Excerpt from
The Rule of Benedict for Beginners
Spirituality for Daily Life
Wil Derkse; Martin Kessler, Translator
© The Order of St. Benedict, Inc., Collegeville, Minnesota. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced by any means, without the written permission of The Liturgical Press, Collegeville, Minnesota 56321.

Contents

 Introduction

Part I: A First Acquaintance with Benedictine Spirituality

1. A Lesson from the Imagery of Hildegard’s Abbey in Eibingen

2. What I Learned through My Own Acquaintance with Benedictine Life

3. Growing toward the Oblature

Part II: Basic Patterns of Benedictine Spirituality and First Translation to Nonmonastic Contexts

1. The Benedictine Way of Life:  Listening Attentively to Gain Results

2. The Benedictine Vows:  Directed toward Growth and Liberation

3. Additional Aspects of the Benedictine Art of Listening

Part III: Benedictine Leadership:  Stimulating People toward Growth

1. Leadership Demands a Special Talent for Listening

2. The Person of the Abbot

3. The Person of the Cellarer:  “A Man for All Seasons”

Part IV: Benedictine Time Management:  A Full Agenda, but Never Busy

Living a Wholesome Rhythm

“Bearing Fruit in Season”

Epilogue

Introduction

One of the blessings of the Christian life is its colorful multiplicity of spiritualities: Ignatian, Franciscan, Augustinian, Dominican, Salesian, the spirituality of Taizé, the Carmelite of Theresa of Avila and John of the Cross, Benedictine, Cistercian, and many others. These spiritualities differ considerably, both theologically and practically. But there are also important similarities. They are all related to a male or female founder—as often appears from their names—persons who stood at their cradle [rather than theories and concepts]. They are persons who had a great talent to listen attentively to the Spirit and who also answered from the heart as well as in practice. They all tried to incarnate this Spirit in a lifestyle. They were directed to Christ as their center. This centralized plurality is typically and literally Catholic (from the Greek: kat’holon], or, to express it in a more modern way: all noses point in the same direction, but each in its different way.

In the midst of this colorful plurality of spiritualities, the Benedictine is one of the oldest. Benedict wrote his Rule for Monks in the first half of the sixth century. Yet, this “handbook for quality management”—to use a contemporary word—appears suitable to offer a life orientation for thousands of nuns and monks, and at least as many laypeople. For that matter, Benedict was himself a layman, not an ordained cleric, and the communities that developed around him consisted mostly of laypeople. His Rule even contains two rather carefully phrased—if not discouraging—chapters about priests who might want to join the community, and about monks who are ordained deacons or priests for the sake of the community.

Among Christian spiritualities, the Benedictine is perhaps the least spectacular. It is down to earth, not dramatic, with a very modest measure of spiritual guidance, not directed toward “interesting” experiences of enlightenment or ardent moments of conversion. It is beautifully expressed in a Zen saying: “Before the enlightenment: cut wood and draw water; after the enlightenment: cut wood and draw water.” This is about doing the same thing differently, not to ascend to totally new and different insights or mystical experiences.

Thus, Benedictine spirituality is far removed from for example the spiritual adventures in James Redfield’s De Celestijnse Belofte [ET: The Celestine Promise]. It is firmly rooted, not swept together from all sorts of spiritual traditions; it does not make haste; it really contains nothing mysterious and esoteric; it does not target the spiritual quest of the individual, but the growth of the person who is living and imbedded in a community, with his daily and often very “worldly” activities. It is revealing that the central principle of Benedictine spirituality—which is not the often cited ora et labora, which is not even found in the Rule and which is even somewhat misleading because it suggests a dualism while Benedictine life wants to be “life in one piece”—is written in one of the most worldly chapters of the Rule: the one dealing with the manual workers of the monastery. Their products must be priced a little lower than those in “the world,” not because of false competition, but in order not to give opportunity to the vice of avarice. There is also a positive reason: the sympathetic pricing serves “that God may be glorified in everything—ut in omnibus Deus glorificetur.” This is Benedictine spirituality in a nutshell: that everything offers a chance to sing God’s praises—including the context of buying and selling; that each activity may be sanctified. In the most literal sense, Benedictine spirituality is holistic, or rather: a healing spirituality.

This book is not an introduction to Benedictine spirituality. Others have provided this and with better qualifications, namely, from the inside, living as monks or nuns.[1] I have gratefully used these sources. What I wish to attempt is to indicate how elements from this spirituality and their related lifestyle may also be fruitful outside of the walls of the monastery, to strengthen the quality of societal living and working.

On various levels and in very radically different contexts, we bear responsibility for societal living and working—as the abbot and the others do in an abbey: as (grand)parent, teacher, administrator, trainer, journalist, pastor, union leader, bishop or whatever. I have experienced that the Benedictine spirituality is a veritable treasure-trove [Fundgrube] of old and yet new insights which may be incarnated anew, concerning good leadership, informed decision-making, fruitful communication, good human resource management, salutary conflict resolution, a careful management of one’s possessions, a blessed lifestyle which provides space. An attractive aspect is that Benedictine spirituality directs itself so distinctly toward what needs to be done here and now, at this moment. It is not directed toward remote and exalted ideals, which are only gained by spiritual masters. For her the holy is the common; her asceticism is not directed toward elevated experiences, but everyday dedication to the improvement of quality.

It would be useful if these elements could contribute something to a blessed living and working together in a more secular context. A translation into this context would be needed for that. If we should point out to coworkers in the office or shop that all of their activities are opportunities to praise God and that even their smallest acts can be sacramental and sanctifying, others might look at us puzzled and somewhat concerned—in the most favorable case, but in the most unfavorable case they might take us to the company nurse’s station. If we should point out that even the smallest links in the operation of the company—even the attitude when answering the telephone—offer just as many chances for a quality-impulse, under the motto “anything worth doing is worth doing well”—then such encouragement might be part of a realizable plan for total quality management. Indeed, this popular term in management jargon is in a way only the contemporary pendant of the ut in omnibus Deus glorificetur.

The question may naturally be asked whether principles derived from a thoroughly faithful context may simply be transferred to contexts of living and working together of those who have no direct religious orientation, of people “who do not believe”—though I would not dare claim that of anyone. The question may also be asked whether such a transfer is really “permissible,” whether we do not “degrade” a thoroughly religious spirituality. I have two answers to that objection.

The first, perhaps rather frivolous, is a probably apocryphal anecdote about the great physicists Niels Bohr and Albert Einstein. Einstein visited Bohr in his summer home on the Danish coast. He noted that above the entrance, according to local usage, there was a horseshoe, supposedly to bring good luck to the dwellers of the house. “Niels,” he says, “as a physicist you certainly don’t believe that such a horseshoe does any good, and that it might influence the course of events?” Bohr answered: “No, of course I don’t believe that, but I have heard that it also works if you do not believe in it.”

My second answer says the same thing, but in theological dress. Every contribution to the cognitive, esthetic, and moral quality of this world is a contribution to the kingdom of God. When elements from Christian spirituality have a wholesome effect on the attitude and lifestyle of non-Christians or those without any Christian commitment, that should be considered gain. That is also valid when there is influencing in a “reverse” direction, for example, when elements from Buddhism, Taoism, or the environmental movement appear to be capable of being fruitful in the Christian practice of life.

However, we cannot “drag down” spirituality, and certainly not the Benedictine kind, which is expressly intended for the earth, “below,” namely, to sing God’s praise in everything.

For those who do not move in the religious channel in which Benedictine spirituality moves—but who suspect that something fruitful may be garnered from that spirituality in behalf of their own attitude and lifestyle—it may be useful to become better acquainted with the general spiritual background of Benedictine life. This is what I attempt to give in the first chapter, where I start with my own acquaintance with this lifestyle. The second chapter sketches the basic patterns of Benedictine spirituality in a more objective form in order to translate these patterns into nonmonastic contexts.

The various themes highlighted in passing (such as inspired leadership, listening decision-making, fruitfully prospering human resources, and sensible time management) will each be discussed in more detail in the following chapters.

I wish to make another remark by way of instructions for the use of this book, a remark I hardly dare to write down because it appears pedant and conceited: read slowly and not too much at one time. It is not intended for the rapid acquisition of information, to highlight, after a diagonal reading, some useful points with a magic-marker, or to gain a higher insight in two evenings. In the Benedictine tradition we know the lectio divina or spiritual reading. This entails the very slow reading of text in which one hopes to find something nurturing, until something touches you. Then you stop. What has touched you, you look at again and quietly consider inquiring as to why it touched you, what it really was and what might be your answer. It is a kind of tasting-ruminating of a text fragment, until you think that you have pretty well extracted its nourishing saps. The old monks actually called this ruminatio, the Latin word for what cows do with grass. Then you continue reading slowly until (hopefully) something else touches you.

I dare to write this without too much embarrassment because what will impress the reader here and there as nurturing and salutary is not original with me, but with Benedict, with the lifestyle rooted in his Rule, and from the contact with persons who try to live by trial and error according to the Rule.

I wish to emphasize living “by trial and error.” Naturally, I wish to lift up in this book the beautiful, the valuable, and the fruitfulness of Benedictine life. Quite naturally, someone will react with the disillusioning remark: “But I know an abbey (or even more) where little works of all this beautiful stuff.” Indeed, I do too. To begin with, in the abbey where I am a (thankful) oblate, the residents will be the first to endorse this “living by trial and error according to the Rule.” Neither would they want to idealize their own lives. The history of abbeys has experienced times of great flourishing, but also of deep crisis. The greatest period of flourishing was perhaps the time when the community itself built its own monastery—an experience which is difficult to match. Perhaps that suggests that trying to build something new (of whatever character and no matter how modest) might be a condition for a new period of flourishing.

Presently my abbey, after spring, summer, and fall, appears to be in its winter season, though there are the first signs of spring. Such a winter season appears worse than it is. Winter is also a respectable season, in which germs are kept which quietly survive for the spring which follows, which will be different from the previous. It is like that old Irish custom which is called grieshog, where at the end of each day a few glowing coals are hidden under a layer of ashes. When the night is over, the coals may be uncovered to kindle a new fire.[2] To continue with this metaphor: those who would, as an outsider, meet the small and largely gray little company of abbey dwellers for the first time, might think: a lot of ashes here. But I know that there are glowing coals under the ashes. I know because each time, also in winter, I am “turned on” every time and I am certainly not the only one. There are even a few signals that the glowing coals under the ashes have ignited others to such an extent that they wish, as monks, to pass on the fire.

This book has been written in grateful solidarity with the glowing coals of the Slangenburg and those who have been ignited by them.