Strangers to the City

by Michael Casey

  The value of reading is best demonstrated by noting the ill effects of its absence in the lives of those who give themselves to idleness and fantasy, qui vacat otio aut fabulis (48:18, 43:8). Because the structure of monastic life provides time and opportunity for interior pursuits, it follows that those who have little inclination for these must find other means of filling in the day. If it is true that acedia is a dominant characteristic of contemporary Western societies,22 then the most obvious symptom of this malaise must be a flight from boredom and the relentless search for excitement and entertainment.

  Bernard of Clairvaux was of the opinion that in every monastery can be found the four kinds of monks described by St. Benedict in his first chapter. The wandering about which is not good for their souls (66:7) can easily take place without moving outside the enclosure.

  Then there are carnal gyrovagues. Only their bodies are enclosed within the walls of the monastery. Their hearts and their tongues circulate throughout the whole world.23

  This happened in the twelfth century. It happens more easily today since the expectations about what constitutes “the good life” that new recruits bring with them to the monastery are not always sufficiently challenged. To many, a low-impact environment seems a very dim mode of existence.

  What is the dominant mode of experience at the end of the twentieth century? How do people see things, and how do they expect to see things? The answer is simple. In every field, from business to politics to marketing to education, the dominant mode has become entertainment…. In other centuries human beings wanted to be saved, or improved, or freed, or educated. But in our century, they want to be entertained. The great fear is not of disease or death, but of boredom.24

  The causes behind this insistence on being amused are grave. Behind the happy faces are empty heads and hearts. Entertainment becomes necessary when life has lost all meaning—where nothing in the outside world connects with or energizes what is going on within. So some insulation against the jarring effects of reality becomes necessary. When I was young, dentists discovered the utility of having tropical fish in the surgery to distract the active imaginations of children from conjuring up nameless horrors about to be inflicted on them. In the same way we escape into the world of virtual happiness and canned laughter to avoid confronting the possibility that the real world may make demands on us.

  The nihilistic culture propagated by so many countries in the West emphasizes neutrality among options. We are free to choose whatever suits us best—something becomes right by the fact of our choosing it. No particular option has any greater right to be chosen than any other. This denial of the objectivity of values leads to economic rationalism, consumerism, the unbridled pursuit of wealth and power, substance abuse, sexual permissiveness, the relativity of commitments, family break-ups, disregard for the rights of others and especially of the powerless, the abuse of children, abortion, euthanasia, wars of opportunity, and generally what in 1995 Pope John Paul II termed “the culture of death.” It does not take much acumen to conclude that a consumer society is well on the way to becoming a consumptive society.

  The culture of death is simultaneously a culture dominated by the notion of “entertainment.” … The very notion of entertainment presumes the state of boredom as the norm, which means that a culture increasingly fueled by this notion assumes that our lives are innately and intrinsically meaningless without the constant stream of “stimulation” and distraction, a stream inevitably subject to the law of diminishing returns.25

  Maybe some will say that the mass media are more froth and bubble than toil and trouble. This may be true if we do not look to the cumulative effect of daily exposure. What happens is like the spam that bedevils e-mail; it is fatuous and not persuasive, but it clogs up the channels of communication. I have no doubt of the degenerative effect on the mind that results from sustained exposure to the mass media, where images sometimes swamp critical thought, where opinion is proposed as knowledge, where sincerity is more highly regarded than truth,26 and where anything can be “spun” to mean whatever the commentator chooses.

  In the lives of many of our contemporaries, television and the Internet play a constructive role or contribute substantially to their contentment. The fact that there are many benefits in information technology does not necessarily mean that those who accept the guidance of the Rule of Benedict can accept modern means of social communication unquestioningly. Just because they exist does not automatically mean that they will have a positive effect in the pursuit of the Benedictine ideal. Both the content and the extent of exposure need to be monitored and assayed. Having different goals means choosing distinctive means.

  Reading is a cool medium that invites us to step back and ponder critically what we have encountered. We can stop at any time and compare what we read from what we know from other sources. We can build bridges between the text and our own experience and so achieve some measure of fusion of horizons. Solid reading trains us to think issues through for ourselves. Television, on the other hand, is a hot medium: It speaks directly to the emotions and more often than not passes on subliminal messages through camera angles, graphic images, editing, and even deliberate falsification. Its easy accessibility means that we often approach it in an uncritical state of mind, allowing ourselves to be formed by what we see, believing that we are experiencing the world immediately and as it is, instead of absorbing the particular bias that program makers wish to communicate. Television is food for the mind that is meant to be swallowed without being chewed.

  TV favors a mentality in which certain things no longer matter particularly: skills like the ability to enjoy a complex argument, for instance, or to perceive nuances, or to keep in mind large amounts of significant information, or to remember today what someone said last month, or to consider strong and carefully argued opinions in defiance of what is conventionally called “balance.” Its content lurches between violence of action, emotional hyperbole and blandness of opinion. And it never, never stops. It is always trying to give us something interesting. Not interesting for long: just for now. Commercial TV teaches people to scorn complexity and to feel, not to think. It has come to present society as a pagan circus of freaks, pseudo-heroes and wild morons struggling on the sands of a Colosseum without walls…. 27

  Thomas Merton was adamant that television—at least American television—was a danger for any who are interested in progressing further in the practice of contemplation. He expresses himself on the subject with characteristic verve, a little acerbity, and a not-untypical degree of exaggeration.

  The life of a television-watcher is a kind of caricature of contemplation. Passivity, uncritical absorption, receptivity, inertia. Not only that, but a gradual yielding to the mystic attraction until one is spellbound in a state of complete union. The trouble with this caricature is that it is really the exact opposite of contemplation: for true contemplation is precisely the fruit of a most active and intransigent rupture with all that captivates the senses, the emotions, and the will on a material or temporal level. The contemplative reaches his passivity only after terrific struggle with everything that appeals to his appetites as a half-animal member of the human herd. He is receptive and still only because the stillness he has reached is lucid, spiritual, and full of liberty. It is the summit of a life of spiritual freedom. The other, the ersatz, is the nadir of intellectual and emotional slavery.28

  The danger of servitude, especially to the electronic media, is not only that it wastes time and incapacitates, but it also serves as a channel through which the evil thoughts about which Benedict speaks (cogitationes malas, 4:50), enter the mind of the monk or nun and thence pass through to the community. I am not speaking merely about lubricious thoughts—the “scurrilities” to which Benedict was so uncompromisingly opposed—I am thinking of the erosion of fundamental values and the coarsening of the mind itself that result from daily preoccupation with triviality. When the beliefs and values weaken, only external constraint holds us
to monastic praxis, and the level of joie de vivre ineluctably declines.

  At the end of a day’s work, many people prefer the easy passivity of watching television to the alert perusal of the printed page, and that is understandable. At the same time, those who express a desire for wisdom and wish to grow in spirituality are often surprised at the suggestion that they unplug the television. Few people are honest enough to admit to the hours spent watching and half-watching television. If they kept records and devoted half the hours so consumed to silence, reading, reflection, meditation, and serious conversation, I think they would begin to notice a considerable difference in the quality of their lives.

  2. In a Nook with a Book

  The situation for those who have chosen to be followers of Benedict is somewhat different. Part of their vocation, it seems to me, is to be lovers of the book.29 Someone absorbed in reading is a beautiful sight, as many great paintings attest. Observing, we become aware of a certain stillness of body and quietness of mind in the reader, a concentration of energies and a healing withdrawal from the anguish of life. It is a moment of ecstasy: a retreat from direct involvement with one part of reality in order to be re-energized by contact with reality’s less visible component. The act of reading symbolizes something of what monastic life is all about: withdrawal from what is apparent to seek the reality that underlies appearances, in solitude, in silence, in recollection.

  Undoubtedly Benedict sees reading as a means of keeping a monk out of mischief when he has nothing else to do, but there is more to it than that. Reading is at the service of a reflective life; it contributes greatly to the gravitas that Benedict prized. Not only does it broaden the mind by extending the range of interests, but it also brings about a certain refinement that is the opposite of coarseness or vulgarity. If we believe that growth in spirituality coincides with a more complete fulfillment of human potential, then we will not be surprised at the proposition that a good monk is a fully alive human being. The leisure that ideally is an essential component of everyday monastic life offers to monks and nuns the opportunity to become more profound people—not just more knowledgeable, not walking, talking encyclopedias, but persons who have integrated what they have learned into the fabric of their life.

  In fact, monastic poverty ensures that nowadays monastic libraries are small and eclectic compared with the vast and systematic collections in universities. It is not the quantity of books read that is important but the zeal for truth and wisdom embodied in the act of reading.

  What is the use of innumerable books and libraries if the owner is unable to read them all in a lifetime? A student will be burdened by a crowd of authors, not instructed. It is much better to devote yourself to a few authors than to lose your way among a multitude.30

  In the same way, the idea that speed-reading is the sign of an educated person defeats the purpose of the sort of reading most suitable for monasteries. Monastic reading is not exclusively intended for the extraction of information in the most efficient and expeditious manner. A monk reads two books simultaneously, the text as it lies open before him and a more inner source of enlightenment that the medievals termed “the book of experience.” What is written on the page is read in parallel with the lessons learned through living. Reflection on experience helps readers to understand what the text is saying, and understanding the text helps the reader to unravel the complexities of experience. As St. Athanasius wrote, “The Psalms are, for those who recite them, a sort of mirror in which they can view the movements of their own soul.”31 Reading well practiced is a way to the heart.

  Delight and enlightenment from reading depend on our paying close attention. Rushing through a book to reach its finish will, more often than not, yield little fruit. Rapid reading delivers to us the most superficial layer of the text’s meaning; to find its deeper sense we often have to read the text several times, stopping to mull over the meaning of words and phrases, and stepping back to survey the logical development of the theme as a whole. This is how Allen Bloom describes close reading in a well-expressed paragraph that I have often quoted.

  A line-by-line, word-by-word analysis must be undertaken…. The hardest thing of all is the simplest to formulate: every word must be understood. It is hard because the eye tends to skip over just those things which are the most shocking or most call into question our way of looking at things…. The argument or example that seems irrelevant, trivial or boring is precisely the one most likely to be a sign of what is outside one’s framework and which it calls into question. One passes over such things unless one takes pencil and paper, outlines, counts, stops at everything and tries to wonder.32

  Our reading is meant to take us somewhere, not merely to leave us where we are, to ease our doubts and reinforce our prejudices. A good book is an invitation to grow beyond what we are at present, to view issues from a different perspective, to add new elements to our personal synthesis. We must not allow our innate resistance to change or render this process impotent. Reading is dialogical: We are not asked to sell out on our most cherished beliefs and values the moment we find them contradicted, but there is no harm in engaging in a conversation that will enable us to nuance our position in response to implied or explicit criticism. Trying to understand a mentality that is foreign to us often serves as a means of bringing to the surface of consciousness deeply held convictions that hitherto we have not closely examined or explored.

  For every Christian, and especially for the monk, reading is important in order to shore up the distinctive structure of beliefs and values that is necessary if we are to live a life worthy of the gospel and to be strangers to the ways of the world. The more exposure we have to unevangelical modes of thinking or systems of values, the more we have to keep reminding ourselves that we have freely chosen a different path. “Reading is an essential part of the ascesis that leads from the visible to the invisible, or from the sign to what is signified.”33 We are also obliged to equip ourselves to explain to others the faith by which we live. “Always be ready to offer an apologia for the hope that is in you to anyone who asks you for an explanation” (1 Pet. 3:15). As we keep insisting, actions are not enough; they need to be sustained by appropriate beliefs and values. Otherwise motivation will melt away and we will cease our effort to lead a good life.

  A final aspect of general reading is probably more important than it seems at first glance. If we acquire good habits of reading then it begins to be a source of enjoyment and refreshment that helps us to recuperate from more taxing occupations. Moreover, a good book can be a welcome friend during hard times. Reading is not expensive, it can be done almost anywhere, and it does not require the participation of others. It often creates a helpful distance between us and the source of our anxieties, not allowing our troubles to keep invading consciousness, but indirectly permitting to acquire a better perspective on things. It lets our minds rest while a response is being generated in the unconscious.

  3. Lectio Divina

  For anyone thoroughly committed to Christian and monastic ideals it soon becomes apparent that these ideals quickly lose definition if they are not constantly reapplied to each changing situation. Without attention and application, our beliefs and values become fuzzy and begin to blend with philosophies in which the distinctiveness of the gospel is not primary. All reading is good, and useful in coming to a personal stance before reality. Best of all, however, is that reading that allows us to keep deepening our grasp on our central convictions and commitments. This means that some species of “spiritual reading” is important for all who want to remain faithful to their baptismal promise to live by the Spirit and not according to the flesh. It must be something to keep the flame of faith burning bright.

  In this regard what works for one need not be as effective for all. Our situations are different. In a general way we all need to be brought into an ever-deeper relationship with Christ, to be instructed by his teaching, to be inspired to imitate his example, and to grow in a sense of friendship and pers
onal loyalty. We all need to keep applying the content of our religious beliefs to the concrete circumstances of our life, to ensure that the obedience of faith is a lived reality. We all need to stir up our hope in the future promised by God, to keep alive our spiritual desire and to prevent our being overcome by the cares and anxieties of today. And we all need to be drawn to an ever-warmer and more intense prayer that goes beyond religious formalism and really enables us to come humbly into the presence of God.

  How these goals are realized will depend on many subjective factors: our education, the opportunities and resources available to us, and even our mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Whatever our present circumstances, however, we cannot afford to ignore God’s self-revelation, because in it are contained the challenges that will guide our choices and the comfort that will sustain them. Cut off from God’s Word, our lives are adrift. This is not to say that everyone has to curl up in a corner with a Greek New Testament—desirable though that may be. But all of us need to ensure that God’s Word has access to our lives, whether by reading the Scriptures directly or at one or several removes, by hearing them read, by having their meaning mediated by fellow-believers, or in some other way. We need to feed our minds on the gospel message, to ponder it in our hearts and to become, in our own small way, doers of God’s Word.

  In monastic circles during the last fifty years there has been a renewed interest in the exercise of lectio divina. Whether such reading, as it is now practiced, exactly corresponds to what happened in ancient and medieval monasteries is unimportant. The point is that it is almost impossible to envisage perseverance in lifelong commitment without the regular dedication of periods of time to the reading of the Scriptures and other texts that feed our faith. Indissolubly associated with this reading are reflection and obedient application, prayer and contemplation. Most monks and nuns feel that the liturgy and other communal readings are not enough to sustain them. They experience the call to add to the common commitment, some personal dedication of time and energy so that they can wait upon the Lord in expectant silence. This is necessarily an individual exercise, tailored to suit personal possibilities and particular vocations, but it also builds community. “What ascends must converge.” The more a person’s consciousness and behavior are submitted to ongoing evangelization, the more harmonious is the interface with other people. Those who do not regularly expose their thoughts and actions to the judgment of the revealed word are more likely to poison their relationships with others because of their own inconsistencies.