Benedict knew what most of us learn sooner or later: it is hard to let go of the past, and yet, until we do, there is no hope whatsoever that we can ever gain from the future.
"In India," Ram Dass writes, "when people meet and part they often say, 'Namaste,' which means: I honor the place in you where the entire universe resides; I honor the place in you of love, of light, of truth, of peace. I honor the place within you where if you are in that place in you and I am in that place in me, there is only one of us....'Namaste'."
It is an important distinction in a culture in which strangers are ignored and self-sufficiency is considered a sign of virtue and poverty is a synonym for failure.
To practice hospitality in our world, it may be necessary to evaluate all the laws and all the promotions and all the invitation lists of corporate and political society from the point of view of the people who never make the lists. Then hospitality may demand that we work to change things.
Benedict encourages the monastic to live a life of a continuous Lent.
For most of us, this would seem somewhat severe. However, on closer inspection, the life to which Benedict invites us may be well worth considering. For example, refusing to indulge evil habits; devoting ourselves to prayer; to reading; to compunction of heart and self-denial; needless talking; and idle jesting
What a blessing this would be for ourselves and others! We are capable with His help. Let us grow in His faith; listen to His voice; listen to His call; let us not be distracted! Let us follow His way!
Weeds, spring up and thrive; but to get Wheat how much toil we must endure. The rule of Benedict treats work and lectio interchangeably. One focuses the skills of the body on the task of co-creation. The other focuses the gifts of the mind on the lessons of the heart. One without the other is not Benedictine spirituality. To get the wheat of life, we need to work at planting as well as reaping, at reaping as well as planting.
She who is centered in the Tao can go where she wishes, without danger. She perceives the universal harmony, even a amid great pain, because she has found peace in her heart – the peace only He can give.
Everybody needs somebody to whom they can reveal themselves without fear of punishment or pain. Everybody at sometime in life, struggles with an angel that threatens to overpower them. Contemporary society, with its bent for anonymity and pathological individualism and transience, has institutionalized the process in psychological consulting services and spiritual direction centers.If we choose spiritual people for our friends and our leaders, if we respect our elders for their wisdom, if we wanted growth rather than comfort, if we ripped away the masks that hide us, and we were willing to have our bleeding selves cauterized by the light of spiritual leadership and the heat of holy friendship, we would, come to the humility that brings real peace.
The Loss of Inner Hearing
The Fathers and Mothers of the desert warned that a noisy life becomes a scattered life. Scattered people cannot discern. The soul that never rests cannot see. What is drowned out by the noise is not merely our thoughts but our capacity for interior truth.
We can become so conditioned to the outer roar that we no longer feel the subtle movements of God within us. The agitation becomes normal. The distraction becomes comfortable. The inner ear stiffens, and what once could be heard — the stirrings of conscience, the gentle nudges of grace, the invitations to wisdom — fades into a distant hum.
To listen for God requires more than a quiet room; it requires the cultivation of silence within.
Why Silence Alone Is Not Enough
We often imagine that silence is the solution. We seek a quiet retreat, a calm morning, a few minutes of stillness before the day begins. These are good and necessary. But Benedict points us further: silence is not an end in itself.
Silence can be empty. Silence can be merely the absence of noise rather than the fullness of presence. Silence, if unguided, can even lead us deeper into our own anxieties.
So Benedict does something profoundly pastoral: he shapes the night.
He instructs that the day should end not with the ferocity of Scripture’s battles nor with the clang of human struggle, but with the gentle Word of God — passages chosen intentionally to soothe rather than provoke. He wants the heart to be laid down in peace, not agitation.
For Benedict, silence must be inhabited. It must be filled with the softening presence of God. Only then does it become the kind of silence in which the soul can rest and hear.
The Night as Teacher
Most spiritual traditions underestimate the night. Benedict does not. He knows that what we absorb before sleep lingers long after consciousness drifts away. A soul unsettled at bedtime wakes in fragments.
Benedict offers a simple discipline: end the day in the presence of the gentle Word. Do not feed the mind on stories of violence or contention. Allow Scripture to become balm. Let the night itself become a monastery of quietness. In this way, silence becomes not merely absence, but nourishment.
Learning to Listen for God
I grant God access to the inner room of my life,I loosen the walls that noise has built,I place myself in the condition where grace can be heard.
This listening grows slowly. It begins with moments, then becomes a posture, and finally a disposition of the heart.
we choose to pause instead of react,
we choose gentleness instead of agitation,we end the day with something holy upon our lips,we allow the night to teach what the day has obscured,
unwilled change begins, andgrace reshapes the soul. Peace returns. The heart loosens.The truths of life rise quietly to the surface.
Sister Joan shared with us today a short wisdom from Anthony de Mello, "Change that is real is change that is not willed. Face reality and unwilled change will happen."
I invite you to reread Sr. Joan's commentary on the rule for November 18th. It contains a great many seemingly simple but extraordinarily important thoughts into who we are and how we might go about becoming who we want to be.
Growth is not an accident. Growth is a process. We have to want to grow. We have to will to move away the stones that entomb us in ourselves. We have to work at uprooting the weeds that are smothering good growth in ourselves.
The purpose of maintaining the body in good health is to make it possible for you to acquire wisdom.
Every day we have gives us another chance to become the real persons we are meant to be.
Prayer is not for its own sake and the world of manual labor is not a lesser world than chapel.
As we grow older, the more we realize there are frequently back stories worth hearing. worth remembering. The story of Robert Frost is a beautiful and poignant example.
The man who wrote about peaceful snowy woods buried four of his children. Robert Frost is the poet America fell in love with—the grandfather of American verse, the voice of quiet reflection, the man who wrote about roads diverging in yellow woods. We imagined him serene. Wise. At peace with nature. We were completely wrong.
Robert Frost didn't find peace in those woods. He was searching for it—desperately—through a life that tried to break him at every turn. His father drank and died when Robert was eleven, leaving the family penniless. His mother turned to séances, trying to speak to the dead. Young Robert grew up anxious, brilliant, and haunted—reading by candlelight, questioning everything, trusting nothing. By twenty, he'd already lost his first child—baby Elliott, just three years old. That was only the beginning.
Frost tried to be anything but a poet. He worked farms, taught school, edited newspapers—failing at all of it. By 38, he was broke, frustrated, and drowning. In a last desperate gamble, he sold the family farm and moved his wife Elinor and their children to England.
In a small rented cottage outside London, something cracked open. He wrote. And wrote. And wrote. "The Road Not Taken." "Mending Wall." "After Apple-Picking." The poems that would make him immortal poured out—not from contentment, but from survival. They sounded pastoral. Gentle. But beneath the surface? Razor wire. Loneliness. The brutal weight of choice. The knowledge that every path taken means another abandoned forever.
"A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom," Frost once said. His began in grief and ended in endurance. The tragedies kept coming. Daughter Marjorie died from complications after childbirth. Son Carol, depressed and struggling, took his own life. Daughter Irma descended into mental illness. His beloved wife Elinor, worn down by loss after loss, grew distant and died too soon.
Frost carried it all. Every funeral. Every unanswered question. Every moment of wondering if he could have saved them. And he transformed that unbearable weight into art. That's why his woods feel so real. They weren't decoration. They were sanctuary. A place to think when thinking hurt. A place to walk when standing still meant drowning. He didn't write about nature's beauty—he wrote about what you do when beauty isn't enough to save you. How you keep walking. How you mend walls even when you don't believe in them. How you stop by woods on a snowy evening and choose—despite everything—to keep going. "But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep." That wasn't poetry. That was survival.
January 20, 1961. Robert Frost stood on a platform at John F. Kennedy's inauguration. He was 86 years old. Frail. Nearly blind from the cold wind and brutal sun glare. He'd written a special poem for the moment—"Dedication"—but when he tried to read it, the light was too bright. The paper shook in his trembling hands. He couldn't see a single word. For a moment, it looked like failure. Embarrassment on the national stage.
But then Robert Frost—the man who'd survived when survival seemed impossible—lifted his head and recited from memory. Not the new poem. The one he knew by heart. "The Gift Outright." His voice rang out strong, clear, defiant. And in that moment, the poet who spent his life walking through grief stood tall—not despite his scars, but because of them.
Robert Frost wasn't the gentle grandfather of American poetry. He was a warrior who turned wounds into words. He didn't write to escape suffering—he wrote to walk straight through it, and invite us to follow. His roads diverged not in peaceful forests, but in the valley of the shadow of death. And he chose—again and again—to keep walking. Not because it was easy. But because stopping wasn't an option. And maybe that's the real gift he left us: Not the promise that life will be beautiful—but the proof that even when it's unbearable, we can still create something worth leaving behind.
From the Old Photo Club
Spirit of Wisdom, Truth, and Peace,
Guide us through this difficult time, and help us to resist the temptation to dream nostalgically of the old normal we have lost.
Instead, help us lean forward toward a new normal, a wiser and better way of life that is more in harmony with your love for all people and for all creation.
Help us better understand and value our interconnectedness on this beautiful, fragile planet.
Empower all who serve the common good, encourage all who suffer, and expose all who mislead, whether through ignorance, greed, fear, or malice.
Give birth to a new generation of moral leaders around the world, moral leaders who are guided by a just vision for the future rather than limited habits of the past … in our families and faith communities, in our cities and states and nations, and around this interconnected world, for the good of all.
Amen
-Brian McLaren
The scrutiny of scripture must be brought to every part of our lives because we believe beyond the least doubt the God we seek, is there seeking us.
She concludes today's meditation with a beautiful metaphor on the smelters fire. I invite you to read it slowly, meditatively, in its entirety.
Prayer, and the spirit of these chapters, if we sing praise wisely or well, or truly, becomes a furnace, in which each act of our lives is submitted to the heat and purifying process of the smelter's fire, so that our minds and our hearts, our ideas, and our lives, come to be in sync, so that we are what we say we are, that the prayers that pass our lips change our lives, so that God's presence becomes palpable to us. Prayer brings us to burn off the dross of what clings to our souls like mildew and sets us free for deeper, richer, true lives in which we become what we seek.
God of the seasons, there is a time for everything; there is a time for dying and a time for rising. We need courage to enter into the transformation process.
God of autumn, the trees are saying goodbye to their green, letting go of what has been. We, too, have our moments of surrender, with all their insecurity and risk. Help us to let go when we need to do so.
God of fallen leaves lying in colored patterns on the ground, our lives have their own patterns. As we see the patterns of our own growth, may we learn from them.
God of misty days and harvest moon nights, there is always the dimension of mystery and wonder in our lives. We always need to recognize your power-filled presence. May we gain strength from this.
God of harvest wagons and fields of ripened grain, many gifts of growth lie within the season of our surrender. We must wait for harvest in faith and hope. Grant us patience when we do not see the blessings.
God of geese going south for another season, your wisdom enables us to know what needs to be left behind and what needs to be carried into the future. We yearn for insight and vision.
God of flowers touched with frost and windows wearing white designs, may your love keep our hearts from growing cold in the empty seasons.
God of life, you believe in us, you enrich us, you entrust us with the freedom to choose life. For all this, we are grateful. Amen.
-A Prayer for Autumn Days By Joyce Rupp
We have frequently talked about the liturgy of the hours. Here is brief history and summary. Click on the three white dots in the bottom right of the image and select view full screen.
"It is better to ask the way ten times than to take the wrong road once," a Jewish proverb reads. The eighth degree of humility tells us to stay in the stream of life, to learn from what has been learned before us, to value the truths taught by others, to seek out wisdom and enshrine it in our hearts. The eighth degree of humility tells us to attach ourselves to teachers so that we do not make the mistake of becoming our own blind guides.It is so simple to become a law unto ourselves. The problem with it is that it leaves us little chance to be carried by others. It takes a great deal of time to learn all the secrets of life by ourselves. It makes it impossible for us to come to know what our own lights have no power to signal. It leaves us dumb, undeveloped and awash in a naked arrogance that blocks our minds, cripples our souls and makes us unfit for the relationships that should enrich us beyond our merit and despite our limitations. Sr. Joan
Sister Joan's commentary today speaks to each of us--listen. Imagine what life would be like if we too were to but
"...learn what has been learned before us, to value the truths taught by others, to seek out wisdom and enshrine it in our hearts."
Listen, learn, and grow....
Our living communities have a great deal to teach us. All we need is respect for experience and the comforting kind of faith that it takes to do what we cannot now see to be valuable, but presume to be holy because we see the holiness that it has produced in those who have gone before us in the family and the church.
Thou seest, not only the stains and scars of past sins, but the mutilations, the deep cavities, the chronic disorders which they have left in my soul. Thou sees the innumerable living sins… living in their power and presence, their guilt, and their penalties, which close me.... Yet Thou comest. Thou seest most perfectly.... Yet thou comest.John Henry Newman
If we want to grow in and with the living Christ, we are called to remember...
The first step of humility, then, is that we keep "the reverence of God always before our eyes (Ps 36:2)" and never forget it. We must constantly remember everything God has commanded, keeping in mind that all who despise God will burn in hell for their sins, and all who reverence God have everlasting life awaiting them. While we guard ourselves at every moment from sins and vices of thought or tongue, of hand or foot, of self-will or bodily desire, let us recall that we are always seen by God in the heavens, that our actions everywhere are in God's sight and are reported by angels at every hour.
"Knowing others is intelligence; knowing yourself is true wisdom. Mastering others is strength; mastering yourself is true power." Tao Te Ching
Benedictine spirituality asks for both. May your journey through this reading of Chapter 7 bring you renewed strength and courage as you travel the way.
Blessed, because we still carry extraordinary freedom, creativity, resources, and the ability to speak, gather, and worship. These are gifts entrusted to us, not earned by us.
Broken, because division, anger, suspicion, and greed have crept into our common life. Many see neighbors not as fellow children of God, but as enemies. Our politics often reward outrage more than compassion. We live in an age of abundance, yet millions go hungry or are crushed under debt. The Creator must surely weep that after so many years, we still struggle with racism, violence, and indifference.
The eyes of the painting—serious, compassionate, longing—ask us whether we have grown closer to the dream Rockwell imagined, or drifted further.
Can we be humble enough to ask for help?
Humility is the only path back. We must admit:
We cannot fix this by clever policies alone.
We cannot heal by shouting louder than the other side.
We cannot find peace until we are willing to kneel—each in our own way of prayer, silence, or surrender—and confess that we have fallen short.
Humility is not weakness. It is the courage to say:
There are many moments when each of us feel as if we are resting in the arms of our Lord, and listening as He talkes to us as a loving parent. I believe Chapter 4 of the Rule of Benedict and Sister Joan Chittister's commentary are one of those precious moments.
I invite you to read this chapter in the deepest meditative, contemplative and reflective way that only you and your heart can describe. His voice echoes on every page as Benedict speaks to his monastics 1,400 year ago and Sister Joan to each of us now in the 21st-century. All three love us dearly and want only the best for each of us.
Amen
For the thoughtful believer, there is nothing more certain than the reality of uncertainty, nothing more natural than doubt, which is perhaps thirty seconds younger than faith itself.
Light can neither emanate from, nor enter into, a closed mind. And so, for all its limitations, reason--the weighing of evidence, the assessment of likelihood, the capacity to shift ones opinions in light of thought and of experience--remains essential. Without reason, we cannot appreciate complexity; without appreciating complexity, we cannot rightly appreciate the majesty and mystery of God; and without rightly appreciating the majesty and mystery of God, we foreclose the possibility of the miraculous and the redemptive.
Sr. Joan speaks of place of purpose. Here are a few thoughts to consider as you meditate on her writings for September 1.
Vocational/Calling Dimension. In the classical sense, a place of purpose is where one’s calling (or vocation) aligns with the needs of the world. Theologian Frederick Buechner put it as “the place where your deep gladness meets the world’s deep hunger.” Here, purpose is not just about what brings satisfaction, but how it serves or contributes to something larger than oneself.
Existential Dimension. From an existential viewpoint, an individual’s place of purpose is the spot where meaning is chosen and affirmed. It is not assigned externally, but discovered and lived into through reflection, freedom, and responsibility. It may shift across life stages but is grounded in authenticity—living true to one’s deepest convictions.
Communal Dimension. Purpose is rarely solitary. A person’s place of purpose can be described as the intersection between personal identity and the community’s recognition of that identity. In this sense, one’s purpose “takes place” not in isolation, but in relationship—with family, friends, colleagues, or a faith community.
Benedictine/Spiritual Dimension. Drawing from Benedictine thought (which you’ve explored deeply), place of purpose resonates with stability of heart. It is not so much a geographic “where” as a spiritual rootedness: a way of being fully present, committed, and obedient (in the sense of listening with the ear of the heart) to God, to others, and to one’s rule of life. Purpose then becomes inseparable from fidelity to a rhythm of prayer, work, and community.
Practical/Everyday Dimension. On a simpler, day-to-day level, one’s place of purpose is where talents, values, and passions converge with real opportunities. It is where the question “What am I good at?” meets “What matters to me?” and “Where can I make a difference?” This might look like teaching, creating, serving, or even simply being a faithful presence in the lives of others.
Life is a way of walking through the universe whole and holy.Sr. Joan Chittister
The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting.It has been found difficult; and left untried.
G. K. Chesterton
Saint Benedict reminds us today that every time we begin a good work, we must pray to God most earnestly to bring it to perfection.Why would we not want His aid?
To "listen with the ear of the heart" is to go beyond hearing words and sounds — it is to be present in a way that honors the speaker’s full humanity, as well as our own. This phrase, drawn from the Rule of St. Benedict, speaks not only to how we engage with others but how we attend to life itself: slowly, reverently, attentively.
The ear of the heart doesn’t filter through logic or judgment. It receives. It opens. It waits. In contrast to the distracted or reactive mind, the posture of listening with the ear of the heart is one of stillness and receptivity. It listens not to respond, but to understand — not only to what is said, but what is felt, what is meant, and what is left unspoken.
Listening with the heart cannot be rushed. It requires space and the willingness to be changed by what we hear. It is a posture of compassion. When we listen with the heart, we are no longer preparing our rebuttal or shaping our reply; we are entering into a sacred exchange, one that asks us to enter quietly and with grace into another’s reality.
To listen with the ear of the heart is to listen inwardly. The heart listens to the gentle nudging of truth that the mind may ignore. In silence, in prayer, in moments of quiet clarity, the heart can hear what matters most — a call to act, a wound to tend, a joy to cherish. This listening is the doorway to wisdom. It may not come with great clarity at first; it may be a whisper. But it is always honest.
In a world so full of noise, listening with the ear of the heart asks us to slow down, to turn off the phone, to look into someone's eyes when they speak. It asks us to feel rather than analyze, to connect rather than control. It demands vulnerability. It offers healing.
Consider a world where we all practiced this kind of listening. How many conflicts would soften? How many misunderstandings would clear? How many hearts better understood?
Listening with the ear of the heart is an act of love — a deep, attentive, patient love that has the power to transform. It invites and is centered in the humility of the soul. It says, “I don’t know everything. But I am here. And I am listening.”
May we all strive to listen this way — to our friends, our enemies, ourselves, and the quiet voice of grace that speaks to us so often without words.
Let the noise fall away. Let the mind rest.
Listen — with the ear of your heart.
Our prayers will become a furnace ... to heat and purify our minds and our hearts, our ideas and our lives. The prayers that pass our lips will change our lives and we will become what we say we are ... and God's presence will become palpable within us.
Prayer will burn off the dross that clings to our souls like mildew and set us free for deeper, richer, truer lives in which we become what we seek.
A Prayer for Peace in a Troubled Land
As offered by one who walks the earth with sand-worn feet, and lifts his eyes to the eternal heavens—
a philosopher of old, a child of the Creator,
bearing wisdom carved by time and fire.
O Eternal One,
Maker of the heavens, the stars, and the deep-rooted earth,
Father of Abraham, of Ishmael and Isaac,
of those who call Your name in Hebrew, in Arabic, in silence—
Stretch forth Your hand upon this land
where brother turns against brother,
and the children of promise bleed into the soil of inheritance.
O Lord of Time, who sees the end from the beginning,
teach us again the wisdom of peace.
Let not the cries of the innocent rise to You unanswered.
Let not vengeance pass from father to son
like the shadow of a great mountain that never lifts.
You who breathe life into dust,
breathe gentleness into hearts hardened by generations of sorrow.
Break the bow, shatter the spear,
undo the clever machinery of war.
O God who numbers the hairs of each head,
let no life be counted lightly.
Pour the oil of healing upon Iran and Israel,
these children of Your covenant,
that they may yet sit beneath their own vines and fig trees,
and none shall make them afraid.
Make prophets of their poets,
make builders of their young,
and may Your justice—firm and radiant—walk hand in hand with mercy.
We ask not for triumph of one over the other,
but for the triumph of love over hatred,
of hope over despair,
of Your peace over our pride.
Amen.
St. Benedict encouraged us today to curb our own caprice. We are reminded that...
The phrase “curb our own caprice” calls us to recognize and restrain the impulsive, self-serving tendencies within ourselves—especially those rooted in fleeting desires, whims, or moods. Let’s unpack it more deeply:
The word caprice refers to sudden, unpredictable changes in mood or behavior—an inclination to act on impulse rather than principle or reason. It’s when we:
make decisions based on fleeting emotions rather than long-term wisdom,
pursue gratification even when it’s harmful or misaligned with our values,
or change course erratically, driven by ego or boredom rather than clarity.
Examples of caprice might include:
abandoning a responsibility for the sake of convenience,
undermining a relationship because of pride or anger,
or pursuing novelty over the steady disciplines of love, faith, or service.
To curb something is not to destroy it but to contain, channel, or discipline it. Curbing our own caprice means:
pausing before acting, especially when emotions are high,
weighing consequences with maturity rather than indulging desires,
and choosing the harder right over the easier wrong.
It’s an act of interior strength—like bridling a spirited horse, not to break it, but to make it purposeful.
In religious or moral traditions, curbing caprice often speaks to the path of wisdom, humility, and self-mastery. For instance:
In Stoicism, it’s the practice of aligning with reason over emotion.
In Christian spirituality, it’s an act of surrendering the ego to God’s will, putting love above self-gratification.
In monastic tradition, it’s the daily discipline of stability and obedience, even when the heart is restless or discontent.
Curbing our own caprice matters because:
Freedom without form becomes chaos—we may think we’re acting freely, but we’re often enslaved to impulse.
Character is forged not by how we act when it’s easy, but how we choose when it’s hard.
Communities thrive when individuals choose commitment over caprice, fidelity over fickleness.
...love indiscriminately...to call the the community to the height and depth
and breadth of the spiritual life; to rejoin in our own weaknesses in order
to deal more tenderly with the weaknesses of others; to attend more to the
spiritual than the physical aspects of community life; and to save our own
souls in the process....
O God of Unmeasured Mercy, teach us to love without condition or caution—to open our arms wide, as Christ opened His on the cross, embracing othersnot for what they are or are not, but simply because they are Yours.Remind us that silence nourishes, humility strengthens, and the unseen work
of grace shapes the soul more than any labor of the hand.Let us rejoice in our weaknesses, where Your strength is made perfect. Teachus to cradle the flaws of others tenderly, as we have learned to cradle our own.Draw our hearts beyond shared meals to the deeper communion of spirit;prayers said for one another in secret; forgiveness offered before it is asked;and compassion rising from an understanding heart.And in all things, may we remember that to love well is to follow You.Amen.
You have spoken across the sands of timeto Abraham beneath the stars,to Moses through the fire,to Mary on angel's wing,to Muhammad in the hush of a cave.
From the sea of creation flowed the Torah, Gospel, and Qur'an.Though each stream carved its own bed through time,all are filled with longing for You, the One from which we all came.
Draw us now, O Holy Mystery,not into sameness but into shared reverence.Let the Jew embrace the Muslim,the Christian bless the Sufi,the doubter walk beside the faithful.
Tear down the walls we have built in fear.Scatter our pride like chaff in the wind.Teach us that we might see and say:"I see the Light in you, though you walk a different road."
Like the moon’s reflection in many cups,we each hold only part of Your glory.Let Your Spirit within us—even nowcrying, longing for the creator—help us understand, remember,and imagine that life of perfect unity at the moment of creation.
Bring us home, O Lord of Light,to the shore where no name is needed,and no lamp is required—for You will be the sea, the sky, the dawn.And we, will be One again with you.
Amen
