Ash Wednesday

    Starting on Ash Wednesday, we have forty days (not counting Sundays) to prepare for Easter—that is, to prepare for the most sacred day of the year—the day when we celebrate God’s greatest gift to us: eternal life.
Traditionally, the Church spends this time in fasting and prayer, in mortification and repentance for our sins, so that when Easter comes, we are aware in some small way of the magnitude of Christ’s gift to us, of our own unworthiness to receive that gift, and of the depth of gratitude and awe that we should feel on that day when we relive in the most literal sense the Resurrection of Our Lord, Jesus Christ.  So this is a great gift that we are preparing to receive; but on Ash Wednesday, we focus on what we have to offer Christ.  We ask ourselves “What gift can I bring to him?”  It’s an impossible question, really, because Jesus Christ is Lord of all Creation.  All that we have belongs to him already.  What do you get for the man who has everything?
     A story is told of St. Jerome that he had a vision in which Our Lord came to him and asked him

Saint Jerome Having His Vision

for a gift.  St. Jerome said, “Well, I’ve been a bishop for a long time now, and I’ve sacrificed a lot to do that job well.”
     “Yes,” said Jesus, “I am very pleased with that, but is there nothing else you have to offer me?” 
     “Well, I’ve built several Churches in my time.  Perhaps you’ll find those pleasing as well.” 
     “I do,” said Jesus, “ but don’t you have anything else to give me?” 
     “Ah,” said St. Jerome, “I’ve got something for you.  I translated the entire book of the Bible from Hebrew and Greek into Latin.” 
     “And for that I am well pleased,” answered Jesus,  “But surely you have something else to offer me.” 
     And the discussion went on like that until finally, St. Jerome said, “You know what?  I can’t think of anything else.” 
     And Jesus replied, “Jerome, my friend, you have forgotten to offer me your sins.”
     Not long ago, one of our older monks celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of his solemn profession of vows.  There was a big party, and all the people who love him showed up.  And they all brought presents.  Now after the party, I was talking to this monk, and I said, “Congratulations, Father, but I’m afraid I have nothing to give you for your anniversary.”  To which he responded, “Nothing?  You’re giving me nothing?  Why, that’s just what I’ve always wanted!”
     Indeed, there is nothing we have that wasn’t given to us in the first place.  So the only thing we have that really belongs to us is our sin—and irony of ironies, this is the one thing that Christ really wants from us.  So on Ash Wednesday, we remind ourselves of our mortality.  We remind ourselves that "we are dust and to dust we shall return".  And then we think about our sins, and with great joy, we bring them to Christ as a gift, wrapped up in repentance.

CHAPTER 64: How to Elect an abbot

An abbot...looking none too happy to be elected.

    In the election of an abbot let this always be observed as a rule: that he should be elected by the whole community, in the fear of God. And let him be chosen for the merit of his life and the wisdom of his doctrine, even if he is the lowest in rank. But once the abbot has been elected, he should bear in mind how great a burden he has taken upon himself, and to Whom he must give an account of his stewardship. Let him be convinced that it is better to serve than to rule. He must, therefore, be knowledgeable in the divine law, knowing when "to bring forth new things and old" (Mt 13:52). Let him be chaste, level-headed, and forgiving, and he should always prefer "mercy over judgment" (Jas 2:13), that he too may be shown mercy.
     Let him hate vice, but love the brethren; and when he disciplines them, he should act with prudence and not go to extremes.  Otherwise, he may break the vessel by rubbing too hard to remove the rust. Let him always keep his own weakness in mind, and remember that "the bruised reed must not be broken" (Is 42:3). Let him aim to be loved rather than feared.
     The abbot should not be fussy, over-anxious, exacting, headstrong, jealous or suspicious. Otherwise, he will never rest. In all his commands, whether they refer to things spiritual or material, he should be cautious and considerate. Let him so temper everything that the strong may have something to work toward and the weak nothing to flee from. But above all, he should be careful to keep this Rule in every detail.

    As the father of the monastery, it is the abbot’s responsibility to teach, instruct, command, even discipline his sons when he needs to.  But a monastery and its monks do not “belong” to the abbot.  He is “set over” them.  They aren’t his to do with any way he likes.  For anyone who aspires to any sort of leadership, this is a good thing to remember.  Everything we have—even our own bodies—are on loan to us by God.  We can’t just treat them as we please.  And we will be held accountable, if not in this world, then in the next.
    And if that doesn’t sound like a lot of pressure, listen to the list of qualities an abbot “must” have:  he must be knowledgeable, chaste, level-headed, merciful, loving, prudent, charitable, cautious, considerate, discerning, temperate, discrete and most of all obedient. It sounds like a scout oath on steroids.  But Saint Benedict knew what he was doing.  In fact, folks who know a lot about the Rule (scholars and historians and whatnot) seem to agree that Saint Benedict wrote this chapter long after he had finished the Chapter 60.  If you compare it with Chapter Two, you’ll see that he has mellowed quite a bit.  He is forgiving of his monks’ weakness, but uncompromising on the abbot’s strengths.
    And this is because the abbot has so much good advice to draw from.  Not only can he be assured of God’s assistance, he also has the writings of earlier abbots, the Church Fathers, the Doctors of the Church, the Scriptures and Canon Law.  He can read papal encyclicals and Church Council documents and all the other volumes of material that come with over 2000 years of tradition.  Like the wise steward of in Jesus’ parable, the abbot should “bring forth new things and old.”
     And so are we.  When it comes to making the big decisions and the hard choices, we are never alone.  We don’t have to reinvent the wheel.  Choose a topic…ANY TOPIC.  Choose any spiritual, medical, moral, or biblical controversy, and I guarantee you could fill a library with all the stuff that Catholic theologians have written about it.  We’ve got Thomas Aquinas, Augustine of Hippo, Teresa of Avila, Francis of Assisi, Mother Theresa and John Paul II all waiting to help.  We just have to find the humility to let them teach us.  All those qualities that the abbot must have—from prudence to temperance—can be borrowed.  WE just need to swallow our pride long enough to borrow them from our elders.

CHAPTER 63: The Organization of the Monastery

     The monks should be ranked according to the time of their conversion and the merit of their life, or as the abbot has determined.  This is the order the monks should take during liturgies—when they exchange the sign of peace, receive communion, intone the psalms, and stand in choir.  Age should never determine one’s rank because Samuel and Daniel were mere boys when they judged priests (1 Sam 3; Dan 13:44-62).  Thus, for instance, one who enters the monastery at the second hour of the day should understand that he will be ranked lower than he who came at the first hour, without regard to age or class.  Therefore, let the younger monks honor their elders, and the elders love the younger ones.
     No one should address another by his simple name; but let the older monks call the younger ones “Brother,” and the younger address their elders as “Father.”  But because the abbot is believed to hold the place of Christ, let him be addressed as “Lord” and “Father abbot”—not because he himself deserves the title, but out of love and reverence for Christ.  Whenever the brethren meet, let the younger ask the elder for a blessing.  Moreover, when the elder enters a room, the younger should rise and offer him his seat; so that it may be done as it is written: "In honor compete with one another" (Rom 12:10).


     There are no cliques or class distinctions in a monastery.  Hierarchy, yes.  After all, even the angels have a chain of command. But monastic rank is determined by seniority—not age, nor social distinction, nor intelligence nor talent.  In a community centered on Christ, it is only love that distinguishes one from the other.  Ambition has no place at all except in the pursuit of holiness.  The monks compete with one another “in showing honor.”  And they do this by means of certain established gestures which we call “courtesy.”
     Such gestures are essential to keeping order in the community.  They are small ways of reminding ourselves that Christ dwells in each of us.  They force us to keep the ‘other’ in mind so we don’t run about the monastery slamming doors in each other’s faces and grabbing at the most comfortable chairs.  Instead, younger monks beg a blessing from their elders whenever they pass by, and offer them a seat when they enter the room.  Older monks address the juniors as “Brother.”  And all the monks address their superior as “abbot.”
    Of course, all this bowing and rising and blessing may seem a little silly to the outsider, but equally silly customs exist outside of monasteries too.  Do you really care about the emotional wellbeing of the checkout clerk at Stop-N-Shop?  Probably not.  And you’d be very surprised indeed if when you walked up to the counter, she said, “My boyfriend just broke up with me; I have a bit of a cold; my little brother used my toothbrush to clean his fish tank; and I’ve been feeling slightly melancholy all week…”  Still, you ask her how she’s doing (and she says, “Fine.”) because this is how you acknowledge your common humanity.  She isn’t just there to serve your needs; and you’re not just a money dispenser.  You and she have equal dignity as children of God.  And so, from day to day, we hold the door for one another, nod and smile as we pass, offer to help when a stranger drops his groceries on the floor...
     These conventions shift from culture to culture, sometimes quite dramatically, and learning their subtleties is important to getting along.  In Japan, they bow to one another.  Here in America, we shake hands.  In France, they kiss (or so I’ve heard).  For human beings all around the world, these small courtesies are essential, but they’re just conventions, so they change from time to time and place to place.  The important thing is that we remember to honor the presence of God in one another.

CHAPTER 62: The Priests of the Monastery

     If the abbot decides that the monastery needs a priest or deacon, let him select from among his monks one who is worthy to discharge that office. But let the one who has been ordained be on his guard against arrogance and pride, and he should only do what is commanded him by the abbot, knowing that he is now all the more subject to the discipline of the Rule; and—especially because he is a priest—let him not forget the obedience and discipline of the Rule, but advance more and more in godliness.


    Here again, Saint Benedict addresses the delicate issue of how priests are to be regarded in the community.  This time, however, his worry is that they will feel exempt from the monastic discipline.  The priest, by his nature, is called to lead the faithful in worship, but a monastic community can have only one leader, and therefore the monk priest should lead by example only.   He should be more submissive, more docile and more obedient precisely because others will look up to him. 
     Of course, everyone owes obedience to someone, from pauper to president to pope.  We’ve all got bosses and we all have people that we get to boss around.  And every one of us, by virtue of his baptism, is a priest, a prophet, and a king.  But that makes us servants, not judges.  Jesus told his disciples to serve one another.  He also told them to be more observant than the Pharisees, and the Pharisees were pretty big on following the rules.
     As adolescents, we tend to think that “freedom” means being able to do whatever we like—that once we become adults, we no longer have to obey anyone.  “It’s a free country,” we say to ourselves.  “From now on, no one’s going to tell me what to do.”  Of course, that’s totally wrong. Just ask a recovering drug addict, and he’ll tell you there are some things that make you less free when you do them.  In fact, there are many things (like shooting heroin) that we should never be free to do precisely because they take away our freedom.
     So what distinguishes the obedience of an adult from the obedience of a child?  It is just exactly this:  that the adult doesn’t need to be forced.  He doesn’t need to be punished.  In fact, the adult anticipates the desire and obeys even before he is asked.  True maturity demands an even higher level of obedience—an obedience so complete that it anticipates the law and goes beyond it.  Imagine a school where the students tried to guess what their teachers wanted, and then did it even before they were asked.  Imagine a school where each student was determined to outdo the other in kindness.  St. Benedict envisions such a school in his Rule for monks.  He calls it “A School for the Lord’s Service.

Black and White in Ferguson

Now published Here:
America Magazine

There is an audio version  here.

No monk should ever defend another in the monastery.  Nor should he take sides in an argument…We decree that no one should be permitted to ostracize or to strike any one of his brothers; and if any monk should break this rule, let him be publicly reprimanded, that the others may learn from his mistake.
        --The Rule of Saint Benedict

    In two consecutive passages, Saint Benedict outlines how a monk should respond when he encounters discord in his community.  He shouldn’t lash out, even if he feels justified.  And he shouldn’t choose a side, even though he may think he knows all the facts.  Instead, he should listen—as he is compelled to do by the opening words of the Rule itself: he “inclines the ear of his heart” (Prologue, 1.1).
    Like most people in North America right now, I’ve been thinking about Ferguson.  Or rather, I’ve been wondering what I should do about it.  But I live in a monastery in a suburb of Saint Louis that was recently ranked #12 of the twenty-five most affluent neighborhoods in the North America.  What do I know about urban poverty or racism?
    So last week I asked permission to drive out to a prayer service in Ferguson, and I caught a ride with my friend Dennis who works here at the abbey.  Dennis is black, and Dennis lives in Ferguson, so I asked him in the car as we were driving out to the service what he thought of the protests.  Of course, he smiled and avoided the question.  “I don’t want any part of that.  I’m just trying to get on with my life.  Those people are making trouble.  They aren’t even from the neighborhood.”
    “But they aren’t the only ones making a scene,” I said.  I wanted to press him for a real answer because how else is a white guy like me from West County going to understand this situation if I’m not willing ask some awkward questions?  “Are the cops racist?” I asked.  “How come black people keep getting shot?  And why is everyone so angry?”
    “The police have always been like that,” he said.  “It isn’t going to change.”
    Of course I noticed that this second answer was a bit different from the first.  And I figured if I asked a third time, maybe I’d get a real explanation.  I said maybe things should change.  I said clearly something must be wrong or this many people wouldn’t be this angry.  I asked him why so many black people seem to think the police are racist.
            “There are good police and bad police,” he said.  “But I’ll tell you this much: I’ve been pulled over three times in your neighborhood.  I don’t know why they’ve got to be pulling me over that many times except that they see a black man on this side of town and assume he must be up to something.”
    Three times.  My friend Dennis has been working here for eight years, and he has been pulled over three times.  I’ve lived here for eighteen years and I’ve been pulled over once: for doing 45 in a 30, and the cop let me off with a warning.  So I pushed Dennis a little further.  I asked more questions.
    And he continued: “A few weeks back, my car broke down and I had to walk the rest of the way to work,” he said.  “A guy sitting on his front porch called the police on me.  Just for walking down his street at eight in the morning.  I know he did because I watched him do it as I walked by.  Sure enough, two patrol cars showed up.  Look here, I’m just trying to make money, you know?  Trying to get by.  I don’t need that shit.”
    There was the anger.  It took some time for me to pry it out of him, but sure enough, it was there.  And here’s the thing: my friend Dennis is a family man—a married man with three children and two jobs who pays his taxes and pays his rent on time and goes to church on Sunday and educates his kids just like the rest of us. 
    While I was thinking about this, Dennis started to back off a little.  Maybe he felt self-conscious.  Maybe he felt like this kind of talk wasn’t something I needed to hear.  Or maybe he was afraid I’d judge him for it.  “But you know, that’s just how things are,” he said, “I don’t have time to be angry about it.”
            Dennis doesn’t have time for the anger.  He doesn’t want the anger.  He’d rather live his life without the anger.  And that was pretty much all I was going to get out of him.  He didn’t want to talk about it any more.  I don’t blame him.  He doesn’t want to be lumped in with the looters, the bottle-throwers and arsonists.  He has smaller fish to fry—like making a living.  Like taking care of his kids.  Like getting to work on time (provided he doesn’t get pulled over on his way here).

    Well then, I have this other friend named Charles Lutz.  He’s a policeman from around here, and he helps with security on campus at our school when he’s off-duty.  So I told him about Dennis and how he’d been pulled over three times, and how when his car broke down, someone called the cops on him.
    “I hate that,” said Officer Lutz.  “Honestly.”
    Hate what?
    “I hate that some old racist with nothing better to do has to call the cops just because he sees a black man walking down his street.  It embarrasses me.  It’s a waste of my time.  Plus, I’m the one who ends up looking like a jerk.  And the worst part of it is, a peaceful citizen gets harassed by the police.”
    “You don’t have to harass him,” I said.
    “Look here,” he said.  “Yesterday, we get a call from a jewelry store owner here in town because there are two black men in his store ‘acting suspicious.’  Is it a crime to be black in a jewelry store now?  Of course not.  Do I want to drive over there and get in the middle of that?  Of course not.  And how do I even walk into the store without making those guys feel like dirt?  But what happens if I ignore the call?  What happens if I decide not to drop by and, God forbid, those two guys do end up robbing the place?  Then who gets blamed for that?  I’m caught in the middle.  And I hate it.”

    So here’s the situation the way I see it: on the one hand, you’ve got white cops all across the country who are angry and embarrassed and don’t want to be in the middle of this ugliness.  On the other hand, you’ve got black men all across the country who are angry and embarrassed and just want to be left alone.  There’s righteous anger on both sides.  And that means they’re trapped.  Both sides are being squeezed into a conflict that neither asked for—and by forces way beyond their control.
    These forces, however, are not, I believe, beyond our control.  I believe we can disarm this trap (or defuse it or unwind it) if we stop focusing on the riots and the protests and even the shootings themselves.  I think we can begin to restore peace to our city if, instead of lashing out or taking sides, we simply stop to listen.  And maybe if we listen patiently to this anger—if we ask the awkward questions and really listen to the answers—practical solutions will emerge.

    There is an eighth-grader here at our school named Max.  A couple of weeks ago, he and his older brother asked their mom if they could drive down to Ferguson to help with the cleanup.  She said absolutely not. (And I don’t blame her.  No sane mother is going to give her kid permission to hang out at a riot.)  Still, Max and his brother felt they needed to do something, so they went online and looked up a list of the businesses that had been damaged.  They found the name of one of the owners and called her on the telephone.  She hung up on them.  So they drove out to her house and knocked on her door.  For three and half hours, they sat in her living room and listened to her anger.  And it turned out that unless they had $20,000, there wasn’t much they could do.  Well, that was the answer, wasn’t it?  They went home, started an online petition, and eight days later, they had raised $20,608.  And Maria Flores rebuilt her business.
    When Max and his brother saw injustice, they didn’t lash out in anger.  They didn’t choose a side.  They listened carefully.  They reached out with their hearts, and the answer spoke itself.  Now Max can help change Ferguson, so can we.  Let’s start really listening.  And if one of you hears an answer, let the rest of us know. 

CHAPTER 61: How Other Monks Should be Received

   If a monk from another monastery comes to visit and is satisfied with the customs he finds here, and does not trouble the monastery with excessive demands, let him be received for as long as he likes. Furthermore, if he has advice about how things might be done differently (and he makes his complaint with humility and charity) let the abbot consider carefully whether the Lord did not perhaps send him for that very purpose.
   
    If a visiting monk has some criticism to offer, the abbot should take it seriously.  But this can’t be easy.  No one likes to be told how to run his own house.  Still, a fresh pair of eyes might notice something that the abbot and his community have missed.  Ironically, one of the universal truths of human existence is that “birds of a feather flock together.”  It’s much easier to listen to people we agree with, so we favor the company of people who think like we do.  But this makes it difficult to have a balance opinion.  If we were truly open to new ideas and anxious to broaden our horizons, we’d seek out people we don’t agree with, and hang out with them instead.

    In the fifth century, BC, there was guy who actually lived this way.  His name was Socrates.  He used to spend his days walking around Athens seeking out (and questioning) people he didn’t like.  He’d spend all day grilling them until he found a hole in their arguments.
    Socrates was a brilliant, charismatic, and honest man.  But he did this all day every day, and pretty soon the Athenians had him killed.  After all, no one can handle that kind of interrogation on a regular basis.  It’s just too annoying.  But before he died, Socrates had time to teach his method of argumentation to a few young disciples, and they passed it on to others, and eventually, it became known as “The Socratic Method.”  It’s a really great way to argue, especially if you have the patience and charity to really listen.
    It works like this:
    Before you start arguing with someone, let them know that you are interested in their opinion.  This is harder than it sounds, especially if they’re wrong and you know it.  But understand that they will be much more interested in hearing your opinion if they think you understand theirs.
    Next, repeat what they have to say.  Repeat their own words back to them so that they know you are really listening.  This is important for you too.  Maybe you have been hearing something that they didn’t intend.  Maybe you’ve been reading too much into their argument.
    Lastly, ask questions.  Lots of questions.  Anywhere that you see a contradiction or an omission, instead of pointing it out, ask a question about it.  If there’s a point you’d like to make, keep asking questions until they make the point for you.
    I’ll give an example.  I once had an encounter with a Fundamentalist who told me I was sinning because, as a priest, I allowed people to call me “Father.”  At first, this annoyed me.  After all, I hadn’t asked this guy for his advice.  But instead of explaining the title to him, I took a deep breath and said, “So you say that I am sinning whenever I allow someone to use that title?”
    “Yes,” he answered, “because Jesus said, ‘Call no man Father.’”
    “Well, you’re right there,” I said, “That’s straight out of the Gospel of Matthew:  “Call no man ‘father.’  There is but one Father in heaven” (23:9).  But I’m a little confused.  What if a child wants to address his…um…male genetic predecessor.  Does he have to find another word?”
    “That’s different,” he said.
    “How?” I asked.
    “Jesus was only referring to spiritual fatherhood, not genetic fatherhood.”
    “But I thought he said to call no man “Father.”  Are you telling me that he meant only the men who didn’t have actual children of their own?  What about adopted children?  ”
    The conversation went on a good while longer, but you get my point.  Instead of just telling him he was wrong, I explored his claim with him until he finally admitted that there were exceptions and that the passage couldn’t be taken literally.  I don’t think he changed his mind, but I think I learned something about his opinion, and he came a step closer to understanding mine.
    The Socratic Method is very Benedictine because it revolves around listening.  It also requires a great deal of humility because, no matter how stupid, arrogant, or wrong-headed your adversary may be, you have to be willing to let him teach you.  After all, as Saint Benedict points out, it may be the case that “The Lord has sent him for this very purpose.”

CHAPTER 60: Priests Who Ask to Join the Community

If a priest asks to be received into the monastery, do not agree to it too quickly; still, if he persists in his request, let him know that he must keep the whole discipline of the Rule, and that nothing will be relaxed in his favor. He may, however, be asked to celebrate Mass or give a blessing, but only if the abbot says so.  If the abbot does not ask him, then he should not presume to do anything, knowing that he is under the discipline of the Rule, and let him rather give an example of humility to all. His rank in the community should correspond to the time of his entry into the monastery, and not to the place granted him in consideration of the priesthood.

     Why did God make you?
     God made you to know Him, to love Him, and to serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in heaven.
     Whatever your job is, whatever your gifts are, no matter where you come from or where you think you’re headed, the purpose of your existence is to know, love, and serve God.  All the rest is icing on the cake.  You may be a priest, a cop, a doctor, a fireman, a blackjack dealer or a telemarketer, but your ultimate purpose on this earth—your fundamental human dignity—is the same: you are a child of God.
      Benedict wants to make this clear right from the start, especially when an older man decides to join the monastery—a man who has, perhaps, grown accustomed to running his own life and to a certain level of prestige in the workplace.  He may have had a distinguished career, he may have attained power and influence in the World, but once he sets foot in the monastery, he’s just another monk.  Clearly, this is going to be very difficult for him, which is why Benedict wants to be sure he’s there for the right reasons.  The monastery isn’t a retirement home, and Jesus doesn’t want your leftovers.
     But what is the abbot to do when a priest asks to join the monastery?  Here the issue becomes still more complex, because ordination has a spiritual dignity and prestige that will carry over into the monastic life.  And it is the one vocation—the only vocation—that absolutely cannot be left outside the wall.  A man who is already accustomed to leading a parish, conducting liturgies and hearing confessions may think he is entitled to a certain level of respect.  He is.  But from here on out, he is a monk first.  Anything he does must be accompanied by the deepest detachment, and only with the permission of the abbot.
     We can take from this an essential lesson about life: our dignity as human persons does not rely on our gifts, our careers, our achievements or our test scores.  It doesn’t even depend on our vocation.  We are all infinitely valuable because we are children of God.  When we learn to acknowledge that dignity in ourselves, we won’t have to feel like we need to prove it to others.