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Character Sketch Of

St Benedict Of Nursia

 

Ever since Andrea de Cione Orcagna, a fourteenth century painter (d. ca. 1368), St. Benedict has been depicted rod in hand. Nothing is more apt to turn off people of the twentieth century. Benedict of Nursia knew the use of corporal punishment-could it have been otherwise for a contemporary of the first Merovingian kings? - but the trend set by the Tuscan painter limits the image of the abbot in the extreme and falsifies it. Benedict was neither a pedagogue in charge of juveniles of arrested development, nor an armed policeman enforcing respect for the law. His pastoral staff has a completely different meaning.

But the question persists. Why does Benedict appear so austere at first acquaintance, when in fact he was the soul of kindness and condescension personified? He suffered with the suffering, loved everyone, was indulgent to a fault (except with pride), and unwill­ing that anyone around him should be sad.

Partly responsible is the iconography, especially of modern times. The St. Benedicts of the Beuronese school, with their Olympian stiffness, their beards and their tomes, are not particu­larly inviting. Gregory the Great's portrayal of the Abbot of Cassino also had its repercussions on his image. Despite the charm of the accounts, Benedict comes through as a wonder-worker, a “miracle saint” whom one might admire but find too distant. The biography is a little overdrawn, and the style should not be confused with the substance.

 

The Human Qualities

Unpleasant temperaments do not attract, even when redeemed by close union with God. Benedict of Nursia enjoyed a great attrac­tion among his contemporaries. He had the gift of evoking affection, and appears to have been a very likable person. His nurse loved him enough to follow him to his first retreat. His first miracle, that of mending for his nurse the broken tray, shows that he could enter into and understand the suffering of others: “Benedict, who had always been a devout and thoughtful boy, felt sorry for his nurse when he saw her weeping” (D 1). After the tray was mended, Gregory shows the young ascetic “cheerfully reassuring” her.

The attachment of the monk Romanus is similarly explained, attracted as he was from their first meeting. Benedict's personality radiated charm, and it drew him disciples, monks, even laypeople, like the brother of the monk Valentinian “who visited the abbey every year to get Benedict's blessing and see his brother” (D 13).

Though he had the gift of winning the heart, Benedict did not pride himself on it. He was, first and last, a man of poise, with a penchant for orderliness that he loved to see around him. His idea of the follower was that of a well-ordered person, composed, mature_ and of solid character. He loves administrators who know what they are doing and do not neglect their office. He wants practical arrangements to be trimmed to the realities of monastic life.

Not that he is overly meticulous or picayunish. In many ways, in fact, he is quite liberal and flexible, but nothing offends him more than gossip mongers, or disciples who are indifferent, squander time and the community's goods and in general show a lack of foresight. When these faults become a way of life, as with vagabond monks (St. Benedict calls them “gyrovagues”) or with monks without a superior (whom he calls “sarabaites”), he does not find words strong enough to castigate them: “a detestable kind.. . of whose miser­able conduct it is better to be silent than to speak” (R 1). St. Benedict wants his followers to cultivate order; he prescribes inventories in order to know what comes in and what goes out. Both work and reading are to be regular occupations, conscientiously pursued.

       Serious is not synonymous with boring; seriousness is rather a sign of maturity. In some remarks of St. Benedict there is a distinct note of irritation at the profusion of words. Himself of earnest mold, he had little patience with frivolous and mischievous behavior. For all that, he is not a kill-joy, on more than one occasion betraying a sense of humor. But he does not want decisions made arbitrarily and without preparation. What he loves is a certain gravity of behavior, harnessed energy, silence, kindliness and mutual respect; above all, attentiveness to things monastic. Benedict strives for the right measure in everything, does nothing too hurriedly, takes time to reflect, and looks for the balanced solution to a problem, one that will serve not only for the moment but promises to last. He has a predi­lection for souls who live in the deeper regions of the heart, not on the surface. He prizes silence, reveres peacefulness.

Prominent among his instruments of good works are the simple, natural virtues. Great value is placed on caring, on cleanliness and punctuality. Candidness, honesty, loyalty, temperance, the sense of responsibility, these are admired and inculcated. A life modulated by hours, days, seasons, and feasts was ideally suited to him­ everything in its place. From the outset he was determined to ban certain practices which to him were the antithesis of monastic life. Accordingly, he locates his followers in a definite place, holds them there by the vow of stability and assigns them work, preferably according to their aptitudes and tastes. His monastery forms part of the countryside; it is rooted in the soil. But at the same time unlim­ited spiritual horizons open to the disciples whom he has gathered for an inner pilgrimage totally spiritual. Everything in their earthly habitation is sacred because God is in their midst.

This, then, is Benedict, a man without complication, practical and direct. He was not speculatively inclined but rather, in the highest degree, had a sense of the concrete, the world of reality. In­stead of teachings learnedly expounded, he preferred description of attitudes and actions whose meaning was accessible to all. He also had a genius for the simple, lapidary phrase that is more easily remembered. Often he reminds one of the desert fathers with their “sentences” or “apothegms”.   Another mark of his character was his regard for the truth and the logic of things: “An abbot who is worthy to be over a monastery should always remember what he is called, and live up to the name of Superior” (R 2). “Let the oratory be what it is called, a place of prayer; and let nothing else be done there or kept there” (R 52). The monk has no other program than to fulfill the vocation inscribed in his name. What he is and what he does should correspond. His en­tire life is to be an effort toward eliminating the contradictions and failures of truth that discredit so many of us.

The language of St. Benedict is the language of his time. He speaks simply to simple people in the Latin of Campanians in the sixth century. His style is brisk, fluent, and utterly innocent of studied elegance. The idea of producing a literary work never crossed his mind. He was not averse to repeating himself, and throughout the Rule the same words, the same expressions recur again and again. This guarantees the homogeneity of the whole, the single authorship of all the parts despite a certain disorder in the composition. Nevertheless, Benedict has the qualities of a real author: he explains and clarifies his literary borrowings, and some­times just a minor touch illuminates an obscure passage of his pred­ecessors.

       Benedict writes spontaneously. Certain expressions seem to echo his oral teaching, words he loved to repeat to his followers. There are stereotyped locutions, and ideas untiringly pressed. Like the Evangelist St. John, who is cited sparingly, he seems unaware of repeating himself. Sentence after sentence, he goes back over his thought, refining and completing it with this or that nuance. He proceeds in this way throughout his Rule.

Were these repetitions truly unconscious? Repetition favors memorization. In the case of St. Benedict's disciples, maxims of the Rule were impressed upon their minds and recalled in their frequent meditation, producing in time reflex behavior conformed to af­firmed principles.

Yet for all his repetition, Benedict of Nursia was not dull and unimaginative or locked into a sort of legalism. He had a perceptive mind with a keen sense of the finer distinctions in life and a promp­titude for things of the spirit that transcend sheer reason. St. Bene­dict is intuitive. His sensibility to differences of age, origin, and social condition was extraordinary. He knows that natures are not alike and do not react alike. He shows concern for these differences and a readiness to adapt to them. In the chapter on drink he writes, “Everyone has his own gift from God, one in this way and another in that” (1 Cor 7:7). It is therefore with some misgiving that we regulate the measure of other men's sustenance” (R 40). He does it, nonetheless; as abbot and lawgiver it was his duty.

The same consideration is evident in the legislation on work, sleep, the manner of correction, and the spiritual formation of his followers. He has regard for the “needs of weaker brethren” (R 40). The abbot must be on guard both against distinction of persons and the temptation to impose stubborn uniformity, so convenient to a leader. He must adapt himself to circumstances, “threatening at one time and coaxing at another as the occasion may require, showing now the stern countenance of a master, now the loving affection of a father” (R 2). The needs of each are not identical, but before God, ­each is essentially equal and the same.

Benedict understands the weakness of human nature and has no illusions on that score. He knows that complaints may not be gratu­itous, but he abhors grumbling (“the vice of murmurers”) and tries to forestall it by removing the cause and even the pretext. He is aware of crises of discouragement when assigned work is too heavy (or imagined to be); and he knows of the temptation to flee the monastery. The Dialogues of Gregory do not reveal a community of pure spirits in the last stage of evangelical perfection. Surrounding the founder are gossips, gourmands, egotists; others cannot stay with the brethren at prayer time; obedience is far from being always satisfactory; there are even grave perversions of the spirit of poverty. St. Benedict's Rule shows him a realist: he does not demand too much; he takes precautions; he appeals to the supernatural in his disciples without falling into a supernaturalism that is blind and in­sensitive to weaknesses.

The founder is mindful of the effects of age on the psyche, of its mental and physical encroachments. He is not surprised that the generation gap among his followers poses problems and calls for careful handling. There are no illusions with him and no despair, only confidence and healthy optimism.

To round out this human portrait, attention should be called to the graciousness of St. Benedict. Many passages of the Dialogues give evidence of it. He is thankful even when handed poisoned bread, thankful when brought a donation half of which was with­held by the bearer. He had the ability to read the human heart, but instead of squashing an exposed offender he makes a friendly remark or at worst a mild reproach, half in sorrow. Rarely does he show anger. It happens, but then he prays for his offender and gains him inwardly. He is kind and considerate without being weak, and when on occasion he must be severe, he is not harsh or intemperate. The secret of such inner harmony lies not only in the nature with which he was blessed; its source is in the holiness of Benedict.

 

Man of Faith

It was natural for the founder, considering his moral and spiritual fiber, to be an adamant defender of Christian orthodoxy. We shall have occasion to speak of his opposition to Pelagianism
[1] and his strong reaction to the Arianism [2] of the Goths, invaders of
Italy. In the Office he wants readings only from the canonical books of sacred Scripture and from “the explanations of them which have been made by well known and orthodox Catholic Fathers” (R 9). The same provision appears in chapter 73. There is to be no doubtful doctrine, only wholesome nurture for souls.

But this is just one aspect of his faith. To Benedict faith is a supreme value, first in importance and an indispensable condition for the whole monastic life. In many respects his career parallels that of Abraham, “who believed God.” Bossuet in his panegyric of the Patriarch of monks addresses himself to the similarity. A first ex­odus took him from his father's house into the wilds. He abandons what he seems to possess in favor of the unknown to which he feels himself called. For love of God he was willing to venture his life in the eremitic enterprise. His first failure with the monks at Vicovaro did not dishearten him.

He also knew partial failure at Subiaco where his goodness and amiability were not enough to overcome the antagonism of the priest Florentius. To forestall the worst, he agreed to withdraw, trusting in God to bring to fruition the work begun.

At Monte Cassino he again set to work. He built a solid monastic community for which he wrote a Rule. But dark clouds loomed, as told by the saint to Theoprobus, whom he himself had converted to the monastic life: “One day on entering Benedict's room he found him weeping bitterly. After he had waited for some time and there was still no end to the abbot's tears, he asked what was causing him such sorrow, for he was not weeping as he usually did at prayer but with deep sighs and lamentations. ‘Almighty God has decreed that this entire monastery and everything I have pro­vided for the community shall fall into the hands of the barbarians,’ the saint replied” (D 17).

It now seemed to Benedict that his lifework would be a failure, doomed as it was to destruction. Monte Cassino was indeed de­stroyed in 589 by the Lombards. To test Benedict's faith God de­manded of him the sacrifice of what he had toiled so long and hard to build. It is not recorded that God also revealed to him the future of his Order: barbarian Europe formed and transformed by the Rule of Cassino, and Benedict's patronage invoked on the nations of the West. ‘Like Abraham, St. Benedict lived by faith, accepting loss after loss and the sacrifice of what was dearest to him, yet always sure of God's faithfulness, no matter what. His trust was absolute.’

For the sanctification of his disciples Benedict did not rely on his Rule, or the observances he laid down, or any human strength, but on  God alone. The work to be accomplished was God's work; God was its author and finisher, and despite appearances it was being realized through the weakness of human means.

Because he had faith, St. Benedict was a man of prayer. He was constantly aware of the divine presence and asked his followers to keep themselves in this presence as though it were visible. Serious­ness of purpose and inner recollection shone in his demeanor. The Abbot of Monte Cassino was a man with whom God alone mattered. The thought of God was his guiding light and oriented him to the in­visible, to the face of the Lord. His soul was not completely itself ex­cept in the conscious practice of this relationship of dependence. It rejoiced in the protective hand of the Almighty. Seeking after God was its one desire, arising from deep within itself like an innate thrust, powerful yet tranquil, that turned it upward toward its Creator. “All creation,” comments St. Gregory, “is bound to appear small to a soul that sees the Creator. Once it beholds a little of his light, it finds all creatures small indeed. The light of holy contem­plation enlarges and expands the mind in God until it stands above the world” (D 35).

The fruits of this inner steadfastness were peace and joy. St. Benedict likes to see his sons and daughters happy; he wants “no one to be troubled or vexed in the house of God” (R 31).

Several of his miracles had no other purpose than to bring peace and contentment to those around him. The miracle of the iron blade retrieved from the lake is one. Benedict handed the tool back to the Goth and told him, “Continue with your work now. There is no need to be upset” (D 6).

       Benedict, who taught his disciples to seek peace and pursue it (R Prol; Ps 33: 15), did not let his own peace forsake him. He lived in a world in turmoil and had premonitions of still greater turmoil. It caused him sorrow, but it did not stop him from putting his trust in God. At the death of his sister he disregarded his personal loss and, his thoughts on what man does not see, was “overjoyed for her eternal glory, and gave thanks to God in hymns of praise” (D 34). God alone counted. It is strictly from this standpoint that he judges all things; hence the absolute primacy of the spiritual in the organization of his monastery and the consciousness of his own unimpor­tance.

 

An Ardent Soul

Faith and humility: two qualities of the soul that Benedict rightly considered indispensable. Thanks to them he felt himself strong with the strength of God. He shows a stalwart character, resolute and persevering. His principles are firmly maintained, sometimes to the point of near rigidity. Was his failure with the monks of Vicovaro due to an excess of youthful strictness? One is tempted to think so. At any rate, he seems never to have completely forgotten it, and we get the impression that he fears the lack of authority more than some of its excesses. He is not afraid that it might be exercised rigorously, and the ideal he sets forth is very demanding.

       Many times, nevertheless, he takes into account the shortcomings and limitations of his people, superiors as well as subjects. He confronts these realities of life without being scandalized like the Pharisee or surprised like the master making the sad discovery of having counted too much on a disciple. His penal code is a master­ piece of human sensitivity. In Chapter 68 - “If a Brother is Com­manded to Do Impossible Things,” things that seem too dif­ficult - he puts himself in the position of the disciple under obedience and permits him to state his case. But he does not, in truth, re­treat from any of his demands or consent to a reduction of the ideal.

       In the case of St. Benedict, perhaps more than in others, appearances can be deceiving. Behind the tranquil exterior, behind the prudent, practical, and seemingly ordinary manner, and the good­ naturedness worthy of a St. Francis de Sales, he concealed a devour­ing fire, an insatiable thirst for perfection. An interior life of incredible force impelled him. This tolerant, kindly, illusionless leader could not be content with mediocrity. He wants no half measure in the spiritual life. There is in him a kind of compulsion, a drive for absoluteness. In his view life is not worth living unless it strives for the perfection of love. In this he is uncompromising and does not yield until unity of purpose and resolve has been achieved; until, that is, the struggle between the forces of good and evil has been won. The purity of his desire is absolute. He wants his disciples to give all on earth, in order to gain all in heaven. Not only the message but the vocabulary also proclaims his thirst, his ardor. He loves superlatives; expressions of totality and exclusion: “always, never, all, absolutely no one, in no case, at once, in all respects, by every means.”

This ardor overflows in charity, commiseration, and sympa­thetic understanding. Many of his miracles, as we have said, are prompted by the desire to relieve distress or want. He condoles with the grieved, with the anguished; he comforts (D 27), he listens, he opens his heart, and in the Rule, though he may seem the master, he is foremost the very loving father.

Such is the author of the Rule: a force thoroughly master of itself, humbly regardful of God's absolute rights and prepared to sacrifice his all for them. Now and then an abbot or a monk is said to be “another Benedict.” This is high praise indeed, but it only under­scores the exceptional importance of the first Benedict in the history of the spiritual life. A beautiful antiphon of Germanic origin names him caelestis norma vitae, a difficult title to translate but one that calls to mind the idea of a living rule and a model of the angelic life. The antiphon also bestows on St. Benedict the titles of “doctor” and “leader.” This he is even today, enduringly, after fifteen hundred years.

 



[1]
         The Celtic monk Pelagius (fifth century) tended to exaggerate the role of the in­dividual in the work of one’s sanctification and return to God. For him grace primarily was an extrinsic enlightenment rather than an interior power elevating human action to the supernatural level.

 

[2]  
            
Arius (255-338), an Alexandrian priest, denied the equality of nature between the Son of God and his Father. For him, the Word was created and was not God in the true sense.

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