Such interior and exterior simplicity is especially beautiful in the area of sexual behavior, so often characterized by duplicity and lies. Allowing our lives to be as chaste as the monastic persona is both task and challenge, but it is the only way to be happy. Backsliding and compromises are dead-end streets that lead nowhere except to anxiety and eventual misery. In the long run, it makes more sense to live the kind of life to which we have committed ourselves, trusting that sustained fidelity to grace will in time yield its hundredfold.
i) Serenity
Embracing the ideals of the monastic vocation and simultaneously accepting our sexuality will help us to hold together the opposite ambitions of human nature and personal choice. Sometimes the battle is fierce between the contrary camps and the outcome by no means certain. In such a situation it is easy to become mentally confused and emotionally upset. Shame and guilt can prey upon our failures and drive us deep into such discouragement that we may consider cutting our losses. It is at such a point that we need to cultivate calm and serenity based on the theological virtue of hope. If we have not yet attained purity of heart at least we can make some progress toward peace of heart.
Many monasteries that follow Benedict’s Rule emblazon the word pax or “peace” upon their portals. To many outsiders the undoubtedly peaceful atmosphere they encounter in such holy places is a result of a quiet life untouched by cares or conflicts. Those who live there know differently. Peace is certainly a gift of the Holy Spirit, but it also profits from human exertion. Newcomers to a monastery are often surprised that they have to work hard to avoid becoming upset. For anything much to happen at a spiritual level a certain amount of groundwork has to be done in acquiring the skills of emotional literacy and management, honest communication, and conflict resolution. Such arts help to lubricate community living.
On a personal and interior level we also need to acquire certain skills or attitudes. Chief among these is the relinquishing of any ambition to control what is happening in our spiritual life. This means accepting the inevitable wobbliness of our will and the futility of trying to mastermind our own journey to God. Somewhere along the road we have to learn to trust, and the sooner the better. We may give lip-service to the saying that God can write straight on crooked lines, but continue to hope that in our own case it will not be necessary
Nothing is more distressing to a relatively innocent soul that failure in chastity. Because we do not speak frankly enough about our experience of sexuality, many monastic people assume that their own liabilities in this area are uncommonly serious. Sometimes their education to celibacy has been incomplete and often they lack the vocabulary to engage in serious discourse about what is happening. Some of these defects may have been addressed and reduced during the time of formation, but most people continue to hope desperately that they will not have to cope with serious sexual issues, that somehow they will be exempt from normality.
Sexuality, like every other aspect of our experience, must be covered with the mantle of serenity. It is very unlikely that our lifelong journey toward chastity will be without mishap, be it of thought, desire, or deed. There will certainly be temptations, and often we will not evade them quickly enough to avoid being tarnished by them. Memories and images can remain embedded in our subconscious for years, only too ready to rise and taunt us in idle moments. Even though our conduct is beyond reproach, we know that our thoughts and desires have often betrayed us. If we were a little more convinced that this is more the norm than the exception, perhaps we could survey the situation with greater serenity.
The fundamental fact is that it does not much matter whether our failings and fallings are many or few. Our confidence and our peace stem from our being convinced that God’s love for us is unconditional. This is not to say that our sins do not matter. It is simply to assert that whatever barriers we interpose between ourselves and God they are too insubstantial to stand for long. Our sexual failures are no different from our other sins, even though they may occasion a deeper feeling of shame. God can use our sense of their seriousness to demonstrate that even the offenses we most regret are no more than specks of dust on the scales of mercy. Trust in God is the only unfailing source of serenity.
j) Contemplation
The ancient monks were convinced that chastity and contemplation went hand in hand. To understand what they are saying, it has to be remembered that they distinguished between mere continence, or the lack of overt sexual activity, and the radiant inner light of chastity. Contemplation is neither achievement nor the reward of achievement but a gift of God. It occurs most readily in a heart that is undivided and fixed in its conformity with the divine will. God, however, sometimes breaks his own rules and gives this gift not at the end of the spiritual ascent, but on the way up. By giving the struggling wayfarer a foretaste of what lies at the end of the journey, God motivates and energizes the process of coming to a more complete chastity.
Chastity is probably impossible without serious commitment to prayer, and serious commitment to prayer leads to the sort of ordering of life which facilitates contemplation. There does not seem much point in trying to analyze the details of this causality; experience confirms that there is a connection, though it is not without elements of paradox.
k) Never Lose Hope in the Mercy of God (4:74).
Benedict is not known as a great practical joker. It appears to me, however, that he was leading us up the garden path by listing no less than seventy-two implements of good work that we are expected to use throughout our long life, because he then adds a final one that seems to negate all those industrious decades. After prescribing so many good works he reverts to a purer gospel that bids us only to have faith and hope, and never to doubt the generosity or largeheartedness of God.
For some the loss of sexual innocence has been the occasion of the discovery of mercy; for others an ingrained habit or persistent need has taught them dependence on this same mercy. In the light of such experiences it seems as though the difficulty that many experience in maintaining chastity is a providential means of learning the more important message that the spiritual life is not a matter of achievement but of being the recipient of God’s benevolence. “It is a matter not of the one who wills nor of the one who runs but of God showing mercy” (Rom. 9:16). So long as chastity seems to be achievable without God, it has no relevance in Christian discipleship. In fact it is probably an obstacle. On the contrary, chastity lost or threatened is sometimes the best thing that can happen to a fervent follower in Benedict’s footsteps.
6 Dispossession
He must keep for himself nothing
of all he owned.
RB 58:24
Just as chastity is viewed by secularized cultures as an impediment to human fulfillment, so it is not surprising to find that very few persons living on our planet today are indifferent to the prospect of accumulating possessions. Whether we are rich or poor most of us were raised to be seriously concerned about acquiring new wealth and making sure that it is not taken from us. Although we live in a world choking on consumer goods, shopping malls are thronged with people hoping to fill an inner emptiness with yet more items fondly believed to be life-enhancing. Notwithstanding the existence of an underclass that struggles to maintain a minimum level of decency and respectability, and which easily slips into real neediness, the self-image of most Western societies is of a culture of affluence and conspicuous expenditure. If we were cynics we might imagine that the world would end not with a bang, nor with a whimper, but with the sound of cash registers celebrating the success of the end-of-the-world sales.
Against such a backdrop the choice to be “poor with the poor Christ” and “naked to follow the naked Christ” must seem to many the height of folly. Even for those who enter a monastery, the demands of dispossession can be muted. St. Benedict did not insist on absolute poverty, but relied on principles of necessity, sufficiency, and moderation, and on avoiding proprietary attitudes by insisting on community of goods, minimizi
ng acquisitiveness by giving to all what they genuinely needed, and conforming to common sense by recognizing a sliding scale in assessing individual needs.
As a result it is possible to dodge the demands of poverty unless we have a certain clarity of vision about its essential role in the monastic process.
1. Material Poverty
Unless the monastery is one of those rare establishments that is actually impoverished and has made strenuous efforts over the years to remain so, monks and nuns scarcely feel the pinch of poverty beyond artificial restrictions placed on expenditure. Monasteries accumulate money fairly easily, sometimes because of the generosity of donors, sometimes because of favorable taxation status, but often through a combination of hard work and frugal living. As a result there is no fundamental fear for the future, or even the sobriety that comes with having to skimp now in order to set by a little for later. Compared with so many exploited workers, recipients of welfare, chronic invalids, and those who are just unlucky, the monastic standard of living is comfortable enough. Moreover, unless they are explicitly challenged, many recruits bring into the monastery the same acquisitive presuppositions that motivated their choices outside. “They wish to be poor in such a way that nothing is lacking to them. They love poverty so long as they experience no shortage.”50 As a result they bear with ill grace a lower standard of living than they had before entry and are constantly exerting pressure that everything become “a little nicer.”
Such unprincipled ameliorism is more destructive of the monastic spirit than appears at first glance. It bespeaks a heart and mind set on temporal convenience and not striving to become worthy citizens of heaven. There are some members of monastic communities who are highly diligent in discerning vocations, states of prayer, and potential candidates for the abbacy who do not apply the same discernment to the area of monastic poverty. Most monks and nuns expect to eat well. Many will not tolerate any reservation or hesitation when it comes to upgrading furnishings, appliances, and equipment. There are those who have little concern about energy expenditure and others who would prefer to lose a limb than to have any restriction placed on their automobile use. I would never choose a situation that habitually threatened chastity, but I do not seem to feel the same reluctance to ignore the exigencies of monastic poverty. Maybe I unconsciously assume that a comfortable bourgeois lifestyle is my right, some kind of compensation for the rigors of celibacy: a consolation prize.
Even the dimmest knowledge of monastic history leads to the conclusion that the love of practical poverty is one of the surest gauges of fervor. Troubles often multiply when monasteries become rich and the monks’ status and standard of living creep inexorably upward. “The association of possessions and virtues is not usually long-lasting.”51 I say this not unaware of the complexities of economic survival as it concerns monastic communities in today’s world. And I am certainly not recommending a tight-fisted niggardliness in dealing with requests. Such an attitude is contrary to the genial spirit of humanitas that pervades Benedict’s Rule. It is good to remember, however, that while attending to the special needs of “the weak,” Benedict expects the rest of the community to soldier on without resentment, keeping to the stricter observance as the path that will lead more directly to their goal. To arrive at a situation where the majority is classified as technically infirm in order to justify a looser observance conforms neither to the letter nor to the spirit of monastic tradition.52 Certainly, from the Cistercian end of the Benedictine spectrum, austerity of life remains both a characteristic and a priority. This strictness necessarily includes the pinch of voluntary poverty.
Monastic poverty is neither glamorous nor romantic. It is a matter of choosing to go without, to make do with less, and to be content with little. In the eyes of most of our contemporaries it is not a goal worth pursuing. It is ugly and contemptible. Bernard compares poverty to dung; it may increase growth, but of itself it is repulsive.53 Real poverty in buildings and their furnishings is not the same as an aesthetic minimalism, which is usually quite expensive. Rather it involves using what is plain and commonplace—sometimes, everything else being equal, deliberately opting for what is cheap. The aura that undoubtedly pervades monastic building comes from decades of prayer and holiness, and not merely from a first-rate architect and an unlimited budget. What Benedict says in speaking of monastic clothing can be taken as indicative of a general attitude. Apart from serving its purpose and fitting those who wear it, clothing should be chosen on the basis of what is locally available and what is less expensive—not imported from afar, no status brand names and high price tags: the sort of clothes that no respected denizen of the worldly city would want to be seen wearing. Benedict and the monastic reformers who followed him sought to deprive clothes and everything else that constitutes the monastic lifestyle of secular collateral meanings. Clothes were simply coverings for the body; they were not intended to express superiority or status. Food was meant to sustain energy levels so as to make monastic observance possible; it was not to become an end in itself, a gratification of gluttony, or a compensation for celibacy. Buildings were simply places in which to live, not museums or academies or country clubs, but extra-territorial islands where everything was determined according to monastic priorities, pro modo conversationis (22:2).
What are you thinking as you read this? Are you not conscious of a certain reluctance or resistance to a radical interpretation of monastic poverty? I am conscious of it in myself as I write; I hear the voices of common sense, practicality, and efficiency crying out to be heard. Even our Western monastic tradition raises its voice in protest: “We are followers of Benedict, not Francis!” Yet the quiet voice of the gospel insists. The following of Jesus demands detachment from and indifference to material possessions. Is the maxim about a camel passing through the eye of a needle really saying to us that monastic life will be almost impossible without a solid practice of poverty? As with chastity, if we make compromises in the area of poverty the integrity of monastic observance is lost, and every element in it is forced to operate at a reduced level of vitality. The more substantial the failures, the more fragmented our efforts seem to become, and the integrity of our response to vocation is ripped further apart. Monastic life becomes unsustainable without a solid commitment to both personal and communal poverty.
Monastic poverty is not merely a matter of spending less or even of being content with the basic necessities, a few conveniences, and relatively rare extravagances. Owning high-quality goods bespeaks a certain worthiness in the possessor. If I live in a beautiful monastery set on prime real estate, if I am surrounded by good art and an ambience of high culture, then, when I announce myself as belonging to such a place, I am immediately invested with some of its prestige. Like Paul (in Acts 21:39) I can boast, “I am a monk of no mean monastery.” People often judge the quality of monastic life by externals. A genuinely poor monastery may excite admiration, but it frightens away prospective candidates.54 And, oddly enough, such a place does not appeal to many benefactors as worthy of their largesse. “For some unknown reason, the richer a place appears, the more freely do offerings pour in.”55 The poverty to which the followers of Benedict aspire has no fringe benefits. It is not aimed at exciting the admiration of pious observers. It is simply expressive of the fact that those who live in monasteries have different goals and different priorities. They are citizens of the heavenly city; it is there that their treasures are located. Voluntary self-deprivation, doing without the goods and services that much money provides, and renouncing competitive consumption, taken together indicate that major importance is attached to non-material realities.
Benedict’s teaching on hospitality takes monastic poverty beyond the confines of renunciation into the sphere of faith and largeness of heart. All strangers are not only to be welcomed as Christ himself, but Christ is to be adored in them by a manifest sign of reverence (53:7). Special diligence is to apply in the reception of poor people and travelers, lest faith-inspired kindness
be watered down by our tendency to dismiss such persons as unworthy of our full attention. Benedict dryly adds that the terror inspired by the rich and powerful is sufficient to ensure that they are received with the honor and respect worthy of their rank (53:15). If we were really indifferent to material wealth then we would treat everyone like millionaires.
Benefactors and founders have played an important role in the spread of monasticism, at least in the West. Monastic communities often earn enough to live on, but the fact that they can only work part-time means that they have to rely on Providence for capital expenditure and, more important, for means to cover the expense involved in making new foundations. It is natural that such generous people are welcomed with greater enthusiasm than others. Natural, yes, but not necessarily in accordance with the spirit of the gospel or the teaching of the Rule. I am not saying that we should treat benefactors less well, but that we should ensure that our respect and affection are directed toward persons and not to their money, exactly the same as in the case of the poor.
Sometimes it happens that particular monks and nuns develop a talent for acquiring personal benefactors who provide them with goods and services that are unavailable through normal channels in the community. This can be from those who are grateful for what they receive from the monastery or from family or personal friends. Benedict is aware of this tactic and is uncompromising in his rejection of it. Immediately after the chapter on the welcoming of strangers he adds one that prohibits monks from receiving unauthorized gifts, be they ever so small or pious (54:1–5). Elsewhere he forbids them to accept meals when outside the monastery, no matter how pressing the invitation (51:1). In most cultures reciprocity rules such areas as hospitality and gift-giving. When the monk or nun receives others, they do so in the name of the community. To use that service as a means of building up a sense of personal indebtedness in the recipients of monastic hospitality is to usurp for personal profit what rightly belongs to the community as a whole.
Strangers to the City Page 8
