Special
Section: Religious Life
Millennial wisdom stirs in
the desert by JOAN
CHITTISTER
To be at the brink of the 21st
century is to be, apparently, at the cutting edge of a brave but bewildering
new world. In a culture already fraught with change, we expect even more change
to come. It takes no visionary to predict it.
We can see in embryo on the horizon of our lives new electronic
miracles, a new conjunction of nations, a new national racial profile, a new
universe to explore, a new display of universal angst and gain. We will have
kinds of speed and light, power and control, supervision and communication
unknown in the history of the world. We will have a global fun house -- full of
surprises, full of danger -- and all without benefit of an exit door.
The question is: What will guide us through it? The
profit-mongering and power plays that brought us here or something else? What
will save us from ourselves as we go further into electronic darkness and
lethal power, concentration of resources and planetary poverty, unparalleled
development and incommensurable international hunger?
We go through life praying that God will save us from ourselves,
but down deep we know that it is the human community that must control what we
create. We created nuclear weapons; God didnt; and we can uncreate them
if we will. We develop the policies that make people poor and leave people
hungry and we can change them if we want. We engineer the organizations that
put power in the hands of few and leave many at the mercy of systems they
cannot plumb, and we can restructure them. Those things do not depend on what
manner of God our God is. They depend on what kind of human beings we are.
In the face of great millennial newness, monasticism is anything
but new and not much trying to be, except perhaps in mostly cosmetic ways. For
over 1,500 years, the principles that undergird monasticism have carried it
from century to century, from millennium to millennium. Whatever the cultural
changes around it, monasticism has, in most part, remained itself. Seeking God
is the single basis of the monastic life. Nothing else matters.
The purpose of monasticism is to develop a particular kind of
lifestyle in order to form a reflective, contemplative kind of human being. The
goal of monasticism is to develop fully human persons whose taste for God is
satisfied and whose commitment to life is whole. First and foremost, last and
always, is the single-minded search for God.
This continuing search may well be the monastic gift to a world
swamped by newness and -- caught in both a church and a society forced to
rethink everything previously taken for granted -- awash at its moorings.
The question on the brink of this new millennium is a clear one:
What elements of the search are most important now? What qualities of life does
monasticism have to give a century so profoundly uprooted?
While refugees pour across borders, while scientists perfect the
process of human cloning, while hunger is the worlds single most deadly
disease and while new worlds of thought challenge our most basic givens, what,
if anything, has the monastic tradition to offer the world?
The answers are old ones that stretch from the Desert Monastics in
fourth-century Egypt to our own times. Of the multiple characteristics of the
monastic tradition, four, I think, deserve special emphasis. They are
awareness, community, justice and metanoia -- the fruits of a contemplative
vision of life.
Awareness
Awareness is the ability to see what is really going on in the
world and, as a result, what God requires of us.
In Scetis, the desert monastics tell us, a brother went to
see Abba Moses and begged him for a word. And the old man said: Go and
sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.
The desert monastics were clear: So often it is what is right in
front of us that we see least. As a result, we come out of every situation no
more than we were when we went into it. Awareness -- monastic mindfulness -- is
the essence of the contemplative life and common to all contemplative
traditions.
Oh, wonder of wonders, the Sufi master says, I
chop wood. I draw water from the well. I live in the present, in other
words. It is only when we learn to ask what the world is saying to us at this
very moment, in this particular situation, that we tend to the seedbed of the
soul and become a mature member of the human race.
Awareness puts us into contact with the universe. It mines every
relationship, every event, every moment, for the meaning that is beneath the
surface. The question is not what is going on now but what is going on in the
world, what is happening to me, being asked of me, because of it. What do I see
here of God that I could not see otherwise? What is God demanding of my
heart?
It takes a lifetime to really understand that God is in what is
standing in front of us. Most of our lives are spent straining to see the God
in the mist, behind the cloud, beyond the dark. It is when we face God in one
another, in creation, in this very moment that the real spiritual journey
begins.
It is awareness that the world will need if we are to sort the
true from the false in a millennium in which social disorder seems so smilingly
ingenuous.
Cassian taught this: Abba John, abbot of a large monastery,
went to Abba Paesius who had been living for 40 years far off in the desert.
Abba John said to him, What good have you done by living here in retreat
for so long and not being easily disturbed by anyone?
Paesius replied, Since I lived in solitude, the sun has
never seen me eating.
Abba John said back to him, As for me, since I have been
living with others, it has never seen me angry.
The monastic tradition is unsparing in its realism. Solitude, a
sometimes romanticized and often exaggerated element of the monastic tradition,
has its own struggles, of course. But, the desert monastics imply, when we
choose solitude as the tempering kiln of our souls, the temptation can be to
gauge spiritual development by a lesser standard than the gospel describes.
When a person lives alone, the ancients knew, it is beguiling to
confuse practice with holiness. If the measuring stick of spirituality is
simply rigid physical asceticism and fidelity to the rules, the fasts and the
routines, then spiritual ripening is simply a matter of some kind of spiritual
arithmetic. We count up what weve done, what weve given
up, what weve avoided and, given good numbers, count ourselves
holy.
The problem, these great masters of the spiritual life knew, is
that such a measure is a partial one. To claim full human development, total
spiritual maturity outside the realm of the human community is to claim the
impossible.
The communal organization of monastic life is based on the premise
that we do not have to withdraw from life to find God. The real contemplative
hears the voice of God in the voice of the other, sees the face of God in the
face of the other, knows the will of God in the person of the other, serves the
heart of God by addressing the wounds, by answering the call, of the other.
St. Basil, founder of Eastern monasticism asks pointedly,
Whose feet shall the hermit wash? The implications are clear. It is
human community that tests the spiritual grist of the human being. Community,
Abba John teaches, calls us to the kind of relationships that walk us through
minefields of personal selfishness.
Community is where everything we say we believe is tested. The way
we react to the other tells us something about our own needs. The attention we
give to another stretches us beyond ourselves. The honor with which we regard
the other marks our own theology of creation.
Clearly, in the serious contemplation of our place in the human
community lies the real quality of the monastic life and its reminder to the
world around it that on the welfare of the other rests my own soul.
It is a new sense of human community that the world will need in
order to negotiate the borderless world of the new millennium.
Abba James said, Just as a lamp lights up a dark room, so
the fear of God, when it penetrates the heart, illuminates, teaching all the
virtues and commandments of God.
Justice
There is a danger in the monastic life that the contemplation to
which it calls us is used to justify distance from the great questions of life.
Contemplation becomes an excuse to let the world go to rot.
It is a sad use of the contemplative life, and, at base, a bogus
one. If contemplation is taking on the heart of God in the heart of the world,
then the contemplative, perhaps more than any other, weeps over the
obliteration of the will of God in the heart of the universe.
Contemplation, the search for the sacred in the caldron of time,
is not for its own sake. To be a serious Christian, a faithful monastic, is not
to spend life in a spiritual Jacuzzi designed to save humanity from the
down-and-dirty parts of life. It is not spiritual escapism. Contemplation is
immersion in the driving force of the universe, the effect of which is to fill
us with the same force, the same care, the same mind, the same heart, the same
will as that from which we draw.
Scripture is uncompromising: God wills the care of the poor. God
desires the dignity and full human development of all human beings. As God
takes the side of the poor so must the genuine contemplative. Otherwise the
contemplation to which the monastic tradition points is not real, cannot be
real, will never be real because to contemplate the God of justice is to be
committed to justice.
The true contemplative must do justice, must speak justice, must
insist on justice. And they do. Thomas Merton spoke out against the Vietnam
war. Catherine of Siena walked the streets of the city feeding the poor.
Hildegard preached the word of justice to emperors and to popes.
A spiritual path that does not lead to a living commitment to the
coming of the will of God is no path at all. It is pious morass, a dead end.
Contemplation brings us to a state of dangerous openness. It is a change in
consciousness. We begin to see beyond boundaries, beyond denominations, beyond
doctrines, dogmas and institutional self-interest straight into the face of a
mothering God from whom all life comes.
To come to the awareness of the oneness of life and not to regard
all of it as sacred is a violation of the purpose of contemplation, the deepest
identification of life with Life. The true contemplative weeps with those who
weep and cries out for those who have no voice.
Transformed from within, the contemplative of every ilk, monastic
or lay, becomes a new kind of presence in the world, signaling another way of
being, seeing with new eyes and speaking with new words the Word of God. The
contemplative can never again be a complacent participant in an oppressive
system. From contemplation comes not only the consciousness of universal
connectedness of life but the courage to model it, as well, unbounded by
parochialisms, chauvinisms, genderisms and class.
To be contemplative it is necessary to reach out every day to the
outcast other -- to revere, protect and champion them -- just as does the God
we breathe.
It is justice the world will need to balance the control of the
rich and powerful against the claims to humanity of the poor and exploited.
Metanoia, conversion
One day Abba Arsenius was asking an old Egyptian man for advice.
There was someone who saw this and said to him: Abba Arsenius, why is a
person like you, who has such a great knowledge of Greek and Latin, asking a
peasant like this about his thoughts? And Abba Arsenius replied,
Indeed, I have learned the knowledge of Latin and Greek, yet I have not
learned even the alphabet of this peasant.
Changing the way we go about life is not all that difficult. We
all do it all the time. We change jobs, states, houses, relationships,
lifestyles over and over again as the years go by. But those are, in the main,
very superficial changes. Real change is deeper than that. It is changing the
way we look at life that is the stuff of conversion.
Metanoia, conversion, is an ancient concept deeply embedded in
monastic history. Seekers went to the desert to escape the spiritual aridity of
the cities, to concentrate on the things of God. Flight from the
world became a mark of the true monastic.
To be a monastic in a world bent on materialism and suffocated
with itself, conversion was fundamental. But conversion to what? To deserts?
Hardly. Over the years, with the coming of the Rule of Benedict and the
formation of monastic communities, the answer became more clear. Conversion was
not geographical. We do not need to leave where we are in order to become a
contemplative, otherwise the Jesus who walked the dusty roads of Galilee
surrounded by lepers and children and sick people and disciples and crowds of
the curious and the committed was no contemplative, was not engrafted into the
mind of God.
No, contemplation is not a matter of place. We simply have to be
where we are with a different state of mind. What Benedict wanted in the
monastic life was conversion of heart.
But conversion to what? The answer never changes. To be
contemplative we must be in tune with the Sound of the universe. We must become
aware of the sacred in every single element of life. We must bring beauty to
birth in a poor and plastic world. We must heal the human community. We must
grow in concert with the God who is within. We must be healers in a harsh
society. We must become all those things that are the ground of contemplation,
the fruits of contemplation, the end of contemplation.
The monastic life is about becoming more contemplative all the
time. It is about being in the world differently. To become a contemplative, a
daily schedule of religious events and practices is not enough. We must begin
to do life, to be with people, to accept circumstances, to bring good to evil
in ways that speak of the presence of God in every moment. It is conversion the
world will need to change the path of humanity from death to life for all of
us.
Awareness, community, justice and metanoia are concepts that
monasticism has to bring to a new millennium. This is the role monasticism has
yet to play, in a world on the brink of more fragility than we have ever known.
On these pillars rest not only the nature of monasticism but perhaps the very
existence of the world.
Benedictine Sr. Joan Chittister, author and lecturer, lives in
Erie, Pa.
National Catholic Reporter, February 19,
1999
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