Over the last week or so, as the weather has taken a turn for the heat and humidity, I’ve moved the focus of my time on work projects from landscaping to some neglected rooms in our home. Last week I spent a day facing and taming the utility room, the repository of the clutter and debris that falls from consumer electronics like leaves from a tree in autumn. It is truly astounding to see the number of cables, connectors, installation disks, and power adaptors that accumulate over time.

I had a range of feelings pass over me while I was working. On the one hand it felt satisfying finally to be dealing with a deferred pile of work. On the other hand, I wondered at my tendency to save things on the odd chance that I might need that seventh USB cable at some point. And on still another hand, I was struck by the irony and the sadness of realizing that I had now become a servant of the very technologies that presumably were created—and which I invited into my life—in order to bring ease and convenience. In the end, they had brought complexity and inconvenience.

So when I opened The Rule of Benedict this morning, it seemed fitting to read a chapter entitled, “Whether a Monk Ought to Receive Letters or Anything Else.” The main point of the chapter appears to be that the monastery preserves its community by recognizing that the commitment to own nothing personal, but to share all things, includes the expressions and favors that might come to an individual monk from a relative. For that reason, the abbot decides what ought to be done with any incoming items.

This sounds foreign and harsh, but only because it is hard for me to set aside the unexamined premise that I have a right to my own personal property. The monastic life does not assume this same premise, so the system in the Rule is not an affront to that third Lockean right so dear to us and so crucial to our modern way of living: “the pursuit of property.”

What I had confronted in the utility room—and again yesterday in the garage—is the reality that the pursuit of property takes an (inevitable) turn to possession by property. And possession is exactly the right word. Saint Benedict, it seems to me, clearly sees the spiritual issues underlying possessions. And so he writes, “The brother to whom [the gift] was sent should not be saddened, in order not to give the devil an opening” (RB 54:4, citing Ephesians 4:27). This seems to be the wisdom underlying the traditional vow of poverty and the oblatial adaptation of the vow as a promise of sufficiency.

This gives me a new way to look at the accumulations of possessions I will face when I return to the garage or the cupboards in my office or …. I can ask myself whether an item leads to sufficiency or to a spirit of possession. And if the answer is the second, can I let the item pass through my fingers without sadness, “in order not to give the devil an opening?”

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

In today’s world, many monasteries are renowned for offering retreats and for their gracious hospitality. Showing that kind of welcome to guests is one of the fundamental marks of a monastic community and is the theme of Chapter 53 in The Rule of Benedict. The Saint’s statements are powerful and moving. He writes:

All guests who arrive should be received as Christ, for he himself will say, I was a stranger and you took me in (RB 53:1).

The greeting itself, however, ought to manifest complete humility toward guests who are arriving or departing: by an inclination of the head or by a complete prostration on the ground, one must adore Christ in them, for he is in fact the one who is received (RB 53:6-7).

The greatest care should be exhibited in the reception of the poor and pilgrims, for Christ is more especially received in them; for the very fear of the rich wins them respect (RB 53:15).

Even with my ears partially plugged by my stubbornness and my dislike for disruptions, I can hear Saint Benedict’s message clearly in this chapter. For me to live by the spirit of his Rule is to recognize that times for offering hospitality are times for honoring Christ, as “one must adore Christ in them, for he is in fact the one who is received.” This is one of the greater spiritual challenges I face.

As I ruminate over why this might be a challenge, I’m drawn to a few possibilities. One is that I have a dislike for disruption and disorder, which can certainly take place when guests come. But the Benedictine quality of hospitality critiques this, saying that the higher purpose in life is to welcome the gift of the guest because Christ abides in him or her. The second is that I do not like surrendering control of my life to others, but the Benedictine quality of obedience again offers a critique, challenging me to recognize that it is God—and not I—who controls my life. A third is that I am afraid of what might happen to me if I “let” the living Christ run loose in my life. But once again, the Benedictine quality of stability says that the dependable ground of my life lies in my relationships with God and the community and not in the illusory immutability that I believe my self-mastery brings.

On the one hand, these feel like high hurdles for me to surmount. But on the other hand, I can trust that God will grant me the grace to open myself to the possibilities of a living encounter with his Son as he comes hidden deep within the people who come and go in my life. It helps that Father Terrence Kardong’s commentary points out the echoes in this chapter of the account of the Lord’s visit to Abraham and Sarah under the oaks of Mamre:

The LORD appeared to Abraham at the oaks of Mamre, as he sat at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day. He looked up and saw three men standing near him. When he saw them, he ran from the tent entrance to meet them, and bowed down to the ground. He said, “My lord, if I find favor with you, do not pass by your servant. Let a little water be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree. Let me bring you a little bread, that you may refresh yourselves, and after that you may pass on—since you have come to your servant.” So they said, “Do as you have said” (Genesis 18:1-5, NRSV).

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

One of the differences between a gadget and a tool is that a gadget tends to be a Hydra with many “heads”—the BrewButler 8000 Millennium Edition not only makes the perfect cup of coffee, it is a fully functional alarm clock and digital personal assistant. But when I think of a tool, I picture a device that excels as the one thing its inventor designed and destined it to be—the Bialetti makes one small cup of espresso…period.

That’s a bit of an exaggeration, a small overstatement of the distinction, but beneath these broad strokes lurks at least a small grain of truth. There is often some sacrifice that comes with making a thing serve multiple functions; while versatility has its virtues, virtuosity often lies in focus of vision. This may be a little of what Saint Benedict intends when he writes, “The oratory should be in fact what it is called, and nothing else should be done or stored there” (RB 52:1).

He then describes, not the appointments of the room, but the deportment of those who come and go within its walls. The oratory is for prayer, both corporate and private, and for no other activity. The room is reserved, and yet all are welcome, so long as their purpose is prayer. In fact, the moral principle that Saint Benedict describes is one of honoring others. First of all, praying to God, carrying out the Opus Dei, is an act reverence to God, that concludes in the same spirit: “When the Work of God is finished, they shall all leave in deepest silence and show reverence for God” (RB 52:2). This shows honor to God.

Then the community shows honor to others and to their need for a place to pray by the peace and quiet it preserves in the oratory: “Thus will the brother who may wish to pray by himself not be hindered by the thoughtlessness of another” (RB 52:3). The space and time that opens in the oratory offers a sanctuary (the word we most often use to describe the place where we worship) for individuals who desire a place for prayer: “But if someone perhaps wishes to pray privately at some other time, let him simply go in and pray, not in a loud voice but with tears and full attention of heart” (RB 52:4).

The principle of honoring others is reflected in showing reverence to God and respect for others and their need for a place for prayer. As Saint Benedict concludes, “Therefore, whoever is not busy with this kind of work is not permitted to remain in the oratory, as the place is called. For the prayer of another should not be disturbed” (RB 52:5). Here Saint Benedict ends by repeating the observation he made at the outset; the oratory is a place for prayer. It is a tool with a single purpose.

So when I ask myself how this insight can shape my life, two actions come to mind. First, I can be careful that my demeanor when I am in any sanctuary does not inhibit another from using that place and time for prayer. Second, when I am in a position of responsibility and leadership in a parish, I can promote a vision that sees the oratory/sanctuary as a place for honoring others, in showing reverence to God and in offering respect to others.

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

Sometimes as I read chapters in The Rule of Benedict, the cultural and historical differences between the sixth and twenty-first centuries seem especially pronounced. Chapter 51 provides one of those times when the distinctions assert themselves. It’s a brief chapter, so it’s worth reading as a complete unit:

If a brother is sent out on some errand and is expected to return to the monastery the same day, he should not presume to eat outside, even if he is begged to do so by someone, unless perhaps he has been told to do so by his abbot. If he does otherwise, he is to be excommunicated (RB 51:1-3).

Several differences strike me as I ruminate on this passage and ask myself what it might offer to guide me, as a Novice Oblate, in living according to the spirit of the Rule. First, the prohibition on eating meals outside of the community, unless one has explicit permission, seems disconnected from a culture in which we feel free to eat pretty much whenever and wherever we choose, especially with the pervasive and almost perpetual availability of fast food.

But then, as I think about this, the cultural differences in the way meals fit into community life come to mind. It becomes very easy to view food simply as fuel and to drive through a restaurant’s carside service lanes just the way we drive through the self-pumping fuel lanes at a service station. One is to fuel our bodies and one is to fuel our cars.

This difference challenges me to remind myself that meals are as much about fostering community and fellowship with the ones sitting at the table with me as they are about replenishing my stores of energy for the coming hours. Both are important, but the balance between them is the goal of the Benedictine “and.” Meals are a time to nourish both body and relationships.

When I think about meals that way, then it becomes a little more clear to me why Saint Benedict might create a rule that clamps down on a brother eating away from the monastery when it is possible for him to eat within the monastery. It’s because the meal is not just about satisfying hunger, it is also about offering oneself as a companion to the other members of the community. So if one chooses to eat away from the community, the others are deprived of the gift of companionship (which is rooted in the words meaning “to share bread with”).

Then it is clear why the abbot needs to grant permission, because a greater good needs to outweigh the loss of companionship. And finally, the penalty of excommunication makes some sense too, as it reinforces the value the community places on that companionship.

Perhaps the lesson I can draw from all of this is that even a simple decision, such as whether to pick up a burger while on the way between here and there, is one that I ought not make without considering its ramifications, its impact on others, and the extent to which the needs of others with whom I share a community inform (give shape) to my day and provide opportunities for service. There really is no boundary to the reach of the word Omnibus (all things) in the Benedictine byword, “That in All Things God May Be Glorified.”

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

For some reason, modern English has grown enamored with the term center. One of the places this word now appears is in reference to worship center, meaning the place in a parish’s building where the community gathers for worship. An older term is sanctuary, which carries with it some resonant and tender associations. Another—perhaps still older—term is oratory. This is the term appearing in the Latin text of The Rule of Benedict. It refers to the place in the monastery where the brothers gather for prayer (ora).

But sometimes brothers will find themselves, in the course of their labors, at a distance from the oratory, so that they cannot make their way to the gathering for the Office, the opus Dei. Saint Benedict provides a chapter in his Rule that outlines the adaptation the brothers ought to make:

Brothers who are at work very far from the oratory and who cannot arrive at the oratory in time—the abbot judges whether that is really the case—should pray the Office where they are working. They must kneel out of fear of the Lord. Similarly, when they are sent on a journey, they should not miss praying at the proper hours. They should do so privately as they are able and not neglect to satisfy their measure of service (RB 50:1-4).

It’s interesting to me to learn how Saint Benedict works flexibility into his Rule, making it adaptable rather than rigid. He does not say that one may neglect praying when one cannot gather with the group in the customary place. Rather, he holds to the central place of prayer, but permits flexibility in the choice of place.

One of the steps I took to assist me in developing a dependable habit of praying the Office was to create a place in my study where I go whenever I am home and it is time for my devotions. It is a section of my desk where I have hung the olive wood crucifix I bought in Bethlehem on my trip to Israel in 1985. There is a candle that I light and a pottery bowl that I made filled with water for reminding myself of my Baptism. This, in a sense, is my oratory.

When I sit there, I turn away from the preoccupations and distractions of the rest of my life and turn to Christ. The crucifix is an icon of his presence, the candle symbolizes the light in him that no darkness can overcome, the water is a reminder of his Sacrament, and the Office brings to voice the Word of God.

But sometimes I have not been able to come to my little oratory, because Anne and I have been traveling. In those cases, my temporary oratories have been the places where I pray the Office. Lacking the prodigious memory cultivated by the oral culture of antiquity, I rely upon the seasonal volumes of The Liturgy of the Hours for my texts. That does not change when the location changes.

Over the past year, I can recall setting up temporary oratories in a variety of locations: hotel rooms across Italy and in Omaha (Nebraska), Livingston (New Jersey), and McPherson (Kansas); the train station in Firenze, Italy; the study at my Mom and Dad’s home; the corner of the living room at Tara and Dennis’s home; and the McDonald’s in Ord (Nebraska). It feels to me that the flexibility and adaptability of Saint Benedict’s Rule helps me to find a good answer to the question of how I might live according to the spirit of that Rule, even and especially when variety comes to my daily life.

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.