True culture is humanization, whereas non-culture and false cultures are dehumanizing. For this reason, in the choice of culture it is [human] destiny which is at stake. Humanization, namely [human] development, is carried out in all fields of reality in which [human beings] are situated and take their place: in their spirituality or corporeity, in the universe, in human and divine society. It is a question of a harmonious development, in which all the sectors to which human beings belong are connected with one another.... Culture must cultivate human beings and all human beings in the extension of an integral and full humanism, in which the whole human being and all human beings are helped to advance in the fullness of every human dimension. Culture has the essential purpose of bettering human beings and procuring for all the goods necessary for the development of their individual and social being.86
These quotations and many others like them demonstrate the linkage existing between moral and spiritual development, becoming ever more human, and the generation of culture. A monastery that exists for the purposes of spiritual growth will necessarily promote human development and, thereby, create an ambiance favorable to the emergence, maintenance, and expansion of culture. It will be a place of generativity.
3. Utopia?
Sometimes it seems that the monastic microcosm could easily become a realization of the utopian dream of which many great thinkers have written. Indeed, some of the medieval portrayals of monasteries such as Clairvaux tend in this direction. The first description comes from William, a friend of Bernard, who had been abbot of the Benedictine monastery of Saint-Thierry and later became a Cistercian monk of Signy. Needless to say, he describes Clairvaux in terms of his own imagined ideals: poverty, solitude, order, and harmony.
At that time [it was a sight for sore eyes] to see Clairvaux in its golden age. Men of virtues who had previously been rich and honored in the world now glory in Christ’s poverty. They planted God’s church in their own blood, in labor and in troubles, in hunger and thirst, in cold and nakedness, in persecutions, insults and under many constraints and thus prepared for Clairvaux the sufficiency and peace which it has today. They considered that they lived not for themselves but for Christ and for the brothers who would serve God in that place. They dismissed as nothing what they themselves lacked and, mindful of the voluntary poverty [they had undertaken] for Christ’s sake, they sought only to leave behind them what would suffice to meet the necessities [of those that followed].
Coming down the mountain those arriving had their first view of Clairvaux. Through the simplicity and humility of the building the mute valley spoke of the simplicity and humility of the poor of Christ who lived there. The valley was full of people. No one was idle but everyone was at work, each at the task enjoined him. Even at midday those arriving would find a silence like that of midnight, except for the sound of work or if the brothers were engaged in the praise of God. This rule of silence and their high reputation engendered a sense of reverence even among lay people who arrived so that they were fearful of speaking there, not only about obscene or idle matters but of anything that was not necessary.
The place itself in which the servants of God hid themselves was solitary, surrounded by thick forests and constrained within the sides of nearby mountains. It somehow recalled the cave in which our holy father Benedict was found by shepherds. So as they imitated his life and house, these men would also appear to have some form of his solitude.
All the multitude in that place were solitaries. Although the valley was full of people their ordered charity, because it was ordered by reason, made them all solitary. A single disorderly person can become as a crowd, even when alone. In that place, where there was unity of spirit and a regular law of silence, this ordered lifestyle guarded the solitude of heart for each member of that well-ordered multitude of people.87
Fifty years later an anonymous author gives a picture of Clairvaux in all its serene glory. He emphasizes the great variety of works undertaken by the monks in clearing the land and in planting crops, vineyards, orchards, and gardens where the sick may sit to be serenaded by the birds. Then he traces the course of the river Aube as it winds through the monastery “not by nature but thanks to the industry of the brothers.” It visits all the workshops in turn, bestowing its blessing on each: the gardens, the fish farm, the mill, the workshop of the fullers, the tannery, the kitchen, and, finally, the latrines. Then it continues on its way through grassy meadows.
This place is beautiful with much that relieves weary minds, dissolves anxiety and grief and greatly inflames the devotion of those who seek the Lord, and turns their minds to heavenly delight for which we long. The smiling face of earth with all its many colors feeds the eyes with its aspect of spring and breathes pleasant fragrance into the nose.88
Going beyond topographical beauty and ordered industry, Bernard of Clairvaux continues the theme of the cloistral paradise, but his perspective concentrates on a unity that derives not from uniformity or regimentation but from harmonious variety.
The monastery is truly a paradise, a region fortified with the rampart of discipline. It is a glorious thing to have men living together in the same house, following the same way of life. How good and pleasant it is when brothers live in unity. You will see one of them weeping for his sins, another rejoicing in the praise of God, another tending the needs of all, and another giving instruction to the rest. Here is one who is at prayer, another at reading. Here is one who is compassionate and another who inflicts penalties for sins. This one is aflame with love and that one is valiant in humility. This one remains humble when everything goes well and the other one does not lose his nerve in difficulties. This one works very hard in active tasks while the other finds quiet in the practice of contemplation.89
Many secular descriptions of Utopia seem totalitarian in concept, derived from a particular philosophy which is then imposed on all. We need to remember that they are fictional.90 It is probably not possible to create a perfect human society without paying serious attention to the reality of sin and, therefore, without having inbuilt access to the remedy for sin: the grace of God. Dr. Peter Cock, an Australian sociologist who founded the Moora Moora community in 1974, wrote thirteen years later, “If I were doing it again, I’d set up a religious community.”91
A monastic community becomes a heaven not because its theory and structures are correct and its personnel are perfect, but because it is a zone of mercy. In Bernard’s view, spiritual life begins with self-knowledge, progresses via compassion or empathy, and finds its completion in the self-forgetfulness of contemplation. In such a culture perceived imperfections are not denied or papered over but are reframed by reference to a God who forgives and draws all into reconciliation.
A monastery that follows the Rule of Benedict aims to become a moral rather than a political Utopia because all those who live there strive to become fully alive human beings in a situation that draws the best from them. This does not mean that all are always strong or talented in every pursuit. Instead this ideal community calls forth a cheerful complementarity of strong and weak, young and old, outstanding and average. The gifts of one complete those of another and belong to all. It is not merely a matter of having perfect structures; it is the quality of those who live in monasteries that creates a cloistral paradise, a reflection of heaven on earth.
Before I am howled down by those who consider monastic community closer to purgatory than to heaven, let me add a qualification. The cloistral paradise is still in the stage of becoming. But it is conformity to the image of heaven that is the goal of the community’s corporate journey. But, as we have mentioned, the primary characteristic both of the ultimate expression of the ideal and its imperfect realization here on earth is mercy. An earthly community approaches perfection in so far as it is a living expression of mercy, forgiveness, toleration, compassion, reconciliation. To implement these qualities there must be those who need to be endured, tolerated, forgiven, and reconciled. By the grace of God our communities
abound in such persons. Without them we would have no hope of becoming more heavenlike. How the angels must giggle at our self-righteous condemnation of such trivial offenders! Far from being obstacles in our path, those whose perfection is less evident are an integral part of God’s scheme to transform us into total likenesses to Christ.
The rebirth of monastic tradition in each successive generation is possible only when those who have received the charism are willing to let go of it in order to pass it one to others. This can happen unconsciously, but it is much better when members of the community are fully aware both of the challenge and the call to be bearers of light and life to those who come after them—both by receiving and giving, by doing and being done. This gives a purpose in life, a sense of fulfillment that enables us to leap over the minor idiocies with which our path is littered, and to hasten with sober speed towards the goal of all our endeavors.
10 Christ
To put nothing before the love of Christ
RB 4:21
We have to be careful in speaking about the monastic charism. There is a danger that we objectify it to the extent that it becomes a commodity rather than a relationship. In fact, the heart of all monastic observance is communion with Christ realized in prayer, in love for the brothers and sisters, and in the sacramental overlap of these relationships in the liturgy. Christian monasticism is not a system of spiritual self-improvement; it is a means that some people need to sustain and deepen their relationship to Christ. Everything else is secondary to that goal.
Christianity defines self-realization in terms of relationship with God. We also affirm that the “way” or “road” by which human fulfillment is obtained is a dynamic and deepening personal relationship to Jesus. Juridicizing theology has been able to void this distinctive imperative by making salvation a matter of some objective work that Jesus did on our behalf (“redemption” which supplies us with “grace”) or, alternatively, the effect of our moral adherence to what Jesus did and taught. Any system of spirituality based on such extrinsic benefits is superficial and unable to sustain life in hard times. Christian religion is a matter of following Christ, being formed by his teaching and imitating his example. In time we become more Christlike and move towards that state of communion in which we can say, “I live, now not I, but Christ lives in me” (Gal. 2:20).
1. Affective Religion
Affective relationship to God in Christ Jesus is the totality of spiritual life. Love of God surpasses in importance all the worthy and more immediate goals preachers proclaim: religious observance, keeping the commandments, minimizing the suffering of others, attaining a high level of personal truth. The difficulty of proposing a love-based religion is that such a religion needs to draw life from within. How can anyone respond to a love (redamare) that has not been personally experienced? How can anyone be initiated into the mysteries of the spiritual world who steadfastly refuses to quit—be it ever so briefly—the world of tangible reality?92
Thomas Csordas has suggested that in a devotee’s personal love for Jesus, there is also a love for one’s deepest self, of which Jesus becomes either model or image.
Jesus is the alterity of the self…. I am arguing that the capacity for intimacy begins with an existential coming to terms with the alterity of the self, and that the personal relation with Jesus is a metaphor for that condition of selfhood. This is the Jesus that speaks internally with the “still, small voice” within, and whose presence is an act of the imagination…. The vivid presence of Jesus in imaginal performance is a culturally specific way to complete this second foundational moment, providing an ideal Other to correspond to the self-presence that characterizes autobiographical memory.93
Csordas’s etiology needs qualification (an imagined Jesus could equally be a vengeful and unlovable judge), and his conclusions apply only partially to spiritual experiences more advanced than those that are the object of his research. However, the idea that love for Jesus is co-extensive with love of my hidden self is worth retaining. It reinforces the traditional teaching that abandoning false selves and living from the heart is the most effective means of finding God. Or, more correctly, of allowing ourselves to be found by God. For a faithful Christian, self-knowledge leads almost inevitably to knowledge or experience of God. This linkage between love for the human Christ and self-acceptance is established by the impression that a lack of appropriate self-love prevents any real spiritual growth and is an almost certain indicator of an unfeeling and systemic rigorism.94 Christianity is about loving God with a certain fullness of mind, heart, and spirit. It is about loving our neighbor as much as we love ourselves. First, we must love ourselves, and that usually means that we have already received from others the message that we are lovable.
2. Historical Development
It was in the age of the martyrs that the New Testament teaching on Christ-affectivity became crucial. Faced with persecution and the probability of torture and death, Christians of that era found that something more than mere ethical motivation was needed. Two things stand out in the contemporary accounts of martyrdom: the martyrs’ effusive personal love for Christ combined with the desire to imitate him by sharing in his sufferings, and their spirit of profound joy that accepted pain and baffled unbelievers.
The spirituality propounded in narrative form in the Acts of the martyrs was the most lively expression available of evangelical life. Teachers such as Origen quickly applied it to conscientious followers of the gospel: “I have no doubt that these also are they who have taken up their cross and followed Christ.”95 Fervent Christian life, in general, and especially monastic life were viewed as “white martyrdom,”96 and practical patience was understood as a participation in Christ’s passion.
In the view of Claude Peifer, “monasticism grew out of the most devout circles of the second- and third-century Church, the virgins and ascetics, and was strongly marked with the imprint of the spirituality of martyrdom.”97 The workaday spirituality that powered fervent monastic lives was simply personal devotion to the person of Christ. If in the monasteries this affectus cordis was more ardent than in the Church in general, it was simply because an existence that was ordinary, obscure, and laborious needed greater interior stimulus if it were not to collapse into a sterile regime of pious inertia.
This love for Christ rose to a crescendo among the Cistercians of the twelfth century, who needed a strong counter-balance to the excess of fear prevailing in religious circles. The first generations of Cistercian monks were all adult recruits who were presumed, generally speaking, to have pursued lives of youthful self-indulgence with sufficient zest to warrant a radical conversion. In the monastery they lived a rugged macho existence with little comfort and a more-than-usual degree of bodily exertion and austerity. To service the interior needs of these tough young males a complementary spirituality developed, which has been described by Jean Leclercq as a “feminine” spirituality.
In the monasteries, personal love for Jesus was supplemented by a devotion to four feminine realities, made easier by the gender of the Latin words: Anima, Sapientia, Ecclesia, Maria. The monk’s devotion to an interior life was governed by principles complementary to his masculine exterior life. The life of the soul was seen as running along a complementary track to the life of the body. It was understood as the search for Lady Wisdom or Sophia; devotion to Christ’s bride, the Church; care of one’s own soul and—beyond these hypostatizations—a deep personal attachment to Mary, not only as the mother of the historical Jesus, but also as a mother, advocate, and patron in one’s own spiritual journey.
The Cistercian spirituality of this era was uncompromising in its demand for single-mindedness, expressed externally by a rigorous life that was the opposite of self-indulgence, and internally by an equally exigent pursuit of unblinking self-knowledge. Yet, at the level of personal experience, there is only tenderness, gentleness, and an overriding confidence in the all-accepting mercy of God: a soft spirituality but—be warned!—one that loses all mea
ning if separated from its hard tegument. Bernard often reminds us that in the house of Bethany there can be no Mary without Martha and Lazarus: The labor of penance and the generosity of service are the indispensable buttresses to the joy of contemplation.
The word that epitomizes this experience-oriented spirituality is dulcedo, sweetness. It is unfortunate that the term has become debased through the flowery excesses of pietism. Monastic life presupposes all sorts of external observances and deprivations, but these are secondary. What drives them is an untrammeled interior affectivity that has its focus on the person of Christ, but is necessarily both unconditional and unrestricted in those to whom it reaches out. This is not a grim life in which the monk labors at breaking his egotism as a convict might break rocks. It is more a matter of so allowing oneself to fall under the sway of the attractiveness of God that lesser realities lose their charm. At those moments when we let go of alternative satisfactions, God’s presence activates the deepest zone of selfhood; something within us flares into life with an unpredictable intensity so that we experience ourselves as drawn to God, lost in God, one with God, divinized. We have tasted and seen for ourselves that the Lord is sweet.
3. The Qualities of Love for Christ
The spirituality of Christ’s love both engages and satisfies affectivity. Embraced in its integrity it transforms a monk or nun into a great lover, less likely to succumb to the rigors of institutional sterility or to the more immediate enticements of sexual temptation. Here, however, we need to remind ourselves that a life built around desire for God and love for Jesus, is not an easy option. Any attempt to subvert its intrinsic challenge will produce unfortunate results—deep self-distortion and phoniness that open the door to all sorts of latent pathologies. When monastic tradition inculcates a personal love for Christ, this teaching needs to be seen in its integral context and not reduced to merely superficial devotionalism, even if it begins that way.
Strangers to the City Page 14
