Strangers to the City

by Michael Casey

  In the same way do not ponder what you have to do if you have no one from whom you may ask [counsel]. God will not abandon any who wholeheartedly seek to know God’s will in truth. God will in everything show them the way according to his will. For those who turn their heart to God’s will God will enlighten a little child to speak his will.62

  Such listening has an element of vigilance in it. Its greatest enemy is not rebellion or rejection but inattention. We can easily be distracted by dominant cares and anxieties so that we forget to pay attention to the messages that life brings us, in events and the actions of others as well as in words. Somehow or other our concentration relaxes and our powers of attention are not engaged. Like the goats at the final judgment we protest that we were unaware of the challenges presented to us, but, frighteningly, this excuse is invalid. As Benedict’s first step of humility reminds us, it is our task to remain focused on finding God’s will and conforming to it. This is a proactive form of listening, constantly cocking our ears for the slightest sound as if our life depended on it—as indeed it does.

  The attitude of listening evoked in the first word of the Rule is typified in the monk’s response to the signal for the Work of God. Remember that there were no private timepieces. As soon as a monk heard the signal, he was to drop whatever was in hand, and run quickly yet gravely to respond (43:1). In the Middle Ages the bell that summoned the community to the various exercises was regarded as vox Dei—the voice of God. Coming late is reprehensible not merely as an expression of personal sloppiness, nor even as an act of disrespect to the gathered community, but because it indicates a slowness in responding to God’s call. Moreover in many cases such tardiness indicates a willful preference for the private activity of an individual over the divinely sanctioned program of the coenobium.

  To extrapolate from this particular instance, it seems likely that a monk’s openness to God’s voice in the events of daily life is probably a good indicator of the level of receptivity with which he approaches his prayer and lectio divina, his spiritual direction, and his interpretation of daily events. If he consistently resists challenge or change and is truculent and intransigent in his dealings with those in authority, it is scarcely believable that he is much different in his relationship with God. One who will not listen to Moses and the prophets will find plenty of excuses to dispute the authenticity of God’s call, no matter how imposing the channels of revelation. A wholesome attitude of receptivity is usually indivisible. In listening, it does not distinguish between major superiors and minor superiors, between seniors and juniors, between fervent and marginal. It is prepared to believe that anybody can be a messenger of God, even Balaam’s donkey.

  If genuine obedience is considered primarily as a state or even an attitude, then its absence can be invisible. Apart from occasional crises there may be no outright rejection of orders—simply avoidance and defensiveness. Such monks or nuns may think themselves blameless in the matter of obedience, and, in a sense, they are—provided that superiors sense the situation and ensure that they remain at a safe distance. Not to be disobedient is not necessarily to be obedient. To harvest the benefits of genuine obedience more is required than avoiding overt rebellion. Nowadays if we do not actively seek obedience, years may pass without our being given any opportunity to practise it. If we give superiors and others such a hard time that they go out of their way to avoid asking anything of us, we can scarcely claim to have fulfilled either the purpose or spirit of our monastic profession. If we construct our life so that large areas of it are protected by firewalls from external demands, then it may be a worthy life, but it is not necessarily one that is free of the tyranny of self-will.

  For Benedict liberation from self-will is the primary purpose of monastic obedience.63 He addresses his words only to those who wish to serve Christ through the renunciation of self-will and the practice of obedience (Prol. 3). In Chapter 5, “On Obedience,” he gives a phenomenological description of how a perfect disciple practises obedience.64 For most of us this would seem like an impossible ideal. Benedict, however, locates such immediate compliance within the affective context of eschatological desire. Such disciples are “those whom love obliges to keep walking toward eternal life.” If we truly seek the realities that are above, then we will have a corresponding lack of interest in getting our own way in matters that are of earth. Benedict continues:

  And so they grasp the narrow path of which the Lord said, “Narrow is the path that leads to life.” They desire to live in coenobia with an abbot over them so that they do not live by their own assessment or obey their own desires and pleasures, but walk by another’s judgment and rule. (5:11-12)

  In other words, people come to a monastery in order to find the possibility of obedience. Obedience is not an unavoidable by-product of communal living to be endured and tolerated. Obedience is the purpose and soul of the monastic organization; the primacy is not the other way around. Cenobitic life is, in Benedict’s view, superior to the life of a solitary precisely because it offers more opportunity for the monk to be formed and strengthened by creative interaction (1:5). In practice this demands submission to others.

  The self-will that obedience combats is a perverse will that is extravagantly attached to self-maintenance and self-gratification. It has no experience of falling in love with anything outside itself. It does not know what it means to forget itself and lose itself in loving admiration of another. It stubbornly refuses any invitation to transcendence. It is imperious in its demand for instant compliance; any resistance will provoke moodiness, temper tantrums, and bouts of sulky depression. Think of Ahaz when Naboth frustrated his plans (1 Kings 21:4). Self-will is not only directed to self-indulgence and worldly behavior. It may well thrive within the limitations and obligations of monastic life if they happen to suit, but, mysteriously, despite strict observance not much real progress in interior monasticity occurs. One who is dominated by self-will cannot become Christlike.

  What is so wrong with self-will? Benedict understands that the interior promptings that often drive us to action are often suspect. We should beware of their destructive potential: “There are paths which seem humanly right whose end plunges into the depths of hell” (7:21). The danger of self-will is that it blinds us to the real meaning of our actions—we lose the capacity to evaluate issues in the light of the gospel. Listen to what Benedict says about the Sarabites, the sort of monks who feel no necessity to be bound by either a rule or by the experience of a master or shepherd. “The pleasure of their desires is their law: whatever they think or choose they call holy, and what they do not want to do they consider illicit” (1:9). In such a case what is done may, in fact, be holy, and what is not done may be well-avoided. That is not the point. Benedict’s contention is that such actions lack the guarantee of authenticity. As John Cassian would say, they are gold that has not been authoritatively assayed. As a result, energy may be wasted, for instance, by investing huge effort in something that is, at best, indifferent. Even worse, what seems like a good idea may eventually cause damage. Monastic life is a marathon and not a sprint; only those who run the full race are eligible for the prize.

  Generally what happens is that the temptation to self-will initially has as its object behavior that is virtuous beyond the common norm. A young monk may well adopt practices of mortification that deprive him of sleep or food or necessary recreation. As a corollary he begins to regard the common standards as defective, and those who observe them as lacking in fervor. Counsel is not sought, pastoral intervention, is not welcomed and sometimes an element of secretiveness is present. The ascetic practices adopted at the behest of self-will have the effect of isolating the foolish fellow from the usual sources of fraternal or pastoral help. He is now on his own. Who is surprised when sudden temptation looms and he is dramatically overcome?65 “There are paths which seem humanly right whose end plunges into the depths of hell.” This is why Benedict, in his chapter on Lent, advises the monk to check out his proposed prog
ram of Lenten abnegation with the abbot; if he is acting from self-will he may simply be expressing and reinforcing his vices rather than neutralizing them (49:8–10). Self-will and vainglory go hand in hand.

  When the ancient monks were confronted with the reality that often a highly persuasive temptation seems to come from nowhere, they concluded that it was demonic in origin. As a result the poor old devil has been blamed for many things going wrong in which he or she had no involvement. We post-Freudians, who have a smattering of knowledge about the workings of the unconscious mind, are reasonably familiar with the idea that we can be strongly inclined towards a particular course of action without our being fully aware of what it is that attracts us. Instinctively we disguise our desires with a semblance of rationality and deny the overt meaning of what we want to do. Anyone else could tell us that our behavior is self-indulgent or self-destructive, but we are blind to its true nature. Despite all our self-exculpating bluster, the fact is that we can easily become accomplices in our own troubles if we do not take care to impose a moratorium on our impulsive desires and learn to live according to an external standard: to conform our lives to an authoritative rule, an experienced pastor, and a community of fellow-travelers on the road to eternal life. Such an obedience blocks the automatic implementation of the whims of self-will and offers the possibility that our limited energies will be expended in areas where they will be most likely to yield fruit.

  2. Laying the Foundation

  Many, and perhaps all, bring into the monastery problems with authority that were generated in early life. A response to authority can be anything between exhibiting a puppy-like desire to please and going all the way to childish reluctance and passive aggression. Resistance and rebellion, likewise, can be merely verbal, or they may represent something more serious: instinctive or habitual rejection of authority, adolescent truculence, or the expression of a severe personality disorder. A negative attitude toward authority, whatever form it takes, whether conscious or unconscious, and of whatever degree, poses a particular problem for formation. If a young monk or nun lacks the necessary disposition for profiting from the very special role that authority is supposed to play in a monastery, then the whole process of internalization of values is jeopardized, and their future monastic prospects look dim.

  To arrive at a wholesome degree of self-knowledge takes time. Meanwhile we have to live without it. Either we can choose blindly to act out our particular inclinations, or we can enter into an apprenticeship by which we learn how to read our experience and how to channel our affective energies so that they contribute to our progress toward the goal we have set before ourselves. This latter option means we accept to be disciples and submit ourselves to an instructor.

  At first we may be aware only of the negative aspects of submission—the habitual nonimplementation of our personal preferences, and the labor involved in scrutinizing our motivations and the humiliation of being prepared to render an account of them. No more carefree living! Here Benedict seeks to motivate us by pointing to the example of Christ’s self-emptying (5:13, 7:32, 7:34). To allow others to govern us is a basic component of the imitation of Christ. This is particularly true, as Guerric of Igny points out, when those to whom we submit are inferior to us.66 This is probably how we feel, although it may not be true. We may feel that we know better than the one placed over us, but we walk in Christ’s footsteps if we put aside our sense of superiority, at least for the moment, and submit.

  In English the word “master” has a double reference. On the one hand it points to someone who exercises practical supervision over our behavior, who gives us instructions about what to do and how to do it. Our response is to serve. On the other hand a master also imparts theoretical knowledge, expands our minds, and teaches us. Our response is to learn. In a community that follows Benedict’s rule both doctrina and disciplina are to be found: The community imparts both theory and practice to the newcomer and seeks to maintain a high level of both in all its members. Accordingly, those called to exercise some authority in the community must be skilled in doctrine; they are not put in charge simply to give orders. In Benedict’s mind they must also be able effectively to communicate the beliefs and values of the monastic tradition so as to provide a context of meaning for whatever they ask of others. Good example is only one means by which the tradition is passed on; clear thinking and persuasive discourse are also necessary, especially in the early days.

  We live in a world in which education systems teach people to question accepted values as a means of finding a path through a pluralistic society. And because knowledge has displaced experience and wisdom as the basic equipment for living, societies in which the young learn from the old are disappearing. In the area of technology, particularly, the young are often summoned to rescue the old from ineptitude. As a result, those entering monasteries and finding there a different way of doing things will want to know why. Because they are generous and good-willed they may accept a facile appeal to convention or tradition once or twice. Eventually, however, they will press for real answers, especially after they have arrived at the relative security of first profession. As Benedict foresaw, those who are in authority over such people will need to have a good understanding of monastic values and the capacity to communicate this wisdom to the next generation. And because many today are disenchanted with authority and preemptively suspicious and fearful of its exercise, first of all authority will have to sell itself before it becomes credible enough to market the tradition it represents.

  Monastic teaching is many-layered. There is an important educational component. This involves exposing newcomers to the Scriptures, to the writings of monastic tradition, to theology and history, and to whatever will broaden their minds and further loosen the tightness of their hearts. Ours is a literate tradition, as we have observed in Chapter Four. Even in ruder times monasteries made sure that candidates had acquired basic literacy skill because they had a lifetime of reading ahead of them. Beyond education and study there are many other channels of instruction: the liturgy, for example; the books read in the refectory; sermons or conferences; intelligent discourse within the community. In a particular way seeking and receiving counsel is a fine way of coming to a personal encounter with the tradition and assimilating it in the context of one’s own experience. Of course there is always good example, although often this will be a matter of wheat growing among thorns. Most unpopular among the means of formation is the giving of correction. It is this aspect of obedience that we must now consider.

  3. Accepting Correction

  Benedict prescribes that newcomers are to be taught in advance about all the hard and rough things that will beset their journey to God (58:8). It is impossible, of course, to provide total coverage of hazards that lie in the future. We try to give people a sound basic formation and hope that they will pick up whatever else they need by trial and error. In other words, we expect that they will make just as many mistakes as we did ourselves—and still do. Experience is a great teacher, but it presupposes a good level of self-awareness. Bernard interprets the text about the just falling seven times in the day as meaning that because they fall during the day they are aware of having fallen, and so can do something about it.67 That is all very well, but what happens if somebody is not aware of having fallen, or has not perceived the harmful effects that certain actions have on others or may have on themselves in the future?

  Augustine notes that appropriate reproof is one of the benefits that we can expect from genuine friendship. If I were engaging in behavior that is liable to be damaging, I would hope that a friend would help me to see the error of my ways. I make mistakes, some of which are unimportant. A few, however, may have results that I would gladly prevent. If somebody else is able to open my eyes to what is going wrong and to encourage me to take contrary action, then I am greatly blessed. If have ongoing access to such a resource, then I can be reasonably relaxed about the choices I make, knowing that if delusion ever gets the better o
f me, a friend will spot the danger and alert me to it. Correction or putting right is a benefit rather than an added burden.

  It often surprises modern readers that Benedict devotes so much space to the question of correction, even to the point of legislating for excommunication for faults. The phrase “regular discipline” is chillingly frequent in the context of any wrongdoing by the monks. Benedict does not allow destructive behavior to go unchecked. Listen to what he says to the abbot: “He is not to pass over the sins of wrongdoers but, as soon as they begin to appear, he is to cut them off at the roots while he is able, mindful of the danger of [sharing the fate of] Eli, the priest of Shiloh” (2:26). Such pastoral interventions are not the expression of a vindictive attitude, nor are they merely punitive in intent. Later chapters reveal that Benedict sees them as stemming from the abbot’s compassion for those in trouble, done with the purpose of bringing healing. Indeed he will compare this aspect of the abbot’s role to the work of a skilled physician, using all possible means to bring the disaffected brother back to health and wholeness (27:1-2).

  Despite Benedict’s beautiful image, giving and receiving correction is easy for no one. Monasteries are full of people who are doing their best, and it is not always easy for them to accept a superior’s suggestion that something or other needs improvement. In fact such an intervention can sometimes provoke a veritable storm.

  The human heart is like a vessel that may be full either of honey or of poison. For as long as the vessel is closed, nobody knows what is inside. If, however, somebody takes off the lid, then immediately it is possible to smell what is inside. So, brothers, while a monk keeps silence, while nobody says anything to him or tells him to do anything or gives him any occasion to reveal himself, it is as if he were a covered vessel. What is within is not known. But if there is a conversation in which someone commands him to do something that may be burdensome, or if he is corrected for some mistake, then the vessel is uncovered. Then it is possible to detect either a good odor or a bad smell. If he then becomes angry, if he begins to engage in detraction and murmuring, if when there is a possibility he engages in scoffing and mocking and other meaningless behavior, then he is not presenting a good odor to his brothers—since his vessel does not contain fraternal love but a will given to vice.68