One of the little lessons I remember from my years of taking private lessons to play the alto saxophone is that music comprises both sound and silence. In many ways, the silence provides the setting, the foundation, from which the melodies and harmonies arise and take their shape in our ears’ memories. The famous opening theme from Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, for example, repeats at the beginning of the first movement, but between the two statements of the theme lies a rest, when none of the instruments in the orchestra plays. This brief—but essential—silence helps to make the power and grandeur of that theme all the more eloquent. This is why my teacher said that a rest was “timed silence.” I take that to mean that the silence is deliberate.

It seems that a reading of “No One is to Speak after Compline,” Chapter 42 in The Rule of Benedict, leads me to a similar appreciation for the role of silence in monastic living, and so too, for the place of silence in my life, as I seek to live according to the spirit of this Rule. Saint Benedict begins by writing, “Monks ought to strive for silence at all times, but especially during the night hours” (RB 42:1). I appreciate his use of the phrase “to strive” (studere), because, as a commentator notes, it “implies that they will not always succeed” (Terrence G. Kardong, Benedict’s Rule: A Translation and Commentary, p. 345.). So this is yet another time when the Rule strives (successfully!) for a reasonable and attainable approach to holy living.

This time of “striv[ing] for silence” comes as a pause, a rest, at the end of the day, a day that has been punctuated by the praying of the Liturgy of the Hours. So if one looks at the mix of sound and silence, the composition of the day’s music reveals itself. There is a time to speak and a time to listen.

Most everyone who knows me knows I am a big fan of Apple Inc. and its products. I have owned an iPod for a number of years and thoroughly enjoy its amazing ability to pack enough music into a little box in my pocket that I could listen for 45 days without hearing the same song twice. So it would be no surprise to note that I used to listen to music on my iPod while I worked in the yard. But this spring, as I have spent time planting flowers and grasses and shrubs and plucking up weeds, I have not broken out my iPod. Instead, I have let this time outdoors be a time of silence, a rest from the sounds I might choose to fill my ears, and a time to listen to nature’s improvisations and to attune myself to the rhythms of my own thoughts as they arise in my mind’s ear.

Or perhaps I should have used the phrase “ear of my heart.” After all, in the the first sentence his Rule, Saint Benedict’s writes obliquely of silence, “Listen, O my son, to the teachings of your master, and turn to them with the ear of your heart” (RB Prol. 1).

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

The chapter’s title, “At What Hours Should the Brothers Take Their Meals?”, led me to believe I would be reading my way through a thicket of details, with little to find worthy of adapting to my daily life. And the truth is that much of this section does concern itself with the timing and frequency of meals. Without clocks, a monastic community arranges its life around other rhythms: the liturgical year and the ebb and flow of daylight and darkness that come with the changing of the seasons. One could adapt or even adopt this for life outside of a monastery, but it would be challenging, especially when living in a family and amid a community that might not adhere to the same rhythms.

But then, dropped right into the middle of this brief chapter is an amazing sentence: “And so [the abbot] should arrange all things with such moderation that souls might be saved and the brothers can do their work without justifiable murmuring” (RB 41:5).

It seems to me that Saint Benedict says here that even something that might seem so mundane as the scheduling of meals can become an aid or a hindrance to the journey of faith of a member of the community. The key is “…arrang[ing] all things with such moderation that souls might be saved….” That helps me to explore how I can live according to the spirit of the Rule.

There is no detail of my life that is so small that I cannot ask how I might arrange it so that it helps, and does not hinder, my life of faith. Do I eat meals in balance with my need for sustenance and with gratitude to God for his blessings? Do I care for the possessions with which I am entrusted without making of them an idol for celebrating my own tendencies to acquisition? How might I see caring for our pets as a way to express stewardship and loving dominion for God’s creation, but not as a burden that gets in the way of my own, more “important” tasks? When parts of my life devolve into clutter, how can I restore order to them, so that they remain testimonies to the God who creates by bringing order out of chaos and not to the Confuser who delights in muddling and muddying the world to his own devilish ends?

It is only one sentence, but its ability to change how I view my life is boundless. There really is no part beyond its examination, no practice upon which it cannot comment, no patterns it cannot turn to serve spiritual ends.

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

In recent weeks, Anne, my wife, and I have met with our pastor, the Rev. Ron Drury, and another member of our parish to discuss adapting the model constitution for congregations in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America to our congregation, Shepherd of the Hills Lutheran Church, Hickman, Nebraska. This project will update the current constitution to match the model, while adapting the model to serve as a tool to guide the congregation in its mission. Completing this project will meet one of Anne’s goals as president of the congregation.

Once I get into the mode of thinking in terms of bylaws and continuing resolutions, of envisioning possible eventualities and drafting codified responses, of looking for gaps and filling them, of tying down loose ends, of tweaking and honing the language, and of formatting the presentation, I find that way of thinking has a power that goes beyond the project. It is difficult to turn this method on and off.

That’s why I am finding today’s reading from The Rule of Benedict such a calm and persuasive counterpoint to the constitution project. Writing about “The Quantity of Drink,” St. Benedict begins by echoing 1 Corinthians 7:7, recognizing that “‘each person is endowed by God with a special gift, some this, some that.’ Therefore it is with some uneasiness that we lay down rules for the consumption of others” (RB 40:1-2). Then, of course, he overcomes that uneasiness and lays down some rules.

But the spirit in which he works is typical of the Rule. He holds simultaneously to some large-scale principles while applying them in ways that call individuals to high standards, to support the common good, and to view even the smallest parts of life as places where God is at work. He recognizes that individuals have varying needs for fluids, that some have “the strength to abstain,” and that availability, workload, and heat can all influence consumption.

It’s this spirit, this way, that holds up a vision rooted in God and his gifts, his trustworthiness in sending community leaders and inspiring wisdom in them, that I find so refreshing and beguiling. St. Benedict does not try to anticipate and to pre-legislate a response to every circumstance that could conceivably arise. That’s why his Rule—not his Constitution—has endured for fifteen centuries. He could not have anticipated the details of twenty-first-century monastic or oblatory life. But he could point faithfully to the grace and gifts of God and lead a community to follow a path of obedience to God’s will.

And so I am left wondering. What would a parish look like, how would it feel to be a participant in its communal life of faith, if we could hear God’s call to gather around him, to make an offering, an oblation of our lives, and to submit ourselves to a pastor-abbot who would guide us in wise obedience to a rule that embraces both the grace of God and the glorious diversity of our “special gifts?”

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

Benedictine spirituality is well known for its delight in balance. The famous dictum, “Ora et labora,” captures in three words the search for balance between prayer and work. The traditional vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, when adapted for oblates, become sufficiency, stability, and obedience. This balances the ideals of the religious life with the realities of daily life outside of the monastery. There really doesn’t seem to be any part of life that is too small, too mundane, to lie beyond the reach of St. Benedict’s striving to aid his followers in finding balance in their lives.

This morning I read chapter 39, “The Quantity of Food,” in his Rule. One passage, in particular, spoke to me. St. Benedict writes, “For there is nothing as out of place in a Christian life as gluttony. As Our Lord says: ‘See that your hearts not be loaded down with drunkenness’” (RB 39:8-9). Brother Terrence G. Kardong comments on this passage, noting that “Benedict reveals himself as somewhat of a puritan” in elevating gluttony/drunkenness to the extremes of sin incompatible with the Christian life (Benedict’s Rule: A Translation and Commentary, p. 325.). While that seems technically true, it feels a little harsh to me, especially when viewing gluttony in the bigger context of the goal of finding balance in life.

The virgule joining gluttony and drunkenness points to the fact that these two English words stand as translations of the Latin crapula. So when St. Benedict warns against eating too much, of getting food and the body’s needs out-of-balance, he ties this, as a spiritual issue, to the passage from Luke 21:34, where Christ “warns against whatever might cause lack of vigilance” (Kardong, p. 325). This says to me that the ideal of finding balance in life entails keeping one’s heart from “be[ing] loaded down,” from being so sated and dulled by excess, whether of food or drink or any of the “crapula” of life, that one loses the capacity to discern the presence of God in his Word and Sacraments and in the faces of the people in one’s life.

Portion control is one of the popular phrases that come up in conversations about nutrition and dieting. It’s the notion that one can eat healthfully, not by launching into a fad diet of cabbage soup or all meat or whatever, but by exercising discipline over the quantity of food on one’s plate. It’s a matter of eating a balanced diet and of balancing the quantity of food with the need for the energy the food supplies.

It seems to me that just as I feel better physically when I eat reasonable portions, I will feel better spiritually when I seek reasonable portions of all things in my life. This is what I find so deeply attractive in the ideal of sufficiency. It leads me to ask more often of more parts of my life, “What is enough? How can I seek and maintain balance?” I am finding that as I extend this practice to more of my life, I am growing less “loaded down,” less dulled to the presence and power of God at work in both the holy and mundane realms of my life.

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

I am basically a shy person, an introvert, so it’s always been a little puzzling to me that I made the decision almost twenty-four years ago to attend seminary and to prepare for a vocation that would place me in front of crowds and call me to speak in public. As I followed that calling, the path has taken a number of turns and detours, leading me to this point in my life, where I can look back on the places I have served and see that I really have spent about five years of that time in the parish with regular responsibilities for speaking before gatherings of people.

This meandering reflection comes to mind today in response to a reading from The Rule of St. Benedict on the role and responsibilities of the brother who serves the community as the “weekly reader.” This role fulfills the ancient responsibility for the community to hear some sort of edifying and inspirational text read aloud during communal meals. The particular passage in the reading that struck me is this:

After Mass and Communion, the one beginning the week should petition all to pray for him, that God might protect him from the spirit of pride. And let all recite this verse three time in the oratory, with the reader beginning it: Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will proclaim your praise (RB 38:2-3).

Brother Terrence Kardong makes the observation in his commentary that the “spirit of pride (spiritum elationis) is the opposite of humility” (Benedict’s Rule: A Translation and Commentary, p. 314). To me this points to the danger or temptation inherent in stepping into a public and proclamatory role in the life of the Church, that I can be tempted to believe that the spotlight shines on me and not on the message that God has called me to share.

When I have the occasion to preach, I try to be mindful of the extent to which my homilies refer to my own story and draw attention to me, rather than in pointing out and leading listeners to watch and to listen for God’s actions and messages. It’s a balancing act, as the danger on the one hand is to bend the task of preaching in ways sometime subtle that feed that spiritum elationis, while on the other hand remembering the insight from Henri Nouwen that part of the efficacy of one’s ministry is sharing the personal journey of doubt and faith.

St. Benedict wisely provides an insight and a practice that helps. He says that when the reader is beginning his task for the week, the community gathers in the oratory (literally the “prayer-room”) and the reader leads the community in a three-fold petition and confession of trust taken from Psalm 50:17: “Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will proclaim your praise” (RB 38:3). This reminds me that the purpose of my words is to proclaim God’s praise, to be a medium for his message turning our thoughts and hearts to his promises and challenges that reveal his will for us to live in peace with him and his people.

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

One of my friends in college, Mustafah, was a student from Iran who had come to the United States to study. He was “trapped” in this country when the Shah was deposed and the Ayatollah Khomeini came to power in Iran in 1979. Because he was cut off from family, he depended upon aid from various churches to enable him to remain in school. One of my fond memories of him was stopping by his off-campus apartment. It was simply furnished, with the kinds of furniture and items a congregation would collect from its members. Among Mustafah’s many admirable qualities was his practice of hospitality; whatever he had was yours. Even though he had little, he bore no traces of hoarding for himself when he was offered the opportunity to welcome me into his home. As a Muslim and a man of the Middle East, Mustafah had his particular motivations for practicing hospitality. But even so, his practice has stuck with me for over a quarter century as a model for this act of generosity.

Benedictine communities, too, are widely known for the practice of hospitality. The most famous saying regarding hospitality in the Rule states, “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). For Benedictines and for Oblates who strive to live by the spirit of the Rule, the motivation for hospitality lies in the trust that Christ himself comes hidden in the guise of the people whom we welcome or rebuff. This insight, while stated later in the Rule than the passage I read this morning, still underlies the section on caring for the sick members of the community. St. Benedict writes, “The sick are to be cared for before and above all else, for it is really Christ who is served in them” (RB 36:1). Terrence Kardong, the commentator, notes that the phrase “before and above all else,” or ante omnia et super omnia, appears also in the works of Sts. Basil and Augustine when they speak of love. “It is, of course, the greatest commandment and it is the root meaning of all Christian service” (Benedict’s Rule: A Translation and Commentary, p. 301).

These two passages from the Rule call me to see—to perceive—not with the eyes of my flesh, but with the eyes of the Spirit. It’s just like trusting that when I eat the bread and drink the wine of the Eucharist, I am truly receiving the body and the blood of Jesus Christ. When I welcome someone to our home, when I yield to a stranger at the checkout line at the grocery store, when I open my heart to the need of a relative, I am practicing hospitality. This hospitality is an act not in the sense of producing a fine and gracious “entertainment experience” for dinner guests, but in the deep and ultimate sense of surrendering my own personal agenda, needs, desires, priorities, and schedules to Christ who comes hidden in the people who step into and out of my life.

When I come to trust Christ, through the gift of faith, to keep his promise to come into my life in this way, then I can practice hospitality that emulates, in its outpouring of graciousness, the hospitality that Mustafah showed me in his tiny apartment in Annville, Pennsylvania, so many years ago.

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

When I attended the retreat at the Benedictine Mission House in Schuyler, Neb., last year, I, along with my fellow retreatants, ate midday and evening meals with monks in the monastery. The meals were served “family-style,” with one of the monks cooking and another serving the food. When I look back on the experience, I’m reminded of times I spent living communally—Boy Scout camp and the summers as a church camp counselor. In both cases, members of the group took turns setting the tables, serving the food, and cleaning up. At Camp Bashore, the scouts called this KP, kitchen patrol; it was part of one’s duty to the group. At Camp Kirchenwald, the times spent in the kitchen were seen as times spent practicing Christian service.

During the mad rush that fills our days, it is easy for meals to degenerate into fueling oneself. We eat on-the-go, perhaps in the car, maybe while working. But St. Benedict sees a greater purpose in meals beyond the restoration of our energies. As he describes the routines of “The Weekly Kitchen Servers,” he begins by noting, “The brothers should serve one another…for thus is merit increased and love built up” (RB 35:1-2). It seems to me that he is concerned not only with good order, but also with good ends. In fact, the handing off of duties occurs on Sunday mornings in the oratory (the sanctuary, literally the prayer-room) after Lauds (Morning Prayer, or Matins), when those finishing their week of service kneel and ask for the prayers of their brothers, while those beginning make the petition, with the psalmist, “God, come to my assistance; Lord, hasten to help me” (Psalm 69:2 in RB 35:17).

So, to make Luther’s famous catechetical turn, it’s worth asking, “What does this mean?” When I am living by the spirit of the Rule of St. Benedict, living out my commitment as an Oblate, I look at every part of my days through a special lens. This helps me to see that even the most routine, mundane parts of my day have a nobler, spiritual end to them. Wednesday is garbage day, for example, so Zeke and I walk the can from the house to the road in the morning. This fulfills the practical purpose of removing garbage from our house. But perhaps I might come to see this as a time to be reminded of God’s forgiveness.

But in addition to that, removing the garbage is an action that I can take as a way of showing love (caritas) for Anne. It’s nothing that would work well designed into a greeting card, but along with the many other actions, both small and great, that we take in our daily routines, we, just like the monks, “…serve one another in love” (RB 35:6). And that is a good and beautiful thing.

The challenge is to use this special lens to look at all of our encounters, relationships, and communities, and to ask ourselves how we can show love for others through our service. And so we pray, “God, come to my assistance; Lord, hasten to help me” (Psalm 69:2).

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.