery ghost. 

What got monks suspecting there was something afoot were the little things that could not be traced back to a human being: odd noises, beer tap lines that mysteriously closed by themselves, things that moved about independently, valves that closed when they had been left open — even a flying spatula.

“People feel watched,” he said. “It’s like someone is saying, ‘I want you to know I’m here.’ It’s like someone wants your attention — a playful ghost.” 

After Grassel celebrated Mass at the brewery, the phenomena stopped for a time, then restarted. A second Mass — for the repose of a soul — brought no changes. However, “I don’t feel anything evil,” he said, so he’s not sweating it. He has installed several locks on the equipment and is keeping a log of odd circumstances. 

At least there’s no missing beer. 

“No one has seen anything,” he mused, “and new buildings don’t usually have ghosts. Exorcists say demons don’t tolerate prayer. Ghosts do.” There are crucifixes — which are anathema to demons — posted about, and Grassel begins his brewing days with a blessing. He occasionally prays for God to have mercy on whatever may be lurking about. 

Meanwhile, the crowds coming there continue to grow.

“The feedback that I get is that we have been discovered,” he said. “People come from all over.”

Know before you go:

The Benedictine Brewery is at 400 Humpert Lane NE on the west side of the abbey hill in Mt. Angel. Hours are 2-7 p.m. Wednesday and Thursday, 1-8 p.m. Friday and Saturday, and 12-6 p.m. on Sunday. It is closed Monday and Tuesday. Visit their website here.

There is much to visit at the abbey, which sits about 400 feet above the valley floor. Fourteen stations of the cross line the entrance road up the hill, each recalling the suffering and death of Jesus. Visitors often pray as they walk this path to the Grotto of Mary atop the hill.

There is plenty of parking on abbey grounds, and visitors are free to wander about the grassy quadrangle. Liturgical prayers at the abbey church on the east side of the property are open to the public. Monday through Saturday, times are 5:25 a.m., 6:35 a.m., 8 a.m. (Mass), noon, 5:20 p.m. and 7:30 p.m. On Sunday, times shift to 6:40 a.m., 9 a.m. (Mass), noon, 5:20 p.m. and 8:05 p.m. Check the abbey site for updates at www.mountangelabbey.org. 

Julia Duin, who is based in Seattle, is Newsweek’s contributing editor for religion.