Humility...

Recently at dinner, a Sister somewhat kiddingly asked me if I had gotten a "big head yet." I was mystified by the question and responded “about what?” She then cited an accomplishment from several weeks earlier. I don’t recall how I responded outwardly, but inwardly I was thinking – “That was weeks ago. There’s been a hundred leveling events since then.”

St. Benedict describes the monastery as a “school of the Lord’s service,” but it wouldn’t be out of line to also call it a "school of humility.” Not only does Benedict emphasize humility in his monastic rule, the life itself moderates inclinations toward pride.

It’s important, though, to know what humility means to a Benedictine. It doesn’t mean low self-esteem or any of the negative connotations our culture attaches to the term. Rather, for a Benedictine, humility is a virtue to be cultivated. An entire dissertation could be written on St. Benedict's view of humility, but in encapsulated form it can be described as a right view of one’s self before God and before others. We are created in God’s image, yet we are formed of dust and clay. We are both gifted and frail. We are prone to missteps and stumbling, and heroic acts of charity.

Within monastic community, where we constantly rub shoulders in shared work, prayer, and leisure, this dual reality is never far from view. We see both the giftedness and the frailty in ourselves and in each other.

The Benedictine vow of stability commits us to seeking God within this particular community for a lifetime. It is a lifetime of successes and failures – of falling down and getting up – seen up close and personal, day in and day out, by one’s Sisters. Over time, as we experience the loving presence of Community - rejoicing in our gifts when we succeed, helping us up when we fall, and always challenging us to grow - we gradually become more and more our true selves, able to acknowledge both our giftedness and our frailty with humility and equanimity.

The word ‘humility’ is related to the Latin ‘humus,’ which means earth, or soil. To be humble is to know from whence we came, and to know our destiny, in light of the Gospel message. Humility is also a willingness to break open like a seed, be cultivated, and grow toward the Light. And in monastic community, we grow together toward God in this "school of the Lord's service."


Postscript: A great resource for exploring a Benedictine perspective on humility is A Guide to Living in the Truth: St. Benedict's Teaching on Humility. Author Michael Casey is a Cistercian monk of Tarrawarra Abbey in Australia.

Night vision

Nighttime is my favorite time to walk. I enjoy the stillness of our lawns, evening quiet, silent stars, scattered lights in monastery windows, a night sky the color of darkened ash…

I also enjoy the darkness. I often see better in the dark, or perhaps I should say I see more in the dark. Something about the absence of light sharpens my ability to see, much as the absence of noise helps me to listen. The absence facilitates attention, and it is attention, not light and sound, that enable one to encounter God both within the ordinary and beyond the ordinary.

Have you been watching the Winter Games? Have you noticed the way skates and skis create distance between the athlete and the ice and snow, yet also serve as intermediary between the two? The blade that separates (absences) the skater from the ice is also the medium through which the ice is encountered, allowing the athlete to create moments and movements of beauty not possible within the usual motions of ordinary life. Even after blade and board have been removed and feet are back on the ground, the imprint of beauty remains.

In like fashion, our abstinences and observances of this Lenten season can be the medium through which we encounter God at a deeper level, leaving a lasting imprint upon our spirit even after we resume the usual routines of our ordinary life.

Beauty surrounds us – the night sky, the quiet lawn, the silence and stillness of a ski jumper in mid-air, the almost unbearable gentleness of his landing - if only we have eyes to see. The 'night vision' of my evening walks helps me develop a deeper attentiveness at all times. And our Lenten disciplines can lead us to encounter God - to see more - both within and beyond the season.


Postscript: If you are wondering about the Lenten practices of our monastic Community you can read about them in a brief article on our Community News web page.

Embers, ashes, and Ophir's gold

Psalm 45 contains a line that reads “a princess arrayed in Ophir’s gold.” The phrase always makes me pause and consider what I am arrayed in. It's not about clothing as much as it is about attitudes, thoughts, actions… It’s a kind of examination of conscience. What kind of ‘spiritual clothes’ am I wearing?

Yesterday, as we burned last year’s palm branches to make ashes for Ash Wednesday, my clothing took on streaks of ash and became permeated with the pungent scent of burnt palm. I thought about Ophir’s gold. When the stirred embers were finally cool and the ashes sifted, I went upstairs to change clothes.

Tomorrow we will be ‘arrayed’ in these ashes by way of a small cross on our forehead – a reminder of our human frailty and sin, and a sign of our repentance. “Turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel” is the exhortation we will receive as the ashes are given. While the ashes are a stark reminder of sin and repentance, the words of exhortation remind us of our baptismal call to change our ‘spiritual clothes,' to put on garments befitting children of the King, to wear the "Ophir's gold" of our life in Christ.

Tomorrow this weblog will be silent as we begin the season of Lent. The day here at the monastery will be quiet and solemn. But that is tomorrow. Today is Mardi Gras. Today we will enjoy camaraderie and King Cake, and we will celebrate like daughters of the King, "arrayed in Ophir’s gold."


Postscript: I’ve long wondered about “Ophir’s gold” and finally looked it up last night. Gold of Ophir is referenced several times in scripture and apparently was a particularly valued gold. See Job 22:24, Isaiah 13:12. The location of Ophir is not known but possibilities include the southern Arabian coast or eastern Africa.

Opening ceremonies

Did you see the Winter Olympics opening ceremonies last night? Here at the monastery we gathered to watch and enjoy the show – a wonderful medley of history, people, geography, and technology that unfolded on a scale both grand and intimate. Mountains and prairies… Nova Scotian fiddlers and First Nation dancers… Individual seekers and joyful expressions of community… music and dance… earth and fire… water and sky…

Viewing the event felt like an invitation to awaken early and watch the ultimate opening ceremony - the sunrise. I didn’t go outside this morning, but I did watch from a third floor monastery window as the sun rose over the tree line to our east, rising over prairie, mountain, ocean, plateau, skier, skater, monk, mother, river, valley, you and me… and over this small spot of earth along the the southern edge of the Cumberland Plateau.

Let the day begin, and let us begin the day...poised like a skier on the mountain top, an ice dancer awaiting the first note, a bobsledder at the starting line...poised like the sun on the horizon.

“God has pitched a tent there for the sun…and like an athlete it joyfully runs its course…” (Psalm 19)

John Donne and the Super Bowle

What do a 17th century poet and the Super Bowl have to do with one another? Each served as a leisure activity here at the monastery last night, the night of the big game. Several Sisters had an interest in the game - especially those from Louisiana - and we gathered over sandwiches and chips to cheer on the Saints. After a couple of quarters, I retired to do a bit of reading before bed – namely, some of John Donne’s poetry. Other Sisters were off doing other things - reading, crocheting, or perhaps taking an evening walk.

We are a diverse group. Some of us like football, some literature, some both. Some prefer to walk outdoors, and some prefer the treadmill. Some fawn over our monastery cat, and some are allergic. We have diverse interests, temperaments, and personalities. We live so closely together that the differences can sometimes seem heightened. Yet somehow the graces of monastic life cause our hearts to expand outward in love, embracing the other Sister in all her uniqueness.

No matter how we each spent our leisure time last night – whether cheering on the Saints, or reading “An Hymne to the Saints…” we each woke up this morning, took our places in the monastic choir, and chanted in unison our first words of the day: “O Lord, open my lips and my mouth shall proclaim your praise.” Our singleness of heart in the search for God calls us to a deep unity of purpose that both transcends and embraces our individual differences.

(By the way, I think we were of one voice last night in saying "Geaux Saints!" Or as John Donne would say, “Goe Saints!”)

Beginning again

We pray the Psalms in a four week cycle. Today we complete Week IV and start afresh with Week I. Do I get tired of praying the same words over and over, month after month, year after year? Not at all. (Although I will confess to wanting to sleep later some mornings!)

I entered our monastic community four and a half years ago. During that time I figure that I’ve prayed through the four week cycle of Psalms at least 54 times so far, possibly more, as we gather for the Liturgy of the Hours. A cynic might ask, “Haven’t you gotten the message by now?” A monk would humbly respond, “no.”

The words of the Psalter help form and shape us over a lifetime of faithful prayer, chant, and recitation. Although the words remain the same, hearing them over and over allows them to sink deeply into one’s very being. The words themselves sculpt our hearts over a lifetime of listening, of encountering and re-encountering God’s Word.

Today, as I move the ribbons in my books from Week IV back to Week I, I welcome yet again another cycle of the liturgy - Psalms, scripture readings, responses, antiphons, and cantiles that are always ever-ancient, ever-new. The message always deepens and expands as we remain faithful to beginning again.

A conversation on Haiti

Over the past few weeks, as images from Haiti have flooded the media, we at the monastery have dug into our pocket for the relief effort, have daily remembered the suffering in our prayer, and have kept up a steady stream of conversation about the devastated nation. The other day our conversation came around once again to Haiti. One Sister expressed what we all feel: “What else can I do when I can’t be there? I don’t want to live in a bubble.”

Is the monastery a bubble? The answer is a definite “no.” But it can sometimes feel that way when the need is great and our ability to respond is limited. We feel the distance keenly.

But is it really distant? I think not. While our distance from a particular situation might be great, our distance from suffering is never far. The country of suffering is everywhere – on vast scales such as that of Haiti, and on smaller scales such as a neighbor in need.

Our particular call as a monastic community keeps us rooted in our local area, attentive to the needs and the suffering around us. Some of us have served for brief terms in other lands of great need – including Haiti – and perhaps some of us may again. But for now, we watch, listen, read, pray, lament, and give…and feel deeply our kinship with those who suffer.

Perhaps we are in a bubble, but it is not the bubble of the monastery. It is the sphere of God’s creation, the enclosure of God’s hand, our oneness in the Body of Christ…. As St. Paul tells us in I Corinthians, ”if one parts suffers, all the parts suffer with it.”