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© Saint Meinrad Archabbey
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One
day several years ago, our Br. Zachary was serving as lunch attendant in the
monastery refectory (or dining room). As he was preparing the lunch line for
the daily onslaught of hungry monks, into the refectory rolled Br. Stephen on
his motorized scooter. (Br. Stephen, God rest his soul, has since passed away;
he died in 2009 at the age of 85).
As
he passed Br. Zachary, Br. Stephen barked, “Here, hold this!” Br. Zachary held
out his hand, into which was deposited a set of false teeth. With his customary
gracious humor, Br. Zachary replied, “Br. Stephen, how lovely! You’ve given me
your smile!”
That
is one glimpse of life as a monk in an intergenerational community. Here is
another:
Our
Br. Jerome recently turned 85 years old. For many years, he worked on the
Archabbey grounds crew. He helped build Bede Hall. These days, he cleans the
Archabbey Church, helps out with meal duties in the monastery infirmary, and
dispenses the refectory wine. He’s one of the first monks up in the morning,
getting up at 3 a.m. to put the coffee on for everyone else. In the evening
before Compline, he typically sits on a bench outside the church watching the
sun set.
Now,
one of Br. Jerome’s pet peeves happens to be when someone in the monastery
takes the last paper towel off the roll without replacing it with a fresh one.
Surely, many can relate to this domestic difficulty. Imagine dealing with it in
a household filled with 60 or 70 grown men!
One
day, maybe 10 years ago or so, Br. John Mark was walking down the hall when he
encountered Br. Jerome, who had an armload of paper towels. Br. John Mark
greeted him, remarking, “Wow, Br. Jerome, that sure is a lot of paper towels
you have there.”
Without
batting an eye, Br. Jerome replied, “I live meekly in a state of war.”
Monks
are fond of telling and re-telling stories about our lives together in the
monastery. That one is my all-time favorite. As the psalmist says, “How good
and pleasant it is when brothers dwell in unity!” (Psalm 133:1). One thing is
certain--it’s never boring living in
a monastery.
Our
monastic way of life is more than intergenerational, however. Our community
life as monks is an inter-relational intersection of diverse ages,
personalities, temperaments, interests, education levels, backgrounds, talents,
and abilities. Present among us are various manners of expression, thinking,
and acting. There is a wide array of opinions, habits, and yes, idiosyncrasies.
Altogether, it makes for quite a flavorful stew—all kinds of stuff thrown into one
pot!
Diverse
as we are, however, one common objective unites us in a way that nothing else
likely would. Each monk here is called to seek God together in our common
prayer, work, and way of life. This life with one another as monks of Saint
Meinrad is the one that God has chosen for each of us as we strive for
conversion of heart. And that is a process that is mysteriously and inseparably
linked with the rest of the community. It’s not a do-it-yourself project.
This
is what makes the monastic way of life such a beautiful witness to the world—a
world which applauds unity in diversity, yet often finds itself fragmented by
exclusion, division, and self-absorption. St. Benedict’s Rule for monks calls us to live with, and love one another as
brothers. The monastic community, in a certain sense, is modelled on the family.
We belong to this place, and this community. We are guided by the Rule—and, by extension, the Gospel—as
well as by the abbot, our father in Christ. Whatever our ages, origins, or
abilities, we are bound by our vows to one another and to seeking God in this particular
way of life and in this community.
As
St. Paul wrote (cf. Romans 12; 1Corinthians 12), we are, though many, one body
in Christ and individually parts of one another. Such is also the case with the
family or any Christian community. We
need one another to become the
persons God calls us to be. “Living the truth in love,” St. Paul wrote to the
Ephesians (4:15-16), we should grow in every way into him who is the head,
Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and held together by every supporting
ligament, with the proper functioning of each part, brings about the body’s
growth and builds itself up in love.”
So,
as monks of Saint Meinrad, like any family or Christian community living under
the Gospel, we are called, as St. Paul wrote to the Romans (12:10f), to “love
another with mutual affection; anticipate one another in showing honor; … be
fervent in spirit, serving the Lord. Rejoice in hope, endure in affliction, and
persevere in prayer.”
We
are to preach the Gospel to the world, not only through our various works and
ministries, but by living each day the good zeal St. Benedict calls for in
Chapter 72 of his Rule when he writes:
“support with the greatest patience one another’s weaknesses of body or behavior,
and earnestly compete in obedience to one another. No one is to pursue what he
judges better for himself, but instead, what he judges better for someone else.”
With
such words, St. Benedict displays an especially keen awareness of human nature
and the dynamics of community living. If such instructions were not necessary,
they would not have been written down. He seemed to know what it takes to draw
together monks of various ages, backgrounds, and personalities, and effectively
guide them along the path to holiness.
St.
Benedict exhorts the younger monks to respect the seniors, and the elders to
love the juniors. Community rank is determined by date of profession, and not
by age. Superiors are to seek counsel not only from the elder monks but also from
the younger ones, because “the Lord often reveals what is better to the
younger.” In addition, the monks are to reverence Christ by caring for the sick
and elderly. Perhaps most importantly, the monks are to practice obedience “not
only to the abbot, but also to one another,” showing respect to one another. “Let
them,” St. Benedict says, “prefer nothing whatever to Christ, and may he bring
us all together to everlasting life.”
Put
into daily practice, such images and instructions are as challenging as they
are inspirational. As Atticus Finch tells his daughter Scout in the novel To Kill a Mockingbird, “You can choose
your friends, but you sure can’t choose your family.” Imagine, if you will,
living in the same place with all your aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers,
sisters, and so on. Young and old, similar and dissimilar, you share everything
and care for one another—whether you’re particularly fond of one another or not.
You’re together every day—to worship and pray, to eat meals, and for recreation
and work.
In
some developing countries and within more traditional cultures, such a way of
life has been the norm for centuries. For most of us in the West, it is an
unfamiliar concept. I’m not sure about you, but as much as I love my family and
relatives, I wouldn’t want to live
with all of them—and vice-versa, I’m sure.
However,
when you’re a member of a family—whether in the ordinary way of understanding the
term or in the analogous sense of a monastic community—it is God who chooses you. The community into
which you are placed is a divine gift, a blessing intended by God to help you
become the person you are meant to be. As necessary and valuable as friends are, we tend to choose as
companions those who share similar tastes, interests and ideas. But a family or
community of diverse—even sometimes difficult—people challenges, supports, and shapes us in ways that
many friends cannot or will not.
You
learn about yourself in community, and how to live with and love people who are
different than you in a multitude of ways. You are uniquely challenged to
recognize Christ’s presence in daily circumstances and relationships. With a
heart open to God’s gift of the Spirit, living in a faith-filled community
helps one to grow in hope—and that, in turn, builds up the community in love.
It is as rewarding as it is challenging.
From
my own perspective, living in a community of nearly 90 monks is not something I
would have envisioned or chosen for myself 10 years ago. But in his great
mercy, God mysteriously chose me for
this way of life, and I heard the call and responded. When I was on my own, I
called the shots. To a large degree, I did what I liked and didn’t do what I
disliked. And in the long run, that made me very unhappy.
Coming
to the monastery provided the accountability, purpose, and direction that my
life had been missing. Living with a diverse group of monks united in seeking
God has shown me things about myself—the
good, the bad, and the ugly, as it were—that I may never have recognized
otherwise. This way of life, and the community in which it is lived each day,
have helped me to move forward along the path to becoming the person God has
called me to be.
Here
is an example of what I mean: Fr. Simeon (God rest his soul) died nearly two
years ago at the age of 90. He was the Archabbey librarian for almost 50 years.
In his later years, he helped out in the Development Office and did some
writing. Fr. Simeon passed on some valuable insight to me, particularly when I
was a novice, and I was edified by his monastic example—his regular presence at
the Divine Office, his pitching in to do dishes at the age of 85 shortly after
his recovery from one of several health scares, his daily commitment to feeding
an fellow confrere in the infirmary who was too weak to look after himself, and
his genuine joy in arm-wrestling with One Bread One Cup participants.
When
I was a novice in 2007, I was assigned to Fr. Simeon on a couple occasions to
help him clean out his office. This was after his recovery from a serious
health crisis, and it was time for him to downsize, and to begin to put things
in order. He would no longer need an office; everything had to go.
Mistakenly,
I viewed this as just another assignment—work which I was anxious to complete
so I could move on to the next thing. I began picking things up, stacking and carting
them, and then impatiently awaiting instructions on what to do with it all.
Fr.
Simeon, on the other hand, was in no hurry. Every single object or scrap of
paper had a story, some special significance. Finally, he said to me, gently
but firmly: “Put that stuff down and just listen. Don’t be in such a hurry.”
And so I did, reluctantly at first. Then he began unfolding his memories of
people, places, and events that were behind all the piles of what I had initially
viewed as just stuff.
Fr.
Simeon passed on a lot of wisdom in the process. Eventually, I began looking
forward to my few hours with Fr. Simeon, and the time seemed to pass too
quickly. I don’t think we really got much work accomplished, but I realize now
that wasn’t the point. He had a story to tell. He needed someone to hear it,
and he needed someone to help him close what must have been a very difficult
chapter in his life. He didn’t need someone to lift boxes as much as he needed
someone to listen. It was one of my first monastic lessons. Fr. Simeon taught
me to find grace in the moment. As a novice, I needed to learn that lesson. So,
we both had something to offer the other as we each transitioned into new
chapters in our lives.
Now,
not every lesson comes by way of
someone like Fr. Simeon. Often, the grace of the moment is presented through a
person or circumstance that is not quite so endearing. As we know, it is impossible
to truly grow in virtue unless we’re challenged
by opportunities to practice virtue. The
key is to genuinely listen to what
God may be trying to teach me through every situation or person I encounter.
Fr.
Thomas, one of the youngest members of our monastic community, says it quite
well in a comment he provided for an article I wrote for The Criterion last year. He says: “The fact that we have all ended
up together in this place, and that so many different people have persevered
for decades in our house, convinces me that God has called us here. Only God
could be creative enough and trusting enough to bring us all together. Thus, I
believe that each of my brothers has something to teach me, if only I am humble
enough to listen and observe with a generous heart.”
In
other words, every person in this community assembled by God has something to
teach me; so I must listen—every day. The young bring energy, enthusiasm, and
new ideas. The elderly offer wisdom, the example of perseverance, and the gift
of prayerful reflection. Those in the middle bring generativity, purpose, and direction.
Beyond
the age factor, the one with a listening heart can learn something from each person’s unique personality,
ability, and behavior—no matter how attractive or unattractive they may be. In
all these encounters, we are provided with numerous opportunities to grow in
love as we seek God together in this place.
As
St. Paul wrote to the Corinthians, though we are many, we are one body in
Christ and individually parts of it. This is true of us in the monastery, and
in the wider sense of the entire Church, it is true of each one of you. In
Christ our head, we all need one another.
Let us all then, as St. Benedict wrote, “prefer
nothing whatever to Christ, and may he bring us all together to everlasting
life.”
