We do not owe the word Alleluia to Benedict. Its roots reach deep into the Hebrew Scriptures, where it gives voice to humanity's ancient longing to praise God. But Benedict understood something profound about this simple word: praise is not merely an expression of joy; it is also a way of learning to live.
In Chapter 15, Benedict weaves Alleluia into the rhythm of monastic life. There are seasons when it rings out repeatedly and seasons, particularly Lent, when it falls silent. Even its absence has meaning. Silence teaches longing; longing prepares the heart for joy.
Benedict understood that we cannot live by inspiration alone. Some days our hearts overflow with gratitude. Other days we struggle, doubt, grieve, or simply endure the ordinary burdens of being human. Yet the invitation to praise remains.
Alleluia is not a declaration that all is well. It is an affirmation that God remains worthy of praise even when all is not well.
And therein lies the deeper wisdom. We do not praise God only because we feel joyful. Through the practice of praise, we gradually learn to recognize God's presence in the ordinary, the difficult, and the unexpected.
Perhaps this is Benedict's enduring gift: the recognition that what we faithfully practice helps shape who we become.
We sing Alleluia not because we have arrived, not because we understand, and certainly not because life is free of sorrow.
We sing because, in learning to praise, we are learning to see. And in learning to see, we may discover that God has been present all along.
No comments:
Post a Comment