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.

One of the stereotypes of Christians is that they can be somewhat dour and lacking in joy. That might have been lurking in the back of my mind as began this morning’s reading from The Rule of Benedict, where he writes, “At all times the lifestyle of a monk ought to have a Lenten quality” (RB 49:1). That immediately led me to images of penitence and somber reflection and a joy denied for a season. That may all be a part of what keeping Lent entails, but it seems that the rest of the chapter reveals how Saint Benedict views Lent in a much different light.

A little later he writes:

Let him deny his body some food, some drink, some sleep, some chatter, some joking, and let him await Holy Easter with the joy of spiritual desire (RB 49:7).

The first thing that leaps out at me is that while he advocates denial as a discipline, his approach is moderated by saying “some food” and “some sleep” and so on. Saint Benedict does not push monks to any total measures, but to practices that focus with a purpose. This is where he gets to the most amazing part of the chapter.

Father Terrence G. Kardong comments on this verse, writing:

the joy of spiritual desire (cum spiritalis desiderii gaudio) is a highly charged expression that also has considerable spiritual depth. The remarkable thing about the phrase is its insistence on joy during Lent. In contrast with the Master, who calls for joy only after Easter (RM 53.20), Benedict thinks that it should also permeate the penitential season that leads up to Easter. This is the equivalent of saying that for Christians there is no time of sadness. How can we be sad when we know that Christ has conquered sin and death? (Benedict’s Rule: A Translation and Commentary, p. 406).

What strikes me about the insight in this comment is how insightful—how resonant—is the comparison between Lent and Easter on the one hand and life and eternal life on the other. Just as Lent is a time to prepare and to anticipate and to look forward with longing and “the joy of spiritual desire” for the great celebration of Easter, so too is this life a time to practice the same disciplines with the same joy, anticipating eternal life with God. Father Kardong’s question is no less insightful for being rhetorical: “How can we be sad when we know that Christ has conquered sin and death?” How can we approach either Lent or Life and anticipate either Easter or Eternity with sadness when we know that our destiny lies with the One who is victorious over sin and death?

I will try to remind myself of this perspective when I trap myself into conjuring up the demons of stress and worry and indignation. One of the last things a Christian usually would claim as a goal is to be known for a gaudy life, but the Latin gaudio, translated as “joy,” suggests that is precisely the aim: to keep both a gaudy Lent and a gaudy life and await both Holy Easter and Heavenly Eternity “with the joy of spiritual desire.”

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

Yesterday morning, a young man from Shepherd of the Hills Lutheran Church came to our house to work outdoors for five hours. He came because we had submitted the highest bid in a “Servant Auction” sponsored by the youth who are raising funds for their trip to the ELCA’s National Youth Gathering in New Orleans in July. Matthew arrived a little before eight o’clock. Then he and I went to the clearing in the trees to work at cleaning up the perimeter, where downed branches lay tangled in tall weeds. The work consisted of pulling weeds and picking up branches and then hauling all of this debris to piles in the meadow.

By the end of the morning, which had grown progressively warmer on top of an already humid beginning of the day, I began to appreciate that there is a difference between being sixteen and being forty-seven! Still, it was enjoyable to see him work steadily and with good humor. We talked some of the time and then, at times, we worked in silence. It was a good and heartening experience.

This morning my muscles are reminding me of the work we did yesterday. Then the reading from The Rule of Benedict turned my attention to Chapter 48, “The Daily Manual Labor.” It tells how the community seeks balance among work, prayer, and the practice of lectio divina, which literally means “reading from God,” and is often translated as “divine reading.” Saint Benedict begins by writing,

Idleness is the soul’s enemy, so therefore at determined times the brothers ought to be occupied with manual labor, and again at determined hours in lectio divina (RB 48:1).

Saint Benedict does not set down a rigid schedule, but adapts the balance—the ebb and flow—among prayer and work and reading and rest to suit both the liturgical season and the climate and its weather. So, sanely, he builds a time for physical rest into summer days at their hottest time. The times for prayer move around slightly, taking account of the season and the natural light.

What strikes me as so natural, so grounded, so sane, is his purposeful but non-rigid approach to building a balanced day. As I have grown more accustomed to asking, “How can I live by the spirit of this Rule?” I have looked for ways to adapt Saint Benedict’s insights. Over the last four months, as I have lived between my work at the University of Nebraska Press and now the beginning of interim parish ministry, I have been blessed with the freedom to seek such a balance among my daily devotions, reading, my head-work with WideSky.biz and my hand-work outside on our land.

Each day begins with the Liturgy of the Hours, followed by some reading. I’ve not been diligent about practicing lectio divina, but I have made time each morning to read passages from some devotional, spiritual, or theological text. Then on the best days, I have times when I work with my head and time when I labor with my hands. Working around rain and heat, choosing the tasks that match the weather, has kept my work flexible, my attitude one of adaptation, and my days satisfying and relatively free of toxic stresses. Instead of finding “idleness [to be] the soul’s enemy,” I have discovered Saint Benedict’s wisdom in being “occupied.”

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

This past Sunday I had the opportunity to prepare a sermon and to lead worship at St. John’s Lutheran Church, Marquette, Neb. Last night I met with two members of the Congregation Council at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., to talk about my service to that parish as its interim pastor beginning July 1. Tomorrow is the twentieth anniversary of my ordination. All together, this constellation of events and gatherings and milestones has turned my thoughts to the tasks of serving God and his Church as a leader.

The first task of leadership that crosses my mind is leading in worship. It’s not the only important part of the role of a pastor, but because worship is fundamental to the life of Christians and because it is the foundation upon which parish life is built, it stands foremost in my thoughts. Perhaps this is why, when I read “The Signal for the Work of God,” Chapter 47 of The Rule of Benedict, this passage spoke to me:

As regards singing and reading [during the Work of God, the Divine Office], no one should presume to carry out these functions unless he is capable of edifying the listeners. Let that be done with humility, sobriety and reverence, by the one designated by the abbot (RB 47:3-4, Terrence G. Kardong, Benedict’s Rule: A Translation and Commentary, p. 378).

Saint Benedict is not laying out a complete theology of worship in this chapter, so he does not include a statement of the purpose of worship, but assumes that the community will glorify God. Then, given that, he reminds those who lead to keep in mind the listeners, that they ought to be edified, or built up, by the singing and reading. It seems reasonable to me to adapt this standard to preaching and the complete role of liturgical leader. If I keep foremost in my thoughts and actions the twin foci of giving glory to God and building up the body of Christ, then my work will be faithful to God and loving to the community.

The Rule guides me, reminding me that service in worship ought to be carried out “with humility, sobriety and reverence” (RB 47:4). The first of these qualities—humility—reminds me that the attention of worship is directed to God. Worship is theocentric and is not a performance in which a leader draws attention to himself or herself. The quality of sobriety means much more than leading without intoxication. Its Latin form is gravitate, so this reminds me that worship ought to be conducted with an awareness of its place in the life of God and his people. Worship is not frivolous. And finally, reverence, as Kardong notes, “no doubt has to do with the fact the whole liturgy is directed to all-holy God, before whom the only proper attitude is reverential awe” (Kardong, p. 381).

This is a good passage for me to keep in mind. It is an awesome and humbling task, to stand amidst the members of a gathered community and to speak both to them and to God. That’s why, even if I don’t use the words of the Psalmist to begin a homily, they cross my mind as a prayer:

Let the words of my mouth
and the meditation of my heart
be acceptable to you,
O LORD, my rock and my redeemer (Psalm 19:14, NRSV).

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

Saint Benedict writes two chapters that fall a little harshly on modern ears. They address “Those Who Make Mistakes in the Oratory” (RB 45) and “Those Who Err in Some Other Way” (RB 46). To turn to one of the Lutheran tools for reading a text, it seems fair to see that most of these two chapters could be classified as the third use of the Law, namely to direct and to correct Christians’ actions. Their form follows a pattern: “If one does this, then the consequences are that.”

Reading these words is like catching a glimpse into a culture alien to modern Western society. It doesn’t seem to be much of a stretch to say that today the notion of standards of behavior are rather fluid or that it is difficult to say exactly when one has crossed the bounds from permissible to impermissible actions in a community. But these chapters paint a picture of a very different way of life. The first of these two chapters addresses errors made in worship, especially in chanting. The harsh part is that Benedict prescribes “a more severe punishment” for the monk who does not admit his mistake and “make[] humble satisfaction right then and there before all…” (RB 45:1). The helpful insight might be that while making a mistake that disrupts the harmony of worship for others is not a good thing, the failure to admit one’s mistake and to make amends is more damaging to the well-being of the community.

The second chapter applies much the same rule to all other places, those outside of the oratory, beyond the time of worship. But then Saint Benedict ends his chapter with a turn to a word of consolation. He writes:

If, however, it is a question of a hidden problem of conscience, he should only reveal it to the abbot or one of the spiritual seniors. For they know how to cure their own wounds and those of others, without divulging them in public (RB 46:5-6).

This is a word of promise that offers some comfort. It’s a statement of implicit trust that God will care for the community (and the individual) by raising up people to positions of leadership (abbots) and others to positions of guidance (spiritual seniors). These are people who are wise and compassionate, who are self-aware, “know[ing] how to cure their own wounds” (RB 46:6). They are people whom God has blessed with the capacity and the insight to see the wounds of those who come for help and to know how to cure them in confidence.

This leads me to a few questions. Who are my spiritual seniors? Who are the people in my life to whom I can turn when I have questions, when I have concerns that weigh me down, when I have a wound that needs to be cured? And then, as I am beginning to turn my thoughts to how I will serve as an interim pastor, I wonder how I am equipped, in some sense, to serve an abbotial role in the parish, to serve as a spiritual senior for others. It is key, Saint Benedict implies, for those who serve as spiritual seniors to recognize that they themselves must find others to serve as their own spiritual seniors.

This leads my prayers to include two petitions, that God will strengthen my spiritual seniors and that he will guide me when I am called to serve as the spiritual senior for others.

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.

Sometimes as I read The Rule of Benedict, the text seems to speak directly, offering a clear word about how I ought to live. But then, on other occasions, as I am reading it, the tremendous differences in time and culture step to the forefront. The title of the chapter I looked at this morning, “How the Excommunicated Should Make Satisfaction,” (RB 44) provides a hint that this will be one of those chapters that emphasize every one of the centuries between the 500s and the 2000s.

In its ten verses, the chapter outlines the steps a monk takes before the community under the authority of the abbot to make satisfaction for the acts that had led to his excommunication both from the oratory and the table. Where does one begin to list the cultural differences?

• Sins have consequences.
• The community exercises discipline.
• The abbot speaks with authority.
• There is a distinction between pardon and satisfaction.

This list presents me with a challenge. When I ask myself the question that helps to guide my journey as a Novice Oblate—How do I live according to the spirit of this Rule?—I am led to wonder about a number of issues. In what communities do I live? I get the sense from reading this chapter that the steps of making satisfaction address the healing of breaches in the community, so identifying my communities is a key first step. My family is the primary community, and probably the closest to the community of the monastery, in the sense that I do not choose my relatives and that we are bound together by God. My community of faith, perhaps ironically, is much less a community. We do not live among other members of that community, so we tend to see them only on Sunday mornings. Other groups, such as my fellow Oblates, or the Lincoln Stamp Club, occupy even more narrow slivers of my life.

Either the bishop or the pastor of our parish technically occupies the role analogous to the abbot. Yet the cultural expectations that might place authority in the hands of either person has been diluted to the point where it’s difficult for me to recognize how they might exercise that authority.

And then, maybe the greatest chasm is the one that opens between a time when a community found strength in pairing the proclamation of grace with the frank recognition that sin bears consequences and in seeking restoration through making satisfaction. I can see that our time differs from Benedict’s on this point, and it makes me wonder whether we have lost or gained by the changes we have made.

It’s one thing to confess a sin to God and to hear, receive, and cling to his promise of forgiveness. But this pardon does not address the ruptures that a sin creates in the community, nor does it address a prescription for healing the breach that a sin creates in relationships. This is, I think, the intent of “making satisfaction.” The abbot, in this chapter, is the one who speaks for the community, who “decides enough satisfaction has been made ” (RB 44:3). I can never, as the one who has sinned against another, decide when satisfaction has been made. Instead, I throw myself, perhaps figuratively, at the feet of the ones against whom I have sinned, and await a word. As Saint Benedict ends the chapter, “Let them keep this up until he blesses them and says, ‘That is enough’” (RB 44:10).

And again, the act which I am called to make is simple: “Listen…with the ear of [my] heart” (RB Prol. 1).

Ut in Omnibus Glorificetur Deus.