No doubt there will always be discussion concerning the boundaries between essential monastic observances and little local rituals or antique carry-overs. We have to be cautious, however, in distinguishing too dramatically between what is substantive and what is symbolic. In the sacramental universe, of which the monastery is a part, the symbolic is often more than a decoration or an optional extra. In a way analogous to the sacraments, the ritual or symbol contains, conveys, and strengthens the reality it signifies.
Let us reflect on a single example from the Rule. Serving in the refectory is more than an equitable means of food distribution. Read Benedict’s chapter; he says mutual service increases love (35:2). The week’s serving is begun and ended with common prayer, and its high point is a ritual reenactment of Christ’s washing the disciples’ feet at the Last Supper (35:9). This is more than a practical chore. If I excuse myself because I am too important or unwilling to serve, I will almost certainly cut myself off from something precious. Benedict realizes that such service is sometimes taxing and always inconvenient, but prefers to give additional help rather than disqualify someone from this means of grace. The way in which this service is rendered will differ from how it was done in Benedict’s day and, perhaps, how it was done forty years ago. The important thing is not antiquarian fidelity, but the recognition of the values involved and the willingness to express them practically in whatever way works best. If we eliminate the symbol there is a danger that we are simultaneously weakening the reality.
If you were to read through the whole Rule, noting those passages that prescribe some kind of symbolic action, you will be surprised at how many there are. It is quite a good project to do this and to link the practices with their underlying beliefs and values, and then to see how they fit into Benedict’s system as a whole. Distinctive modes of monastic behavior are signs of a different worldview; without some material expression, it is hard to see the values surviving.
One of the most distinctive monastic symbols is the habit. What we wear proclaims what we are. It may be that we have a more complex identity than heretofore, and, as a result, we wear different clothes in the liturgy, in community, and “outside”—whether this involves professional activity or recreation. Insisting that one size fits all is probably the best way to politicize the monastic habit, to polarize opinion, and to cause resentment. There is need for a lot of common sense. My own community has a story about a former Abbot General, who had been a cavalry officer, demonstrating, with the aid of two chairs, how to ride a horse in the habit. Once he was out of the house, his suggestion was cheerfully abandoned for reasons of safety, practicality, and hygiene, but it left in its wake a feeling of frustration at not being understood. The question of the monastic habit is especially delicate among Benedictine women.119 The emotions aroused are an indication of the importance of the values that fuel the discussion. For those who can accept it, however, the wearing of distinctive vesture can be a badge of identity that strengthens a sense of belonging, a sign of poverty and renunciation, and a reminder to ourselves first and maybe to others, of the holiness of the life we have freely embraced.
Monastic distinctiveness is a quality that should be present in the mind as well as in behavior. It does not seem unreasonable to assume that years of living in vital contact with the Mystery would leave an imprint on the mind and heart of monks and nuns, so that when they study theology, or teach or write about it, a different character is detectable. Just as the experiential theology of twelfth-century Cistercian authors has been seen to inhabit a different universe from that evident in emergent Scholasticism, so it is to be hoped that even today monastic theologians will emerge who will embrace and propagate a theology that reflects their years of daily exposure to Scripture liturgy and the holy community. This is a theology that has much appeal today because it has substance; it is not “emotionally hollow, esthetically meaningless and spiritually empty.”120 But, for the most part, it is yet to be created.
Inevitably very few have the grace or moral strength to live gospel values in their entirety, and, as we have already said, such universal perfection would rob the community of its opportunities for tolerance and endurance. When deviations from the ideal become the rule rather than the exception the result is disedification, which is especially harmful during the formative years. Then, and at other crucial periods, when present hardship has to be weighed against future hopes, there needs to be some means of leapfrogging ambient negativity and bad example.
One simple means of doing this is by seeking alternative models in the lives of the great monastic figures of monastic history—to be inspired by their purer example to continue striving for the realization of the ideals we share with them. We all know that, in the past, there have been problems with hagiography when the authors were so keen to edify that they ended up by turning the saints into angels. This may have been a splendid victory for divine grace, but it is not particularly encouraging for those of us whose attitudes and actions are far from angelic. There is a serious need for good biographies of great monks and nuns, saints and near-saints who can serve as models for us in troubled times. We know that hagiographical and anecdotal literature was a great favorite of medieval monks, delivering the same message as loftier tomes, but in a more accessible manner. A picture is worth a thousand words—Benedict himself recognizes that those too dense to profit from wise words may yet be instructed by good example.
William of Saint-Thierry, a friend of Bernard and a Benedictine abbot who became a Cistercian, understood the important role played by the saints in helping us to avoid the pitfalls of too much abstraction. In the saints the working of grace is concrete and visible. By looking at their lives, identifying with them to some extent, we can see what possibilities there are for us if God’s work is not hampered. Like many of the other early Cistercians, William considered that genuine holiness was somaticized—it progressively became evident even in the physical appearance of the saints. In this way it was able to have an influence of the lives of others. Of such saints he wrote the following:
They do not form pictures of your love in their own likeness, but your love, finding in them simple matter, forms them and conforms them to itself both in feeling and in action, so that—apart from the glory and riches that are interior and hidden in the house of good conscience—the interior light shines forth in their outer countenance, not by some artful contrivance, but naturally. The attractive simplicity of their face and bearing provokes love of you even in boorish and uncivilized souls. The mere sight [of the saints] leads to compunction and love of you. In [the saints] nature returns to its origin.121
The transformation of the saints is not merely for their own benefit—they are intended to be sources of light and encouragement for us, even at several degrees of separation.
Lord, you have made the darkness of our unknowing and our human blindness into a concealment of your face. Nevertheless around you is the light-filled tent of your saints who because of their association with your fire were themselves sources of light and heat, and by their word and example they have enlightened and inflamed others. To us they proclaim the solemn joy of this most excellent knowledge [which will be ours] in the future life. By means of this knowledge we shall see you as you are, face to face. Meanwhile through the saints the lightning flashes of your truth light up the world and sparkle. Those with sound sight rejoice at this, but those who love darkness rather than light are disturbed and troubled.122
It would, of course, be desirable to live amid a cloud of holy witnesses, but too often familiarity breeds contempt. It takes a simple eye and a pure heart to perceive the holiness of the rough diamonds among whom we live. At the same time we have a need for models, especially in our early years. There is, therefore, a role for religious and monastic biography, or hagiography, though perhaps more critically written than in the past. Meeting the great figures of our tradition and learning from their writings can be a great source of inspiration and encouragement; sometime
s we can get to the point of feeling a certain friendship with them and a reliance on their intercession for us as we still struggle on the same road that led them, by God’s grace, to glory.
13 Perseverance
If he promises perseverance
in his stability
RB 58:9
To begin a good work is, undoubtedly a noble endeavor, but it is worth nothing unless we allow the grace of God to bring to completion what it has initiated. This is true in any avocation and in every spiritual journey. In a Benedictine or Cistercian monastery, however, perseverance takes a specific form because it means actively continuing and concentrating on the same basic task year after year, decade after decade. The fact that we seem to be living longer and the world is changing more rapidly only intensifies the challenge involved in honoring our commitment to be faithful to the monastic life until death.
It would be wrong, however, to emphasize only the dogged character of monastic stability. Life in a monastery has its delightful moments. These are almost always the fruit of monastic discipline; a pure heart is able to find much joy in prayer, in fraternal communion, in the beauty of nature, and in the uplift from culture. These are not pleasures that detract from the integrity of daily adherence to an ordered way of life, nor are they merely moments of grim relief eked out of the unyielding granite of a miserable existence. They are necessary components of monastic experience: Without joy God is absent.
1. Sacred Space
In entering a monastery one does more than change residence, subscribe to a particular code of behavior, or achieve membership in a particular group. A monastery is a living reality. What is asked of newcomers is that they enter into the life of the community. They cannot continue to be what they were, lightly modified to adapt to a different setting. They have to begin to become something else. Something else, not someone else. For the process of transformation to be set in motion there must be some loosening of the grip of previous conditioning. Although teaching, personal direction, and good example are essential elements of monastic formation, it is even more important that a novice is able to absorb the atmosphere, to feel spiritually at home in the new ambiance. Entering a monastery is a spiritual homecoming.
Let him be glad that he has, at last, found a dwelling place where he can live, not unwillingly, but voluntarily, for the rest of his life. Let him drive away every care about moving and let him make up his mind so that, being at peace, he can give himself only to the careful following of the exercises of a holy and well-tried way of life.123
Unless newcomers learn to feel relaxed in the monastery they will never become permeated by its spirit. They will be reduced to moral striving: rigidly obeying perceived rules, conforming to perceived best practice, and trying to ignore the feelings of alienation that this excess of effort yields. In the long run such vigilant busyness is self-defeating. It does not result in the naturalness that Benedict regards as the outcome of genuine good habit (7:68). A monastic vocation cannot be forced. Will-power is not enough. There needs to be some pre-existing affinity that guarantees that growth in monasticity is also growth in authentic selfhood.
This connaturality means that often a candidate is attracted to a particular monastery without quite knowing why. It may be the scenic location, the sense of silence and calm, the quiet industry, the disciplined freedom, the generalized aura or contentment, the sound of the chant, or the understanding smile of a member of the community. Some trivial aspect of daily life awakes a deep inner resonance within that signals to inquirers that this is not only a place where they can seek and serve God, it is also the possibility for them to be and become themselves.
To regard the monastery as sacred space requires a fair amount of subtlety of mind. There are many practical tasks to be done, differences to be endured, conflicts to be resolved. It is too easy to become caught up in the challenge of daily living so that one fails to see the mystery in which one is immersed. Reducing monastic life to a sequence of more or less holy works to be performed, robs it of its charm and its capacity to sustain and nourish a vocation. This is God’s house, domus Dei—Benedict usurps the phrase used in the Vulgate to describe the theophany to Jacob (Gen. 28:17). This is where it is possible for us to encounter God—even to struggle with God. This is more than a dwelling of bricks and mortar.124 Our approach to this place must be spiced with reverence. I am reminded of a verse in Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem Aurora Leigh:
Earth’s crammed with heaven
and every common bush afire with God.
But only he who sees takes off his shoes,
the rest sit around and pick blackberries.
It is true that the blackberries must be picked, but it is important that they do not become the major pre-occupation in a monastery. There are deeper mysteries into which, if we consent, we will be drawn.
Visitors occasionally remark on the sacredness that pervades a monastery, how it evokes in them a spiritual awareness that is normally latent. In the different ambiance conversions occur, not because of anything that was said or heard, but simply because in stepping outside their familiar world, they are confronted with a different side of themselves. Like travelers in a foreign country they find themselves responding to events in a way that would surprise those who know them at home. For many today, especially those who are unchurched or impatient with institutionalized religion, a monastery can become their spiritual home.
It is a pity that we who live in this sacred space become habituated. Permit me to exaggerate a little. We tend to lose our sense of wonder and try to make it more “normal.” Boundaries are breached so that the claustrum becomes open to those who pay no heed to its sanctity. Material austerity that points beyond itself to the world of spiritual reality is sacrificed to comfort and modernity. Aimless chatter permeates its hallowed precincts. Even the church can become a place of tourism and singing practice, so that the oratory is no longer what its name signifies (52:1). The end result is that the place itself no longer calls us to recollection and prayer; instead it becomes an accomplice in our dissipation.
A supportive environment is a powerful help to perseverance. Any who have lived for a time in less-than-ideal surroundings will tell you what a relief it is to return to normal monasticity, how much easier it is to flow with the current than to struggle against it. There is much challenge to be met in a lifelong fidelity to the ordinary practices enjoined by the Rule. Sometimes we will feel disinclined to invest much effort in them. It is in such periods that we can be carried along by sound communal practice and a prevailing climate of monasticity.
Sacredness depends not on topography or architecture but on quality of life which, in turn, takes its character from those who live there. There is a need for some structures to preserve the distinctiveness that flows from generations of monastic living. Whatever the idiocies associated with the interpretation of canonical enclosure in the past, it needs to be recognized that too many foreign invasions undermine the monastic seriousness of the community. Hospitality is fine if it means welcoming visitors into our space; if it involves habitual compromise of monasticity then we are the losers, and our visitors stand to gain nothing. Similar observations hold with regard to external activities. Discernment needs to ascertain whether they truly contribute to the monastic project or whether they subvert it or serve merely as some compensatory mechanism. We remember that Benedict made provision to reduce the need for monks to leave the monastic space “because this is not at all good for their souls” (66:7). Despite many contrary historical precedents, a monk outside his monastery is like a fish out of water—long-term survival may indicate that he has evolved into a different species.
2. Not Giving Up
M obility is one of the prime features of modern life. People move around more, not only geographically but also in terms of their work, relationships, and commitments. Coupled with this is the sense of life as a vast supermarket, in which we are confronted with a range of products among which we have th
e right to choose. The fact that the products are identical apart from their packaging and are often made by the same manufacturers does not bother us. We want the freedom to choose; we have the security of knowing that if we become dissatisfied with something there are alternatives available. The same hedging of bets occurs in seeking employment, in entering marriage, or entering religious life. We like to know that there is a backup in case things go wrong. We like to be able to cut our losses, as the saying goes.
We are most reluctant to burn our bridges. We see examples of this in pre-nuptial contracts where the partners make provision against their eventual breakup. We see it also in religious who are reluctant to dispossess themselves fully before solemn vows, in case things do not work out. It is important to realize that the taking of precautions against failure often makes it easier to fail. Knowing that there is a safety net can make us negligent in doing whatever we have to do to avoid falling. As the number of divorces and annulments increases, there is plenty of statistical evidence to support opting out. We issue press releases justifying our decision with acceptable psychobabble. Others pretend to believe it, fearful lest they might have to use it themselves someday.
In such a social climate the idea of committing ourselves to perseverance seems imprudent, if not lunatic. Everything changes so rapidly that we do not know what tomorrow will bring. This is where it is important to emphasize that the vow of stability is not based on the non-variability of community life, the Church, or society. Stability is grounded on the unchanging fidelity of God. It may be true that it was all so different before everything changed, and that in the course of a lifetime many major adaptations are demanded. It is our faith in God’s fidelity that enables us to weather whatever storms come our way. Another image of stability is a building designed to withstand earthquakes. Contrary to our untutored expectations, the building is designed to sway with the movements of the earth rather than to stand solidly unmoving throughout the tremors. If it moves it survives; if it attempts to resist the movement it cracks open.
Strangers to the City Page 18
