Care for Others and Spiritual Growth

 Joan Chittister’s book, The Monastery of the Heart, which we’ve been exploring in this devotional series, is an exploration of the Rule of Benedict in order to see that the principles of godly spirituality which it espouses are available to all humans, not just to those in physical monasteries and convents. Jesus clearly taught and demonstrated that we are to live our lives in the world, though not of it, seeking to act out the love of God to all who come in our way.

This chapter, “Loving Service,” is a particularly touching one. It speaks of the special care which Benedict required monastics to give to the elderly, infirm, and young. We have already seen in past chapters that the Benedictine model is different from many medieval monasteries in its decision to seek the middle ways rather than demanding extreme asceticism, self-punishment, and so on, such as Martin Luther experienced in his Augustinian order.

Chittister writes:

There is in Benedictine spirituality

a deeply compassionate heart

that neither glorifies the suppression

of human feelings

nor denies the reality of human needs.

Nowhere is that clearer than in

the attention the Rule gives

to the needs of the elderly, the sick,

and the children of the monastery.

Already we see a difference—how many monasteries would have had any children in them? Benedictines, then and now, are required to offer hospitality to all who come to them, believing that is what God, in Hebrews 13:2, had in mind.

She goes on:

We are here to enable one another

to go further.

We are here to learn from the insights

of the other.

We are here to bring all of humanity

to fullness of life.

The Rule is clear about the lengths

to which a Benedictine goes

to sustain the elderly,

to heal the sick,

to support the young in the community. . . .

Suffering is not glorified in this Rule;

Loving care is its norm. . . .

No amount of special asceticism

can equal the amount

of spiritual growth

and human maturity

that comes with care for others.

I believe that “we” in the first line of this passage means me. Means you. Means all of us who claim to follow the Way of the Christ.

Equality in the Spirit

Equality in the Spirit

Chapter 9 in The Monastery of the Heart is titled “Equality.” In it, Chittister begins by saying that we like to think equality is the characteristic of our age—that we are all equal now, with equal importance and respect, and equal opportunities. But, she contends that in fact “inequality is the greatest sign of our time.”

. . . it is also our world

that enslaves the poor to the drudgery

of survival, that ranks women as lower human beings

than men,

that distributes the goods

 we produce

according to race,

that worships at the feet

of the gods of money,

and lives in gated communities

in order to keep

the rest of the world out.

To this world,

Benedictine spirituality says clearly,

“No.”

She points out that elders, who have lived longer in the heat of life are considered as elders or wisdom figures, as signs that

. . . life grows sweeter with time,

 . . . holier with experience,

 . . .richer of heart

as the heart grows deeper into God.

But age and seniority

are also not its gods.

 . . .”the Spirit often reveals what is better

to the younger.”

The principle is a clear one:

“The Spirit blows where it will.”

We cannot damp down

the fire of the Spirit

on the basis of anything

but the greater movement

of the Spirit itself.

I find it noteworthy that Chittister does not say “We must not.” She says “We cannot.”

Community—Real or Not?

An interesting thing has been happening in our little “monasteries of the heart” group. The point of the book we are studying, Joan Chittister’s The Monastery of the Heart, is that one may practice many of the spiritual principles outlined by 5^th century monk, Benedict of Nursia, while living an “ordinary” life in the everyday world, rather than moving to a convent or monastery. But it is also true that ordinary, everyday life tends to get in the way.

In my opinion, that’s one of the main arguments for not moving into a convent or monastery—I believe Jesus showed us that spirituality is meant to be lived out in the regular, argumentative, difficult, chaotic world, not closeted with others of like mind. But any  monk or nun could tell you human nature is still present in the cloister, too.

In our case, what we’ve been weathering lately is that we feel less “together,” less communal and even less committed than we did at first. The group was intended to meet during the weeks of Lent, but some of us decided we wanted to continue to meet longer. Yet we find ourselves forgetting to pray together at noon, or praying but wondering if others are praying or if they care. . .

Naturally we are all aware that what matters most in prayer is that God cares and that we care. But community is what we were after. So it takes a little re-centering—a little extra effort. A little discussion and decision. . .

So it was with interest not unmixed with amusement that we opened to our next chapter this week: “Mutuality.”

[Community] cannot be accomplished

without making some kind

of connections—

but connections alone

are no guarantee

that a real community

will really form.

On the other hand,

to become community

in a Monastery of the Heart

requires regular

and meaningful interaction

among the members. . .

It gives us the underpinning

that enables us to go on

when we’re tired,

to go forward

when we’re afraid,

to go more deeply into the unmasking

of the self

when everything inside of us

seems to have gone to stone,

goes dry and dull

and lethargic. . .

How can you see these principles at work in the relationships you live in?

Rest and Retreat

Chapter seven of The Monastery of the Heart is “Retreat and Reflection.” This, in essence, is what our little prayer group that meets on Wednesday nights is doing—retreating to reflect together on where we are versus where we want to be. As Chittister puts it,

This requires the cultivation

of a reflective soul

and a disciplined mind

that goes regularly into “retreat”—

into that space where we look,

first of all, at what we set out to be,

and then look consciously

at what we are now doing

to get there.

There is value in doing this together. There may be even more value in doing it alone. Both are necessary. Christian traditions of all kinds (not to mention other faiths) have always included a sort of “soul inspection,” often at the end of the day. All too often, this has become a self-flagellating catalogue of sins. Mind you, it’s important to look our sins squarely in the face. To confess them to ourselves, then to God, then to the person or persons we have harmed. But the inspection doesn’t end there.

In fact, perhaps it shouldn’t begin there. In the family book Making Heart Bread, authors Matthew Linn and Sheila Fabricant Linn speak of looking back at each day and asking what one is most grateful for first, letting the heart fill with that gratitude and love. Then, they say, one feels safer and is now ready to look at what one was least grateful for, or most troubled about, and care for those feelings.

In the context of soul-searching, if I look at the moments when my soul did follow the Holy Spirit to the best of its ability first, then of course I will be filled with joy and gratitude, because I know those moments were of God, not of me! Now, if I am also aware of moments when I failed to follow the Spirit, I can feel the regret and remorse without feeling overwhelmed or shamed or blamed, which is far more helpful in determining how to make restitution, if possible, and how to do better next time.

Retreat time is the flagship piece of the year

that sets the standard

for a rhythm of life that moves seamlessly

between contemplation and action,

between work and Sabbath,

between a regular retreat

and reflection days

throughout the year.

The Creator designed a life that would have these retreats built in: daily at morning and evening worship time, weekly on the seventh day, and several times a year during fasts and feasts. Why would we rob ourselves of these healing times?

Silence

Silence

Joan Chittister writes:

Silence. . .

brings us beyond the noise

of chaos and clutter and confusion

of a spinning world

to the cool, calm center

of the spiritual self.

(The Monastery of the Soul, ch. 5)

David writes:

My soul, wait in silence

for God only,

for my hope is from him.

(Ps. 62:5)

God, speaking through Isaiah, says:

Coastlands, listen to me in silence,

and let the peoples gain new strength;

let them come forward,

then let them speak.

(Is. 41:1, emphasis added.)

I have often noticed that some Christians—well, many people, Christian or not!—seem to be afraid of silence. I think that to come before God with our prayers, speak them all, then say Amen and go away is rude. God wants to speak to us, too, and he’d like the courtesy of a hearing.

Along with a large dose of humility.

What have you heard or felt in the silence this week?

Life, Death, Life

Within the months following my husband’s death in 2011, I told my pastor that one extremely comforting thing was that the grief was just pure grief. I didn’t have regrets or remorse, I didn’t feel there were things I wished I’d done, or had left undone, or done better. I knew that, before God, I had done the very best I knew to do, taken care of him up to and beyond my ability, by the grace of God. I had made it through the Valley, and now had only recovery to face. It seemed possible.

When, only nine months later, my young, quite healthy mother suddenly died, I felt machine-gunned off at the knees. It took me months to even consider that it might be true, let alone begin to deal with it. Only, now it was complicated grief. Guilt and remorse dogged me. Every single thing I’d ever done or left undone or done “wrong” since I was five years old roared up into my face and stoned me and beat me and broke my heart.

Last Thursday, in counseling, I realized I was now the one doing the shaming and blaming that used to come to me from the outside. I was judge, executioner, and victim all at once. Life imprisonment, torture---no punishment seemed great enough for my sin.

Then I went to the Maundy Thursday service. As I listened to the Bible readings of Jesus’ last supper, betrayal, and trial, it dawned on me—I’d lost sight of the cross!  Jesus had already served a life sentence on a penal colony called earth. He’d already accepted the torture and the death penalty. My sins, which were many, were nailed to the cross forever.

The next day, I took part in the community Good Friday service. I was asked to pray the dramatic Prayer of Lament that ended in tears at the foot of our small cross, nothing like the horrible instrument of torture that had killed my God.

Sabbath, I did my own little memorial service for my mother, in the woods she loved so much. I hung a birdhouse she’d made, sang one of the 200+ songs she wrote, and scattered some of her ashes. I cried. I told God I knew my sins were all burned up like those ashes, and that I would let the burden go and give God my sins and my remorse and guilt with them.

Sunday morning, the clouds were heavy. You couldn’t see if the sun had risen or not. But the Son did—with healing in His wings. And I rose with Him in newness of life. My grief is pure grief now. It still hurts. But, because He lives, Les and Mama will, too. And every day is one day closer.

I still have work to do—work God created me for—and God can make me strong to do it. I can be touched by sorrow and loss, I can weep, I can be broken. But I can’t be chained down by the demons of guilt and shame. They have no power here. The tears can run clear.

Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!!

Pray hard!

This week in our “monastery of the heart,” we are concentrating on prayer. The chapter abounds in eternal and unarguable truths:

Benedictine spirituality is rooted

in the timelessness

of scripture.

It is the story of God’s way

with the world.

And. . .

Bendictine prayer,

the heartbeat of Benedictine spirituality,

is always about

the presence of God in time—

this time, our time, my time.

And. . .

Prayer . . . heals the wounds of the day

and reminds us who we want to be

at the deepest, truest part of us.

Honestly, it’s such a beautiful and enriching chapter, such an encouragement to rededicate myself to deep and constant prayer, that it’s hard to choose quotes to share. Get the book! Read it! Some parts you’ll read over and over. But in the end, it’s not reading this or any book that matters.

Pray.

Pray hard.

Pray unceasingly.

Pray your praise and thanks.

Pray your laments and cries of sorrow.

Pray your doubts. Who else can you ask but God’s own self??

Pray.

What counts, says Chittister, “is not the sum of prayers we pray. . . It is the way our prayer life changes our own hearts and lives—the way it makes us more centered in God, the way it makes us more aware of our own limitations—that determines its quality.”

Amen!