The Peacemaker....

Rid your heart of all deceit. Benedict calls us to become true—to bring the person within, the words we speak, and the life we actually live into harmony.

Sister Joan Chittister beautifully calls this the peacemaker. The phrase is wonderfully exact. Benedict is describing the inner discipline required of anyone who would carry peace into the world:

Do not repay evil with evil. Do not injure another. Bear injury patiently.
Love your enemies. Bless those who curse you.
Endure persecution for the sake of justice.

Romans 12:17; 1 Peter 3:9; Romans 13:10; Matthew 7:12;
Matthew 5:39; 1 Corinthians 6:7; Matthew 5:44; Luke 6:27;
Luke 6:28; Romans 12:14; Matthew 5:10; 1 Peter 3:14.

And so we are called to live the gospel message. This is not weakness. It is disciplined strength. Christ never tells us that our purpose is to win. He tells us to love.

Stay gentle, therefore, even with those who are not gentle with you. Refuse to allow another person’s anger to determine the condition of your soul. Violence—in word, attitude, judgment, or action—has no place in the heart that seeks Christ.

But we must be honesty with ourselves. We must become what we say we are. Seek peace. Accept reality. Stand centered in the truth of who you are before God. Begin every act by inviting Christ into it: Guide this. Bless this. Correct this. Stop me if this is not of you.

Our difficulty is that we so easily fill ourselves with ourselves. We expect too much, consume too much, demand too much, and contribute too little. The ego becomes engorged until there is no room left for the simple furniture of the soul: humility, patience, mercy, truth, gratitude, and love.

The Benedictine way continually empties that crowded room.

It reminds us that the spiritual life is not about protecting our importance, defending our position, or securing our victory. It is about becoming spacious enough for Christ to live within us.

So enter every room asking not, What will I receive here? but, What peace can I bring?

Speak truth without cruelty.

Bear injury without becoming bitter.

Bless when you might curse.

Love when retaliation would be easier.

To be a peacemaker is not simply to avoid conflict. It is to become so deeply rooted in Christ that conflict does not determine who we become. The peacemaker carries another possibility into the room: reconciliation instead of retaliation, blessing instead of bitterness, love instead of victory.

And remember, always:

It really is not about us.

It is about becoming so transparent, that through us, someone else might encounter Christ.

First you must love....

Chapter 4 of the Rule brings us abruptly from aspiration to action. Benedict has described the monastery; now he places the tools in our hands and invites us to begin....

...with love!

Love God. Love your neighbor. Do no harm to another. Renounce yourself in order that you may follow Christ...

...surrender!

There is something profound in the order. Benedict does not first call us to extraordinary prayer, heroic asceticism, or spiritual achievement. He calls us first to justice—to right relationship: with God, with the other, and with ourselves.

This very well may require the most valiant kind of monastic heart:
one willing to set out each morning to find the holy hidden within the other.

Contemplation, then, cannot mean simply learning to see God in some distant spiritual realm. It must teach us to recognize the living Christ standing before us—in the difficult person, the forgotten person, the poor person, the person whose needs inconvenience our own.  The spiritual life must be lived today—now.

Surrendering does not mean despising yourself. It means surrender the tyranny of the self—the instinct that insists that my comfort, my preference, my schedule, my security must always come first. Benedict becomes strikingly practical: do not pamper yourself; relieve the lot of the poor, serve the other.

There it is. Prayer becomes compassion. Contemplation becomes service. Love becomes something we do.

We are called to participate in the great Christian enterprise of acting for others in the place of God—becoming, however imperfectly, the hands through which Christ touches other lives.

Perhaps that is the workshop Benedict is building in Chapter 4.

The tools are before us.

The person beside us is waiting.

And this is where we must live.

The Rule Endures...

The Rule endures not because every detail of sixth-century monastic life can simply be carried unchanged into our own age, but because Benedict understood something enduring about the human heart.

Monastic life rests upon several great pillars: the Gospel lessons, the wisdom of those called to lead, the accumulated experience of the community, and the Rule itself. Each is necessary. The Gospel gives us Christ. Leadership gives the community direction. Experience teaches us what human beings actually do when ideals encounter weakness, fear, ambition, generosity, love, and failure. But the Rule gives these things a distinctive shape. It gives the Benedictine community its character.

“Do nothing without counsel,” Sirach reminds us. Listen. Consult. Discern. Do not imagine that wisdom belongs to one person alone.

And yet counsel requires an anchor.

We live remarkably close to Benedict's world in the things that matter most. We still struggle with pride and humility, obedience and independence, possessions and generosity, authority and service. We still hurt one another. We still need forgiveness. We still want our own way. And we still hunger for God.

That is why the Rule endures.

We may adapt its expression. Indeed, fidelity sometimes demands adaptation. A living tradition cannot become a museum piece. But there is an enormous difference between adapting the Rule and abandoning the Rule. Adaptation asks, How can this ancient wisdom speak faithfully here and now? Abandonment asks only what is convenient now.

Benedict keeps one of our feet planted in an ancient world profoundly acquainted with both the greatness and frailty of humanity. The other foot stands firmly in the world in which God has placed us today.

Between them lies the path.

The Rule does not prevent us from moving forward. It keeps us from forgetting who we are while we move.

Adapt the Rule, yes. Abandon the Rule, no.

For its enduring principles continue to steady us, challenge us, and lead us—from age to age—toward God.

The Wisdom of Community...

There is holiness in the gathered voice.

Benedict understood that authority does not relieve us of the responsibility to listen; it deepens it. When decisions affect the community, those who will live with their consequences must become part of the discernment. Speak your conviction, certainly—but hold it humbly. My experience is not the whole experience. My wisdom is not the whole wisdom.

Wisdom, after all, is distilled experience. Imagine what we might become if we could catalog every lesson our lives have taught us—and then add to that treasury the experiences of everyone around us. The community becomes a living library of insight, failure, discovery, suffering, and grace.

Our task is to espy the truth: to catch sight of something partly hidden, perhaps appearing unexpectedly in another person's words. Truth may come from the voice we least expected to hear. To recognize it requires more than listening with the ears. Benedict calls us to listen with the heart.

This makes consultation a sacred responsibility. We do not convene merely to confirm what we have already decided. We ponder. We question. We listen. We weigh consequences. We allow conscience, foresight, fairness, and compassion to enter the room.

And then we discern.

If we ponder well, discernment may lead us beyond preference toward peace—not necessarily agreement, but the deeper peace of knowing that every voice was honored and the common good was honestly sought.

Authority remains necessary. Decisions must finally be made. But authentic authority never exists for the enlargement of the self. It exists for service.

The wisest leader may therefore be the one who enters the council prepared not merely to speak—but prepared to discover that the truth has arrived in someone else's voice.

The echo has reached us now...

Listen carefully and you will hear the echo of Benedict sounding through the centuries.

Those who fear him lack nothing.

Benedict reaches back to the Psalmist and then sends those ancient words forward into the life of every person entrusted with another. Do not become so consumed with the temporal that you neglect the souls placed before you. Seek first the Kingdom, surrender and trust that what is truly necessary will be given.

Only a generation later Gregory the Great takes up the refrain. The shepherd must live what he teaches. He must remain close enough to his people to carry their weakness, yet rooted deeply enough in contemplation not to be swallowed by their problems. Leadership begins within.

Bonhoeffer, surrounded by the madness of Nazi Germany, insists that genuine spiritual authority grows from listening, helping, bearing, and proclaiming. Merton warns that unless our action rises from a transformed interior life, we merely transmit our own anger, ambition, and disorder. Nouwen carries the melody still further: Christian leadership moves away from power and relevance and toward prayer, vulnerability, communion, and surrender.

Different centuries. Different crises. The same call.

And now the echo reaches us.

We are all entrusted with someone, with our community. A family. A friend. A congregation. A committee. A neighbor. A frightened person who needs courage. A discouraged person who needs hope. Leadership does not require office. 

Sometimes its purest expression is almost invisible: the person who listens,
remains faithful, refuses bitterness, speaks truth gently,
and does not abandon another when the road becomes difficult.

Leadership will wound us. There will be anger at resistance, frustration with what cannot be changed, disappointment when promise comes to nothing, hurt when love is rejected, and grief when cherished work fails.

Benedict reminds us of His call...do not give up.

Not because success is guaranteed. Not because suffering disappears. But because our hope is not grounded in success.  It is grounded in God.

The leader is called to bring a community toward the white heat of the spiritual life—that place where love becomes stronger than disappointment, hope stronger than failure, and surrender stronger than fear. Such leaders do not drive people; they awaken them. They do not manufacture disciples; they help birth souls of steel and light. They remember their own weakness so that they can deal tenderly with the weakness of others. And while helping others toward conversion, they discover that they themselves are still being converted.

Perhaps that is Benedict’s deepest teaching about leadership: we cannot lead anyone toward God without walking the way ourselves.

And beneath all of this another Benedictine melody is sounding.  Listen carefully. It is Chapter 7. Humility.

The leader who remembers his own weakness can forgive weakness. The leader who has surrendered the illusion of self-sufficiency can finally say with the Psalmist: those who truly reverence the Holy One lack nothing.

The echo has reached us now. Listen and live your life with Him....

Surrender in humility and grow....

“To whom much has been given, much will be required.” Spiritual leadership begins beneath the weight of those words. To be entrusted with souls is no privilege of rank. It is a demanding vocation: to guide different temperaments, to coax one, reprove another, encourage another, and somehow remain faithful while carrying one’s own unfinished humanity.

Benedict never imagines a leader who has ceased to struggle. The leader remains among the struggling—still learning, still failing, still being converted. Perhaps this is why weakness, once admitted, can become a gift. What we conceal becomes pride; what we surrender can become humility. Our wounds teach tenderness. Our failures teach patience. Our need for mercy teaches us how to extend mercy.

How, then, do we grow beyond ourselves?

We do not.

God grows us beyond ourselves.

“Surrender now.” Give God the willful spirit that insists upon managing everything alone. Faith is not confidence that we are strong enough; it is confidence that God remains faithful when our strength has disappeared. As Paul discovered, divine power is made perfect precisely where human strength reaches its limit.

The spiritual leader therefore lives continually at the threshold of conversion, believing that tomorrow need not be imprisoned by today. To lead is to believe that transformation is possible—in oneself and in another.

And what an extraordinary calling this becomes: to midwife the spiritual life of this generation and the next. We cannot create that life. We cannot command its birth. We can only watch, encourage, challenge, protect, pray—and trust God with what lies beyond our power.

We strive for holiness not because we are without weakness, but because we know our weakness. And knowing it, we can say with confidence to those entrusted to us:

Come. Let us surrender together.

The God who is changing me can change you too.

Leadership....

Imagine a world led by holy listeners—leaders who listen beneath the words—understanding the deeper fear, hope, resistance, longing, and stirrings of grace. Bonhoeffer understood listening as the first service we owe another. Benedict makes that listening the foundation of authority and growth in the living Christ.

The prior or prioress must lead. There is no holiness in refusing responsibility. But Benedictine authority invites deep understanding. It is argument, appeal, and reproof; sternness when truth is being evaded, tenderness when a bruised spirit needs courage, always devoted. The leader must speak to truth. 

Love that refuses to name what destroys us is not love.

Benedict’s genius lies in his refusal to confuse firmness with uniformity. Souls are not manufactured on an assembly line. One person is awakened by reason, another by encouragement, another only by truth spoken without contempt. Newman knew that conscience must be formed; Nouwen reminded us that Christian leadership relinquishes domination; Merton insisted that spiritual freedom means becoming the person God calls us to be. Thus authority must be personal without becoming partial, disciplined without becoming domineering.

We all stand before the leader unfinished. Every one of us is an unfinished story. The questions and the answers that follow are rich threads woven together to form the tapestry of our lives. 

What do each of us need in order to grow toward truth, freedom, humility, and love
on our journey to the living Christ within?

Order matters because growth requires a trustworthy place in which to occur. Standards matter because love has direction. Correction matters because none of us is finished.

The holy leader listens deeply enough to know when to coax and when to confront, when to wait and when to act. Then, having listened, the leader leads.

For in the end, authority is not the privilege of being obeyed. It is the sacred burden of helping another become more fully, truly alive in God.

We are all one in Christ....

As Christ's representative on earth, Benedict asks the prior and prioress to see the world through His eyes.

The world instinctively creates ranks. We distinguish by wealth, education, influence, family, achievement, appearance, and social standing. Benedict quietly dismantles all of that. Within the community, none of these things determines a person’s worth. The one born free is not greater than the one born a slave. The powerful are not more important than the obscure. Before God, we stand on the same ground.

We are all one in Christ.

This is more than a statement about equality. It is a demand that we learn to see one another as God sees us. Each person shares equally in the service of the one God. No one possesses a privileged path to grace. No one is beneath the attention of the community. There can therefore be no favoritism, because favoritism would mean assigning a value to someone that God has not assigned.

Yet Benedict does recognize differences among us. They are not differences of status, but of spiritual maturity. In God’s sight, he says, we are distinguished only by good works and humility.

That places an enormous responsibility upon the leader. Equality does not mean treating every circumstance identically. Benedict calls for the same discipline according to merit. Justice sometimes requires different responses to different people. The prior or prioress may even alter a person’s rank—but only when justice demands it, never because of affection, influence, friendship, or prestige.

Here lies the deeper spiritual lesson.

Christian leadership must constantly ask: Am I seeing this person through the eyes of Christ, or through the prejudices and preferences I have brought with me?

The monastery becomes holy when worldly distinctions disappear and each person is encountered simply as a child of God.

There are no favorites at the foot of the cross.

There are only brothers and sisters, standing together before God, learning humility, practicing love, and becoming one in Christ.

Walk the path...show the way....

Spiritual leadership begins not with instruction, but with example. The leader is called to do what every member of the community is called to do: listen, obey, serve, forgive, and seek God. Leadership does not exempt us from the Rule; it places us more deeply within it. We demonstrate God’s instructions by becoming, as best we can, a living expression of them.

Jesus’ warning is always near: How can we see the splinter in another’s eye while failing to notice the plank in our own? Before correcting another, the spiritual leader must first confront the self. Authority without self-examination easily becomes judgment.

The Tao Te Ching offers another beautiful image: spokes join together in a wheel, but it is the empty center that makes the wheel useful. Spiritual leaders stand near that center—not as the most important members of the community, but as those charged with keeping the community centered. They become the norm only insofar as they mirror the values they proclaim and live the ideals they teach.

For Benedict, obedience within a cenobitic community is not servitude and certainly not blind submission. It is a thoughtful listening among equals who seek together what is best for the whole community. Such obedience can never be demanded merely by position. Authentic obedience grows when those who ask it of others have first demonstrated their own willingness to listen and obey.

What we do not live, we do not have the right to require.

The spiritual leader, then, is a light—not because the light originates within the leader, but because the leader reflects the light of God. The task is not simply to tell others where the path lies, but to walk it visibly, humbly, and faithfully, so that others may recognize the way.

Yes...

Benedict’s vision of leadership is demanding precisely because it refuses to make the leader responsible for another person’s response. The leader must teach, proclaim, model, warn, encourage, and create a community in which the search for God is possible. But ultimately, each person must listen and choose.

Perhaps spiritual leadership can be described this simply: show them the mountain, point toward the path, and let them go.

The difficulty is that we begin our journey carrying a moral frame of reference shaped largely by the secular world around us. It is weak, incomplete, and sometimes unwilling to surrender its assumptions. Into that frame we must patiently build the moral vision of Christ—not merely by learning rules, but through prayer, Scripture, meditation, contemplation, reflection, and above all, listening.

“Pray without ceasing” becomes less an instruction to speak endlessly to God than an invitation to live continually attentive to God.

There will also be times when the dazzling light and flame of the living Christ seems hidden. Spiritual leadership then requires the courage to seek that light, recognize it in unexpected places, and proclaim what we have found. The leader cannot manufacture the flame. The leader can only keep searching for it and point others toward its light.

Yet Benedict never permits this emphasis on personal responsibility to become individualism. We are accountable for ourselves, but we are also responsible for the environment we create for others. Our words, attitudes, patience, judgments, and love either make the road toward God easier to see or obscure it.

Cain asked, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” The Gospel answers the question.

Yes.

We cannot walk the path for another. But we can make certain that, through us, they can see the mountain.

The spiritual leader....

Spiritual leadership begins not with leading others, but with allowing God to lead us. Before we can point toward the Way, we must confront ourselves with the presence of God and choose, every day, to follow. We must keep the living God before us until our decisions, our relationships, and particularly our failures are measured against that Presence.

This takes time. The spiritual journey is a lifetime’s journey. Time changes us; experience humbles us; mistakes, honestly faced, can become instruments of growth. The essential discipline is to listen—to God, to life, to one another, and especially to those whose voices the world too easily ignores.

The spiritual leader must never teach or model anything that leads away from God. The standard is Christ: immersed in God, loving the marginalized, doing the Gospel rather than merely proclaiming it, challenging the comfortable, and becoming a beacon even to the strong. Spiritual leadership is the work of confronting the world with the presence of God.

Yet we cannot make another person’s journey. We can show them the Way; they must choose to walk it. We can help them see the world clearly and then invite them to follow Christ. We can create conditions in which they can see God active in their life—and in which they may discover that God has been seeking them all along.

Perhaps our greatest challenge is constructing a moral and spiritual frame of reference while living within a culture that constantly offers us another one. We bring to this work weak wills, incomplete understanding, and divided loyalties. Nevertheless, every day offers choices that give life depth and quality.

Spiritual leadership, then, is not mastery. It is faithful witness: allowing God to find us, choosing the Way again and again, and living so that others may glimpse through us the God who is calling all of us home.

Grace abounds....

The call to a monastic way of life was present almost from the beginning. Jesus withdrew to solitude and prayer; Paul valued celibacy; early Christians practiced fasting, voluntary poverty, virginity, disciplined prayer, and radical sharing. By the second and third centuries, ascetic men and women were already recognizable groups within the Church. Monasticism did not suddenly appear in the Egyptian desert; the desert gathered, intensified, and organized impulses already alive in Christian discipleship.

Then came a remarkable progression: Antony embodied solitary renunciation; Pachomius organized monks into communities; Basil insisted that holiness must be learned with others through obedience, prayer, work, and charity; Cassian carried the wisdom of Egypt westward. Benedict inherited this long experiment. Chapter 1 shows that he knew monasticism could succeed or fail: cenobites and mature hermits sought God through discipline; Sarabaites and Gyrovagues represented spirituality governed chiefly by self-will.

From within Christian faith, Benedict’s story might well be read as grace working through history—not as God dropping a finished Rule from heaven, but as grace patiently refining human experience. Benedict receives what came before him, tests it, moderates its excesses, and gives Western Christianity something remarkably humane: stability, community, obedience, prayer, work, restraint, and a lifelong school for learning love. Benedictine history is a compelling picture of providence working through generations.

The monastic impulse is not uniquely to Christian. Buddhism and Jainism developed disciplined communities of renunciants centuries earlier; Hindu traditions produced sannyasins, ashrams, and monastic orders. Daoism has monastic communities, while Sufi Islam developed brotherhoods sharing certain monastic features, though Islam generally rejects formal monasticism. God would seem to work across all religions—deep transformation inviting renunciation, discipline, silence, community, practice, and sustained attention to ultimate reality. The forms differ profoundly, but the spiritual instinct behind them is ancient and remarkably persistent.

Surrender...

Walk with me.  There is a remarkable consistency running beneath the differences of language, temperament, and theology. The desert mothers and fathers, Augustine, Benedict, the medieval mystics, the Reformers, Teresa and John of the Cross, de Caussade, the modern contemplatives—all wrestle with essentially the question we've been asking:

If God is already present, how do we become capable of living in that Presence?

History's answer is almost never, find the right idea. It is much closer to: become the kind of person who can receive what has already been given.

1. We begin by turning

The oldest word is metanoia—turning, changing one's mind, reorienting one's life.

The desert fathers fled into the desert not because they believed God lived there rather than in Alexandria, but because they discovered how difficult it was to hear God through the noise of an undisciplined life. Their first work was exceedingly practical: watch your thoughts, restrain your appetites, tell the truth about yourself, forgive, pray, work, become quiet.

Benedict makes the same beginning more humane and communal. Amend your ways. Correct the faults. Safeguard love. Walk the way.

At first, therefore, the path feels narrow. We are learning what not to do. We are discovering how much of what we call "ourselves" is actually habit, appetite, fear, resentment, vanity, distraction.

This is purification—not becoming worthy of God, but clearing away the debris that prevents us from recognizing God.

2. Discipline slowly becomes disposition

This is where Sister Joan's observation about affectation matters enormously.

We cannot simply admire holiness. We cannot adopt the vocabulary, mannerisms, emotions, or appearance of spirituality and thereby possess it.

The spiritual life must be practiced until it becomes our life—who we are.

The early monks called this askesis: training. Benedict gives it rhythm—prayer, Scripture, silence, work, obedience, community, humility.

At first I consciously practice patience.

Eventually I become more patient.

At first I deliberately stop myself from judging.

Eventually the need to judge begins to weaken.

At first I make myself listen.

Eventually I become a listening person.

This is why the path and grace are not two competing explanations. Discipline does not manufacture God. Discipline makes us increasingly receptive to the God who is already acting.

We practice; grace transforms.

3. Then comes illumination: we learn to see

Here Augustine becomes especially important.

We begin our spiritual lives by looking under every bush for God.

Where is he?

Which book has the answer?

Which teacher?

Which practice?

Which church?

Which experience?

And eventually Augustine makes the astonishing discovery:

God was nearer to him than he was to himself.

The search changes direction.

But even "looking within" can be misleading if it means intense self-examination. The contemplative tradition gradually says something more subtle:

Do not merely look inward.
Become quiet enough to notice.

Hence Benedict:

Listen.

The desert tradition: guard the heart.

The Cloud of Unknowing: relinquish the compulsion to comprehend God intellectually.

Eckhart: become empty.

Teresa: enter the interior castle.

John of the Cross: allow attachments—even spiritual attachments—to fall away.

The language differs. The movement is strikingly similar.

4. Eventually we discover that God is doing the seeking

This may be the great reversal in the spiritual life.

Initially:

I am looking for God.

Later:

God is calling me.

Deeper still:

God has been seeking me all along.

That explains the beautiful paradox in Sister Joan's language about centering ourselves where the God we are seeking is seeking us.

Suddenly the spiritual life is no longer primarily an achievement.

It becomes response.

And therefore surrender begins to replace striving.

Not passivity. Not indifference. Not abandoning moral responsibility.

Rather:

I cease trying to control the encounter.

This is where grace becomes unmistakable.

5. Surrender leads us back into the present moment

And here the mystical tradition becomes surprisingly practical.

If God is present, where shall I meet God?

Not yesterday.

Not in the imagined person I shall someday become.

Not after I have conquered all my faults.

Not when I finally learn how to pray properly.

Here. Now.

De Caussade calls this the sacrament of the present moment. Benedict simply constructs an entire life around it: this prayer, this brother or sister, this task, this meal, this interruption, this moment of obedience.

The extraordinary spiritual discovery is that the path to God does not finally lead away from ordinary life.

It leads more deeply into it.

6. And then comes the final transformation: love

This is why Benedict's seemingly modest phrase "safeguard love" may actually contain the destination.

The proof of communion with God is not mystical sensation.

It is not spiritual knowledge.

It is not ascetic accomplishment.

It is the transformation of the person toward love.

John says it bluntly: whoever loves knows God.

Augustine says, in effect, love rightly and act from that love.

Benedict concludes his Rule not with an esoteric mystical technique but with good zeal: honor one another, bear weaknesses patiently, seek the other's good, prefer nothing whatever to Christ.

The search that begins with "Where is God?" ends strangely with "How shall I love?"

And perhaps that is because they turn out to be almost the same question.

We cannot cause communion with God, but we can consent to it.

That reconciles the two voices we have been hearing throughout the tradition:

Practice. Discipline yourself. Walk the way.

and

Surrender. Receive. Only by grace.

They are not competing paths.

Practice teaches us how to surrender.

And surrender finally reveals what practice could never accomplish by itself.

There is even a classic Christian pattern for this journey. The ancient and medieval writers often describe three movements:

Purgation → Illumination → Union

Maybe we if use the language we have been developing through Benedict, we could make it warmer and more alive:

Turn → Practice → Listen → Surrender → Love.

Or perhaps even more beautifully:

Walk the way.

Learn to listen.

Discover that God is already near.

Surrender the need to control the encounter.

And live, here and now, in love.

That last formulation feels to me very close to where we began. It preserves both sides of the great paradox: 

We must undertake the journey with everything we possess—and eventually
discover that the One toward whom we have been walking
has been carrying us all along.

Lead the way...

Today, Benedict reminds us in the most unambiguous way, we must prepare our hearts and bodies for the battle of Holy Obedience. What Benedict understood is that we are ever vulnerable to our selfish self-centered desires. If you choose, you can attribute this to the work of the dark force within each of us, or you might instead choose to simply embrace that we are weak human creatures, lacking the strength to follow the way—unaided. 

What is not possible to us by nature,
let us ask the Holy One to supply by the help of grace. 
... by the light of life—we must run and do now what will profit us forever.

We are truly not alone in this undertaking. But we must ask for his saving grace. If we do this, we will prevail. But we must ask. God will not fail us.  But God wants us to be partners in this enterprise. If we attempt this alone, we will fail. We will succumb to our own willful hearts, seeking to satisfy our most base desires.

We must open our eyes today to our behavior and witness our actions through his eyes. We must surrender so that God can be in control.

God is with us, holding us up so that the reign of God
may be made plain in us and become hope to others.
If we can become peacemakers, if we can control our need to control,
if we can distinguish between our wants and needs, than anybody can.

Lead the way child!

Surrender my child....

Whoever hears...

Listen carefully, my child....with the ear of the heart

With these few words, Benedict invites us to believe—to listen—in a way that many of us, in the beginning, do not understand. We should not be surprised by this. It took the apostles quite sometime before they understood what Christ was offering of them—the open armed acceptance of the living God.

After reaching the age of reason many of us began to believe that most gifts involve an exchange. For many of us, the idea that the living God is in us, a part of us, integral to our being, and is waiting for us to embrace Him, is difficult to comprehend.

If you find yourself continuing to search for your heart's ear, I invite you to read once more the nature of listening in the silence. As you read, be at peace.  Read slowly, hold each phrase gently in your mind—allow it to challenge you and to stir your soul.

Benedict and Sister Joan invite us to accept that the living God is present in us at all times. He is the air we breathe—our task is not to put God into our lives. Our task is to acceptance that He is already there—waiting for us. For those of you to whom music speaks most clearly, take a moment and tap the play button at the end of today's meditation.

Sister Joan invites us today to recognize the efforts that we are making to seek out God, to prove our worthiness, to demonstrate to ourselves and others that we are on a pilgrimage to find God. And, as Sister Joan suggests, we may even be keeping score: so many daily masses, so many rosaries, so many fast days. We do not need to seek Him—He is here in us now, ever present, ever aware of our joy, our pain, our longing for Him.

All we need is an open and contrite heart, and surrender, believing, "I know you're with me. You hear my voice. You hear my every thought.  I am now listening."

So why is this so difficult?  Why do we have so much trouble listening with the ear of our heart? I fear it is because we want to be in charge—we lack the sincere desire to surrender control of our lives.

Go forward today and listen. He's talking to you.

By His Grace....

Benedict reminds us today that if we want to dwell in God's tent, we must walk the way and live in and support our community. For it is in walking the away we will learn to be just in all things, to speak truth from the heart, not practice deceit, and care for those with whom we live. 

To accomplish this, we must, in time, learn to foil the evil one—flinging both the devil and his wicked promptings far from sight— dashing them against the Living Christ within us. You see, Benedict understood that it's God's strength, not our own, that brings about the good in us. Give God the glory by His name alone.

It all begins with a devout and contrite heart, and surrender. All we need to do is ask—with sincerity—for it is God who gives us the strength. We do not of our own arrive at these wisdom's. God will give us eyes to see the wonders of this world. We are not a power unto ourselves.

Then, most amazingly, we will see we are responsible for each other. This is our metric for right living. Only through God, will we be able to rise above ourselves.

And so it begins with our understanding that by his grace we are obligated to our community and dependent on God alone.

If we must—use words....

 Listen my child...

 Is there anyone here who yearns for life and desires to see good days?

Benedict begins today with a beautiful, most simple and so difficult challenge, "keep your tongue free from vicious, talk, and your lips from all deceit; turn away from evil and do good; let peace be your quest and aim. (Ps. 34:14-15)"

From the beginning, God bides us to live a "good life." In the words of Benedict, "What is more delightful than this voice of the Holy One calling to us? See how God's love shows us the way of life."

John Mark Comer, in Following the Way, made this so very clear, we are called, we are invited to be the living Christ, to follow the way. As we work toward this goal, the living Christ within us will surely be pleased, and ever present to help us on the journey.

Sister Joan works to help us understand the challenges we will face along the way, the destructive talk about another person, anger, vengefulness. These are not foot stones along His path. We are called at all times, to not be part of this decline. Not only must we not engage in these behaviors, but we are called to help rebuild this tired and broken world.

As you begin this work, the Rule reminds us, God will be beside you, and his ears will listen for your prayers. We are called to be the peacemakers. We are called to do his work in this world. We are called to gentle the universe.

Sister Joan eloquently reminds us that in this Rule of life, violence is simply discounted. Violence doesn't work! Not political violence, not social violence, not physical violence, not even the violence that we do to ourselves in the name of religion. When will we learn!

Yes! Benedict calls us to live in this world, not only without weapons, but also by doing good. It is a strong message, clothed in words, long dulled by repetition, a challenge best echoed by—show we are His followers and if we must—use words!

A Reminder....

About the Rule of Benedict
Benedict of Nursia was born in the year 480. As a student in Rome, he tired of the decadent culture around him and left to live a simple spiritual life as a hermit in the countryside of Subiaco about thirty miles outside of the city. It wasn't long, however, before he was discovered both by the people of the area and disciples who were themselves looking for a more meaningful way of life. Out of these associations sprang the monastic life that would eventually cover Europe.

The Rule of Benedict is not a treatise in systematic theology. Its logic is the logic of daily life lived in Christ and lived well. This early monastic rule is part of the Wisdom tradition of Christianity and is rooted in the Bible for its inspiration and its end. It deals with the meaning and purpose of life. The positions taken in the Rule in the light of themes in the wisdom literature of other culture find Benedict of Nursia in the stream of thinkers who lived out of a single tradition but from the perspective of universal and fundamental insights into life.

Excerpted from The Rule of Benedict: Insights for the Ages by Joan Chittister, OSB

It is time....

Today Benedict calls us to arise, to open our eyes to the light that comes from God:

Run while you have the light of life,

so that the darkness of death may not overtake you.

There is urgency here. Wake up. Listen now. Begin today. Follow the way.

What a challenging way to begin the morning!

Sister Joan immediately recognizes one of our most persistent habits: postponement. We admire the discipline of others. We wonder where they find their resolve. We tell ourselves that someday we too will pray more faithfully, listen more carefully, live more deliberately, love more generously.

But Benedict will not allow us the comfort of someday.

Sister Joan puts it beautifully:

We are called daily to center ourselves where the 

God we are seeking is seeking us. Listen today. Start now.

Begin immediately to direct your life to that small, clear voice within.

Every morning we awaken and almost instinctively ask, “What time is it?”

Benedict asks us to hear that question differently.  What time is it? It is time to awaken. It is time to remember who we are. It is time to become the person God is calling us to become.

John Mark Comer would recognize Benedict’s urgency immediately. We cannot simply admire Jesus or agree with his teaching. We must arrange our lives around following him—learning to be with Jesus, become like Jesus, and live as Jesus lived. A rule of life exists precisely because our deepest intentions so easily disappear beneath the distractions of an ordinary day.

Augustine knew something about postponement. For years he stood at the threshold of conversion wanting God—but not quite yet. His great discovery was that the God for whom he had been searching was already present, nearer to him than he was to himself. 

The moment of grace was not tomorrow. It was now.

Luther would remind us that this awakening is not simply an achievement of willpower. We rise because grace has already come looking for us. Every morning is another beginning, another return to the Gospel, another opportunity to receive again what we could never manufacture for ourselves.

And so Benedict tells us to run toward the light—Scripture in hand, heart awake, attentive to the presence of God in every person and every moment.

We are called to pray.

We are called to listen.

We are called to care for one another and for the community entrusted to us.

We are called to become what we profess to believe.

Not someday.

It is time.

Listen....

Every good story has a strong beginning—and the Rule of Benedict begins with a single word:

Listen.

“Listen carefully, my child, to my instructions, and attend to them with the ear of your heart.”

Before Benedict tells us what to do, he asks us to become still enough to hear. Before obedience, before discipline, before prayer or work or community, we must listen. The spiritual life begins by devotion to full awareness—the simple but most challenging task of devoted listening.

Today, we are surrounded by voices competing for our attention—news, opinions, responsibilities, anxieties, memories, screens, and the endless conversation going on within our own minds. Yet beneath all this noise Benedict whispers: Listen.

The desert mothers and fathers understood this well. They went into the desert not simply to escape the world, but to become quiet enough to discover what was happening within themselves. They learned that silence is not merely the absence of sound. It is the clearing of an inner space where truth can be heard.

That same wisdom lies at the heart of most contemporary spiritual teaching. Again and again we are reminded that the great enemy of the spiritual life is not disbelief but inattention. We can move through an entire day without really inhabiting it. We can see without seeing, hear without hearing, speak without understanding, pray without listening.

Benedict calls us back to consciousness.

Pay attention to the person before you.

Pay attention to what is stirring within you.

Pay attention to beauty.

Pay attention to pain.

Pay attention to the unexpected interruption.

Pay attention to the quiet prompting
that asks you to stop, reconsider,
forgive, speak, remain silent, or begin again.

This is where God waits for us—not somewhere beyond our lives, but within them. And Benedict gives us another wonderfully reassuring instruction: whenever we begin some good work, ask God to bring it to completion.

We need not begin this new reading of the Rule with great resolutions. We do not have to remake ourselves overnight. We need only begin—and invite God into the beginning.

There is a deep calm in that realization. Everything does not depend upon us. Our task is to listen, to consent, to take the next faithful step, and to remain open to grace. God will do the deeper work.

Sister Joan Chittister brings a necessary urgency to Benedict's invitation. How easily our lives become attached to hopes that cannot finally satisfy us—to success, possessions, approval, control, certainty, even to the image we have constructed of ourselves. Sooner or later these promises reveal their emptiness.

And then comes her extraordinary reminder:

We have been loved to life by God.

Perhaps that is where this journey through the Rule should begin. Not with fear. Not with guilt. Not with another list of things we ought to become.

We are already loved into being. Our spiritual life is our response to that love. So we begin again.

We listen. We ask God to enter what we are about to undertake. 
We try to live consciously enough to recognize
the divine presence hidden within ordinary things. 

And when we fail—as we certainly will—we listen again.

Benedict promises something beautiful to those who remain on the way. At first the path may seem narrow, demanding, even difficult. But gradually something happens: the heart expands. What once required effort begins increasingly to flow from love.That is the hope with which we begin this new reading cycle.

Not that we will finish the Rule knowing more about Benedict, but that somewhere along the way we may become more awake to God, more attentive to one another, more peaceful within ourselves, and more fully alive. For even now, beneath the noise of our lives, God is speaking.

Our first task is simply to listen.

This is but the beginning....

Benedict drew deeply from the wisdom of those who came before him—from Holy Scripture, the early monastic writers, the Conferences, and the Rule of Basil—to fashion what he humbly called his “little rule for beginners.” Yet he makes clear that the Rule is only a beginning, a place from which we set out toward the “lofty summit.”

So too for us. Reading the Rule matters. Reading Sister Joan’s commentary may help us hear it anew. But neither is the destination. Benedict and Sister Joan call us beyond reading to transformation: a change of heart, a change of life.

We are called, finally, not merely to read the holy Word, but to become it.

As John Mark Comer reminds us in Practicing the Way, the spiritual life is lived through practice. If we read, listen, and open ourselves deeply, we become increasingly attuned to God’s presence, disposed to do God’s will, and the wisdom to be found in the present.

And that is only the beginning.

Here....

In monastic language, zeal is a much richer word than our modern sense of “enthusiasm.” It means something closer to ardor, passionate devotion, earnestness, or an intense desire directed toward some object. And that intensity is morally neutral until we see what it is directed toward and what kind of fruit it produces.

The English zeal comes through Latin zelus from the Greek zēlos. In Greek the word could mean fervor, eagerness, and emulation—but also jealousy, rivalry, and envy. That double meaning is important. Zeal is a kind of spiritual heat. The same fire can warm a community or burn it down.

This is precisely the distinction Benedict makes in Chapter 72, “The Good Zeal of Monks.” He contrasts the bitter zeal that separates us from God with the good zeal that separates us from vice and leads us toward God and everlasting life. And Benedict finally brings the whole matter to one uncompromising center: prefer nothing whatever to Christ. As John Mark Comer might put it, we must not simply admire Christ; we must follow the Way.

Sister Joan brings Benedict's teaching wonderfully close to home. Benedictine spirituality, she reminds us, is about loving God and learning to love the people who surround us. Holiness is not somewhere else. It is not waiting for us in a more dramatic life, a more congenial community, or among people easier to love. It is here.

And here may be one of the most important words in the spiritual life.

The Holy One is encountered here—in this person, this interruption, this disappointment, this ordinary day. Wisdom is found here, but only if we are present enough to recognize it.

That is why Sister Joan calls good zeal the spirituality of “the long haul.” Good zeal carries us through the days when nothing seems particularly holy, when prayer is dry, community is difficult, and our lives appear painfully ordinary. Benedict reminds us that sanctity is rarely made of spectacular gestures. More often it is fashioned quietly through patience, humility, obedience, forgiveness, and the repeated choice to put another before ourselves.

Perhaps that is the final test of our zeal. Does the fire within us draw us toward ourselves—or toward Christ and one another?

For Benedict, there can be little doubt.

The good zeal is the fire by which we slowly learn to prefer nothing to Christ—and therefore to discover Christ here, in one another.

 

We are called....

Chapter 71 of the Rule confronts us with one of the most difficult spiritual words of our time: obedience.

Sister Joan is quick to recognize the problem. We have learned, sometimes through terrible experience, that obedience cannot mean simply doing what we are told. History is littered with the consequences of unquestioning allegiance—to rulers, nations, institutions, ideologies, religious authorities, and even to the passions of the crowd. Again and again, human beings have surrendered conscience to certainty and called it virtue.

The great tragedies of history teach us something sobering: evil rarely presents itself to us simply as evil. More often it comes wrapped in righteousness, loyalty, patriotism, religion, security, or the conviction that our side possesses the truth.

And yet Benedict does not tell us to trust only ourselves.  That would be another kind of blindness.

We are not our own teachers, our own guides, our own standard-setters, or laws unto ourselves. The solitary conscience can become every bit as arrogant as the tyrant. We can deceive ourselves remarkably well. We hear what confirms us. We dismiss what threatens us. We surround ourselves with people who reassure us that we are right.  So Benedict proposes something much more demanding than either blind obedience or absolute independence.

He asks us to listen to one another.

Wisdom does not flow only downward from authority. It moves horizontally—from person to person, heart to heart. The person beside me may possess a fragment of truth that I desperately need.  And, most unsettling of all, so may my adversary.

What truth might God be asking me to hear from them?

We are not being asked to accept blindly or tolerate injustice. There are moments when conscience requires resistance. But even resistance must be rooted in humility rather than hatred. Otherwise we risk becoming what we oppose.

The deepest obedience, then, may be obedience

to the truth itself—wherever truth appears.  We must be prepared to rebel
the moment we are overwhelmed by blind feels of certainty!

It requires the humility to say, I may be wrong. The patience to listen beneath anger. The wisdom to distinguish authority from truth. And the grace to discover that God may speak through the person we least expected to hear.

Perhaps this is one of the great lessons history leaves us: civilizations begin to fracture when people cease listening to one another. When opponents become enemies, when disagreement becomes betrayal, when certainty replaces humility, community begins to die.  Sound familiar?

Benedict offers another way.

Listen.

Listen to authority.

Listen to conscience.

Listen to the community.

Listen to the wounded.

Listen to the stranger.

Listen to the one who stands against you.

And beneath all these voices, listen for the quiet movement of God.

We grow not by proving ourselves right, but by allowing truth to change us. 

We become more fully what God is calling us to become when we can see our own failures clearly, receive the wisdom of others gratefully, correct what must be corrected, forgive what must be forgiven, and continue together.

Perhaps that is the obedience Benedict ultimately seeks: not the surrender of the mind, but the opening of the heart.

Heavenly Father, grant us an obedience courageous enough to listen, humble enough to change, discerning enough to resist what is wrong, and loving enough never to abandon the human being standing on the other side.

For in the end, we are not called simply to be right.

We are called to become love in the world.

Never surrender goodness as we strive for good....

There is something quietly unsettling in Chapter 70. Benedict is not simply telling members of the monastery not to strike one another. He is confronting something much more subtle and much more dangerous: the human temptation to believe that being right gives us permission to do wrong.

Sister Joan reveals this simple truth with extraordinary clarity: “The desire for good is no excuse for the exercise of evil in its behalf.”

Most of us do not deliberately set out to become cruel, vindictive, controlling, or dismissive. Quite the contrary. Striving for good, we seek justice. We want truth. We want to protect the community. Yes, we frequently want someone corrected. We want things done properly. We may even believe we are defending God, morality, tradition, country, church, family, or another person.

And therein lies the danger.

For once we become convinced of the righteousness of our cause, it becomes remarkably easy to excuse the violence that may follow.

We begin to justify the cutting remark because someone needed to say it.
We humiliate because they deserved to be corrected.
We exclude because they are causing trouble.
We refuse to listen because we know what is right.
We attack another person's character while telling ourselves we are defending the truth.

The blows Benedict forbids need not be delivered by the hand.

Benedictine spirituality offers another way. It insists that the manner in which we seek the good must itself be good. We cannot create peace through hatred. Community cannot be built through humiliation. Truth cannot be served by cruelty. We must not defend love through hate.

The means are not incidental to the spiritual life. The means are the spiritual life.

This is why Sister Joan's warning is so profound: to become what we hate is neither the goal nor the greatness of the spiritual life.

The great spiritual danger is not simply that hatred exists somewhere outside us. It is that, in opposing hatred, we may slowly permit hatred to enter us.

And then the enemy has won.

The Benedictine way asks use to:

• stand for truth—but do not cease loving;
• resist injustice—but do not surrender your soul to hatred;
• correct when correction is necessary—but never forget the sacred humanity of the person before you.

The victory of the spiritual life is not merely
overcoming evil, it is confronting evil without allowing
evil to teach us how to live.

Pray for humanity and all the nations of this world....

A tempered heart....

There is a kind of love that comforts, shelters, and defends. But there is another kind of love—perhaps a harder one—that knows when to stand nearby and allow another person to live through the difficulty that life has placed before them.

We are called to bear one another’s burdens, but we are not called to remove every burden. Sometimes our eagerness to defend another springs from genuine compassion; yet sometimes, without realizing it, we may deny them the very struggle through which wisdom, strength, and grace are being born.

Life is not perfect. People disappoint us. We are misunderstood. Things go unfairly. There are wounds we cannot prevent and circumstances we cannot repair. Much of spiritual maturity lies in learning, as Sister Joan suggests, to endure “the average heat of the average day”—to receive both its pain and its blessing with a tempered heart.

Perhaps friendship sometimes asks us simply to remain present: not to rescue, not to take sides, not to make another’s difficulty our battle, but to say quietly, I am here. I will walk beside you.

For sometimes the most loving thing we can do is allow those we love to grow.

It is not abandonment.

It is trust.

And sometimes, it is simply life.

Leadership on the road of life....

Authority is never given simply to elevate the person who holds it. Authority exists for the sake of peace and charity. The higher one stands in a community, the more carefully one must guard against pride. Leadership is not possession but service—a responsibility entrusted to us for the good of others.

The porter stands at the threshold, ready to receive whoever comes with gentleness and warmth. Sr. Joan sees something larger than hospitality. The spiritual life requires both openness and rootedness. We open the door to life without surrendering the quiet center from which we meet it.

And inevitably, we must go beyond the door. We journey into the world, carrying the prayers of the community with us. We do not travel alone. We belong to one another even in absence, and what happens to one of us matters to all.

Perhaps that is where Sr. Joan has been leading us. The centered life does not protect us from difficult things. It prepares us to meet them. Benedict allows us to speak honestly about our limits, but he also cautions us against assuming too quickly that our limits are final.

Sometimes God waits just beyond the boundary of what we believe we can do.

The Benedictine life is neither withdrawal nor restless striving. It is the quiet practice of remaining rooted in God—serving humbly, welcoming generously, journeying prayerfully, and trusting that when we reach the limits of our own strength—grace will abide.

Heavenly Father

As we open doors and walk down the corridors of life,
keep us focused on you.

When we are given authority,
make us servants.

When someone comes to our door,
teach us to receive them with love.

When we journey beyond familiar places,
remind us that we never travel alone.

And when we are challenged 
sometimes beyond our strength,
give us humility to speak truthfully,
courage to continue faithfully,
and trust enough to discover
what, through your grace, 
you can accomplish through us.

May we seek neither position nor comfort,
but only the grace to become
what you are calling us to be.

Amen.