Although the life of a monk ought to have about it at all times

the character of a Lenten observance,

yet since few have the virtue for that,

we therefore urge that during the actual days of Lent

the brethren keep their lives most pure and at the same time wash away during these holy days

all the negligences of other times.

And this will be worthily done

if we restrain ourselves from all vices and give ourselves up to prayer with tears,

to reading, to compunction of heart and to abstinence.

During these days, therefore, let us increase somewhat the usual burden of our service,

as by private prayers and by abstinence in food and drink.

Thus everyone of his own will may offer God "with joy of the Holy Spirit" (1 Thess. 1:6)

something above the measure required of him.

From his body, that is he may withold some food, drink, sleep, talking and jesting;

and with the joy of spiritual desire he may look forward to holy Easter.

Let each one, however, suggest to his Abbot what it is that he wants to offer,

and let it be done with his blessing and approval.

For anything done without the permission of the spiritual father

will be imputed to presumption and vainglory and will merit no reward.

Therefore let everything be done with the Abbot's approval.

Comment

Benedict tells the monks (it is significant that this chapter is both highly individualistic and yet also one that involves "the entire community") not only that Lent is the model for the whole of life, but that the season of Lent itself brings an annual opportunity for extra effort. The implication is that what happens in Lent also applies in principle throughout the year. The opening verses have a definitely exhortatory ring about them. They sound quite like a homily; indeed there is a homily by St. Leo, the fifth-century pope, on Lent, which Benedict must certainly have known. Then he addresses the individual need for prayer and abstinence. Once again we are shown the delicate balance between the individual and the community.

Since he is emphasizing special personal effort during Lent, Benedict has to guard against any development into undue individualism that wants to draw attention to itself. The abbot, therefore, must be the point of reference. The reward of any Lenten undertaking has nothing to do with outward display but with the reward of the kingdom. The issue is one of motive. If I let it be known how much I fast, or give to charity, it becomes something public, perhaps even competitive. For me, as for the monk, fruitful participation in Lent is not marked by any external observance but by interior transformation; I think of the epistle of Ash Wednesday on rending our hearts and not our garments.

So also our joy must be an interior joy, just as the observances should be interior and not exterior. Lent points toward Easter. There is a strong theology of joy in this chapter, and the word gaudium is used here twice, the only place in the Rule. The forty days before Easter are a time of looking forward "with joy and spiritual longing" (7). Verse 6 tells us something very important about true spiritual joy: it is a gift of the Holy Spirit. There is a difference between a true, deep joyousness and the vapid hilarity that passes for joy, the superficial jolly cheerfulness that often covers up an inner hollowness. It is interesting to see that what Benedict is condemning is idle joking and needless conversation, essentially superficial and shallow.

The paradox is that the joy of Lent is necessarily connected with sorrow, that it is a joy that flows from sorrow. Instead of the terrible guilt with which I have so often been inflicted, by my own conscience and by the Church, Benedict is talking of the sorrow that makes for joy, which is expressed in the monastic concept of compunction. Just as Lent and Easter are inseparable, so also are sorrow and joy. Tears and compunction of heart (4) express the experience of being touched or pricked (which is what the word means, punctio), as if by a dart of love. Compunction brings a sense of sharp pain, a stinging that I experience as I am touched, overwhelmed by this love, which reaches out to love and forgive and to end all that separates us. As I reflect what I am, my true state before God, and what I might be, what God wants me to be, I am aroused from my torpor, my willingness just to drift along, and I am stung into action. Compunction draws from me a positive response to the love of God flooding my life and drawing me on to fuller and better things.

Compunction is, therefore, a long way from the negative sort of guilt that can encourage soul-searching, obsessive regrets, and a dwelling on the past. This I know only too well can easily become sterile, a deadening inner monologue, which does not bring me the energy to change and to move forward. If compunction points me inward, it is not in order to trap me in yet more self-recrimination and introspection. Rather it awakens in me a poignant sense of how false I have been to my own deepest and truest self, my own likeness to that loving Father in whose image I was created, and how I have disfigured that creation. Compunction is, therefore, as Michael Casey says, a dual sensitivity. It places before us both the reality of our sinful condition and the urgency of our desire to be totally possessed by God. It is precisely the comparison between what we are and what we could be that constitutes the triggering cause of compunction. "It is an intimate sensation which touches us at our deepest level and often results in tears.

Tears and compunction are never to be confined entirely to Lent. But the time of Lent is a "sacrament." It shows us the symbol of the whole of our life on earth, a gift from Christ himself so that we may share in his sufferings and his passion and the joy of the new life of the resurrection.

Change "monk" to -"Christian" in paragraph one and the suggestions remain true. Christians are not of this world. But being in it, we cannot help being contaminated. That does not mean that a Christian has to be dour or grim, far from it. We should, as Christians, find ourselves free and happy. But to disentangle ourselves from the frivolities and luxuries of the material life is difficult. So St Benedict says, "Let us add something to the usual measure" during Lent. He makes a few suggestions.

Be pure in heart: by which he means single-minded in our desire to serve God. We have neglected our good habits, perhaps, in prayer, at talk, in eating, in drinking. He goes on: be rid of all vices; pray with sorrow for our sins - even to tears; take up good reading, practice abstinence, that is restraint in eating and drinking. St Benedict wants this all done voluntarily, meaning over and above the normal. This is the only place where he encourages this personal, almost individualistic approach, to the spiritual life. Usually he is saying: let everything be done as the Rule lays down.

Of course, even that is voluntary, requiring personal assent. One could at any time "walk out", not that to do such a thing would be right. But a good practice can be mere habit, and he is reminding us to do good in a willing way. For lay people, Lent is not so much taking on new devotions or new penances, as realizing that what is done could be done for a better motive than routine, since everything can be God's work. This is what God wants me to do NOW. Love my neighbors, work with integrity for love of them, because this is part of God's plan; help others for love of Christ who himself loved them. What prayer we do say, we will go on saying, not because we once, perhaps long ago determined to keep them up - a good motive - but because to pray is to keep in direct touch with our creator, our Savior, our life, because praying is making us alive to those divine truths which will one day fill our whole horizon.

Ages ago, we gave up sugar or salt in food or drink, now we prefer it so. The idea had been restraint, control of desire by our will. Now it is habit - a good one. Why not use that money, saved, to help those who do not even have the food or drink in which to put that sugar or salt? We are often sad at the famine in the world. Here is a positive way to help.

We have realized that it is possible to be more considerate in the home. No amount of self-denial is of use unless we show genuine concern for others, which is true love. We used to get to Mass on a weekday. That could be revived.

A most helpful practice is to discuss with a wise person, priest or lay person, what we should do about Lent each year. To discuss is like dusting and spring cleaning. This discloses the "dusty" corners of our lives. For lay people this could be the equivalent of the final sentence of this chapter, "Everything, therefore, must be done with the abbot's approval."

Comment: This chapter is one upon which we might fruitfully meditate for many days. Here Benedict presents, in summary, an outline of the ascetical life, the life of Christian discipline. Benedict mentions the strength required for this challenging work, the importance of openness with a spiritual director, the centrality of purity of heart (that single-focused longing for God), and the priority of the goal of salvation. Of interest, too, is his suggestion that the deeper disciplines of Lent, while they involve self-denial, are more fundamentally a matter of self-offering. At their best, disciplines are a means of consecration, that is, ways of deepening our capacity to give ourselves body, mind, and spirit to God.

For Benedict, disciplines are oriented toward joy, toward overflowing celebration of the mystery of Easter. The point of disciplines is to allow expectancy to build in us, that we might more fully apprehend that, in his death and resurrection., Christ makes known to us that we are "loved by God and that (we) have been chosen". (I Thess 1:4)

Reflection: The phrase that touches me in this passage is "everyone may offer to God ... something beyond the measure appointed." I have been reminded so often in these pages that consecration means offering that there might seem to be nothing new left in it. But just today, it really touches me that God would want something I might offer. Perhaps God is waiting, eagerly, for my offering.

The offering is to be "beyond the appointed measure". In other words, it's not just the standard, the usual thing. It is to be something perhaps that only I could offer. That means something special from my life, from my self. I suppose the special things could be both those in which I rejoice and those that burden me. I could offer my joy in that wonderful tree which stands just outside my window, so solid and so vital every day of my life. Would God then take it away? Might it come back to me even better? It's all unknown, except in faith, given what I know of my God.

I could offer my pain in that broken friendship, that betrayal of trust. In this case, I hope God would take it away, but perhaps it might be given back! Again, it's a matter of trust: I don't think God plays mean games, so if it was given back apparently still broken, then there must be something else given with it to make it bearable, or to serve some good unknown to me.

It all seems so fragile, so risky. Yet I must say that since I have begun to offer things to God, the overall feel of my life has changed very greatly. I am so much aware of great goodness, and always as undeserved gift. So even if I can't see exactly the "how" of it, I'm glad to be learning this way of offering.

Response