St. Benedict: Ancient Voice, Forever Relevant

This time last year I was a postulant for the Benedictine monastery, Monastero de San Benedetto, in Nursia, Italy (the birthplace of St. Benedict and his twin sister St. Scholastica) for an amazing four months, beginning what would be for me a year away from diocesan seminary formation for a time of greater discernment.  As St. Benedict, along with the Rule and rich tradition he left behind, has and always will be a tremendous inspiration for my formation and ministry, and since this day (July 11th) is the day our Roman Catholic Church memorializes him, I have been given way to much reflection and reminiscing on memories past and dreams to come regarding this amazing abbot and saint.  The Rule of St. Benedict, although short in length, has inspired centuries upon centuries of countless pages written for commentary, even to this day, as remnants of Benedict's ideas can be seen between the lines of the constitutions and rules of virtually every religious community and order created since the 6th century.

What made Benedict's idea for the ideal monastery, or any community of faithful for that matter, so influential was his emphasis on moderation.  Benedict knew all too well, as St. John Cassian observed before him, that an extreme observation of life in either direction will ultimately lead to complete failure.  For example, one who eats too much will obviously slow their wits to the point of spiritual and moral numbness, however one who fasts unrealistically will eventually end up breaking down to the extreme and eating far more than they would if they ate in moderation.  The practice of submitting to and observing a community rule (i.e. being exactly like everyone else) was seen by Benedict as the ultimate form of asceticism, as it would ensure that ones own passions or desires would never come before oneself and following Christ.  This is perhaps  most suiting for our age when following one's own feelings or passions is seen as the norm; being a sheep just isn't cool anymore no matter who your Shepherd is.  In fact to make light of the rule of common observance, Australian monk Fr. Michael Casey would say that eating exactly what was placed before you in a 10th century monastery was perhaps more ascetic than not eating at all! 

Another way St. Benedict expresses his ideal for moderation can be found in the way he charges each abbot (head of a monastery) with the task of implementing the Rule in a way which is best suited for each individual monk, as well as for the monastic community as a whole.  In other words, Benedict gives all abbots the discretion to add to or take away from the Rule (anything from the schedule of weekly servers in the kitchen to the exact order of how Psalms are prayed) whatever is required for the common good of all the brothers, just as long as the essence of the Rule still remains.  As for each individual monk, the abbot is to be a caring father who can recognize when a weaker brother needs leniency just as when a stronger brother needs to be challenged further.  The embodiment of moderation and avoidance of extreme behavior in any person can be manifested in a form of gentleness, fatherly concern, and what one could call "tough love."  The abbot is seen as one who can meet brothers where they are, not placing unrealistic expectations on them or the whole community, but reaching out from where they stand.  In the end, the tremendous task of judgement and discernment on the part of the abbot is given serious consequences as the Rule states, let the Abbot always bear in mind that he must give an account in the dread judgment of God of both his own teaching and of the obedience of his disciples (Ch. 2). 

The perfect summary St. Benedict's charism comes from one line towards the end of his Rule which reads, Let them put Christ before all else; that may He lead us all to everlasting life (Ch. 72).  The entire idea of preferring nothing to the love of Christ is and always will be the perfect and surest way to Gospel living.  However Benedict does not condemn material things as Christ never did during His earthly life since it is not wealth itself which should be denied but the love of wealth; our love should only rest in Christ and loving others for love of Christ.  The truth is we need certain tools to work, because just as the motto for Benedictines is Ora et Labora, or Pray and Work, you cannot accomplish much work without the use of tools.  I believe Pope St. Gregory the Great, perhaps Benedict's greatest admirer who's Dialogues provide us with the life story of St. Benedict, said it perfectly in one of his homilies: Whatever you possess must not possess you; whatever you own must be under the power of your soul; for if your soul is overpowered by the love of this world's goods, it will be totally at the mercy of its possessions...we make us of the temporal things, but our hearts are set on what is eternal.  Temporal goods help us on our way, but our desire must be for those eternal realities which are our goal (Book 2, Homily 36).

But certainly this way of life is nothing new and Benedict would be the first to make that claim since it was St. Paul who testified, I have come to rate all as loss in the light of the surpassing knowledge of my Lord Jesus Christ.  For His sake I have forfeited everything; I have accounted all else as rubbish so that Christ may be my wealth and I may be in Him (Philippians 3:8).  To let nothing of the earth take possession of ourselves nor drive our desires and passions, along with the practice of moderation, is ultimately an issue for the department of humility.  Humility is a word which most basically means lowliness, since it comes from the Latin humus, or "of the earth."  The challenge to live humbly is no contemporary issue, as it wasn't for Benedict before us nor for Christ when he constantly combated the lofty images His own disciples would conjure up on the false earthly power of what they thought a messiah should inherit.  The goal of this kind of humility, to come down to a lowliness which places us in the essence of who we really are, that is creatures in the hands of a loving Creator, is and always should be so that we may more readily and ably follow Christ.  St. Gregory nails it again when he gives the sole purpose of all ascetic practices: No carnal pleasure, no worldy curiousity, no surge of ambition must keep us from the Lord's Supper (Homily 36 cont.). 

When I think of humility in terms of lowliness as low as the earth itself, I am sent beyond myself and placed within a cave in Subiaco, Italy.  It was here that St. Benedict first fled from his worldly studies in Rome and consequently all worldly ambitions.  He spent three years of his young adult life in this cave in incessant prayer before God, learning from Him in the silence of solitude and contemplation exactly what was his to do with the life he was given.  This cave is dark, damp, and musky; the only peace and consolation one could ever be given in such a hole is that from God Himself.  Eventually, local shepherds and towns folk flocked to receive words of wisdom from him, and soon after, men seeking a monastic way of life came before him in order to be placed under his direction as their abbot.  Monasteries were built, the Rule was written, the rest is history.  However, observing the Rule is not the end, but only a beginning: now, we have written this Rule that, observing it in monasteries, we may show that we have acquired at least some moral righteousness, or a beginning of the monastic life (Ch. 73).

The Little Things of Newness

"So whoever is in Christ is a new creation: the old things have passed away; behold, new things have come." - 2 Corinthians 5:17 (NAB)

There came a point early in my priestly formation when I realized: I am a very different person than I used to be.  Now granted, this is a given when becoming a more mature adult, or at least I always hoped it would be a given.  But no matter how many times I've read, meditated, and prayed over St. Paul's wide-spread theme of the newness which is a consequence of conversion, I never actually thought about how that would become so real and concrete in my life, like it was actually going to happen!  Six years ago I was studying creative writing at Texas State University.  Three years ago I was a Petty Officer 3rd Class in the United States Coast Guard aboard the USCGC Bertholf in Alameda, California.  Two years ago I was honorably discharged and entered seminary formation with the Diocese of Austin, answering the long-standing desire God had placed within me to become a priest.

With these major transitions I had under gone, not only physically but mentally and spiritually as well, I was slowly becoming a new creation.  As a different person at different stages of my life, I had different interests, different friends, different relationships, and a different way of looking at myself, the world, and God.  But its not the big things that catch your attention, its always the little ones.  As a seminarian, I cannot stand most of the movies I enjoyed so much in college, the music that once defined my character, or the literature which sparked my first love for the spirit of the written word.  There simply came a point when they no longer stood significant.  Its not to say that there are no longer movies, music, or books which I enjoy, only that these things no longer have the influence they once held on my life and now they've become exactly that which they always were: things. 

Now the examples which stand out for me are all artistic forms of entertainment, but our gadgets and devices are without a doubt the most potent forms of distraction the modern world is addicted to.  The little things: taken for what they are can make for a pleasant occasion for recreation or a useful tool for communication.  But once they become our means of self-definition and world outlook, when our little things are given a big place we no longer reflect the greatness we are created and called to embody, but are turned into exactly that which controls us: a thing.  I can only make these bold observations on the lot of modern man because, prior to my own conversion, I was once he: distracted, addicted, and completely indifferent to God. 

The other day I noticed just how few things I have left in my possession as seminarians tend to be on the move quite a bit during their formation, between schools, pastoral assignments, and holidays, one cannot hold on to much when one does not know how small or smaller their next living quarters will be (just one of many similarities between seminary and military life).  I recall days prior to leaving for basic training selling boxes and boxes of books, movies, CDs, records, and giving away anything else which couldn't be sold.  Upon being discharged and preparing to enter my first year of seminary formation, I realized just how few things I had left and consequently, just how few things were taking possession of my time and concern.  Consequently, when the things which once not only possessed your mind but gave you self-definition are taken away, a sort of identity crisis can begin to take root.  Perhaps the most significant pain we feel during a conversion is the pain of "self-emptying": a purification of all that we once held as true which can no longer exist alongside the newness we now possess, or better yet, now possess us.  Our fears, or at the very least hesitations, toward conversion lie in our avoidance of this pain and an unwillingness to change, to turn toward the unfamiliar and the uncertain: a Truth which requires faith.

But only when we empty ourselves of ourselves, only then will our conversion begin.  Once this happens, once we turn to Christ through prayer, hear his Word in Scripture, and come together in a community of faithful who are continually undergoing a conversion alongside us, at that point we will begin to be filled with the newness promised to those who seek Him.  Paradoxically (as our faith is filled with paradoxes), the more we look beyond ourselves toward the God around us, the more we dwell in the Spirit, and the more we give our very lives for the sake of selfless love, only then do we discover our true selves.  The more we deny of who we think we are, the more we are given of who we truly are.  St. Paul, the exemplar of conversion, continues, it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me (Galatians 2:20).  Any conversion takes great faith, but for the Catholic Church we do not hold onto the "leap of faith" doctrine.  As children of God, we are given the grace and strength needed to live a life of faith; all that is ours to do is to open ourselves to the God who longs to fill those who seek Him.  Although our God is a mysterious God, no leap is required, only that you begin.

Sure it can be strange to notice yourself as no longer resembling the person you once were, and those closest to you will be the first to recognize it.  However the newness you seek and which now defines you will find peace and consolation in the realization that your identity is now coming closer and closer to that of Christ as the One who gives to you His entire self.  As the little things you once held in great regard take their proper place, only then will the greatness of newness begin to take root in you.  Our emptiness, our weakness, and our vulnerability is given strength in Christ Jesus and the new creation He wills for us to embrace and become.