The Wisdom of St. Benedict #13: Things

Happy Tuesday, friends! Let’s talk about “things”, shall we?

A radical view of possessions is perhaps the most obvious feature of the early desert literature. The monks of the 3rd and 4th centuries were notable for their determination to take Jesus’ conversation with the rich man in the Gospels with the most literal and exacting seriousness. Of a young monk who wanted to keep a few possessions for himself, Abba Anthony said, “Those who renounce the world but want to keep something for themselves are torn…by the demons who make war on them” (Benedicta Ward, Sayings, 5). Of Abba Arsenius it was said that “as none in the palace wore more splendid garments than he when he lived there, so no one in the church wore such poor clothing” (Sayings, 9). In response to a question posed by a monk about the best use of the things of this world, Abba Macarius said, “Best of all is to possess nothing” (Sayings, 73). 

Radical stuff. 

In general it may be said that the monks were bent on experiencing practical detachment from the things of this world, often going to extravagant lengths to achieve it. Theirs was an authentic experiment in gospel freedom—an experiment that often had dramatic and positive results. 

Laudable as their ideals may have been, however, the fact remains that the monks did have possessions, things (even if sometimes they acted like they didn’t)—for the obvious reason that a person has to have things to negotiate an ongoing existence in this world: a place to live, clothes to wear, food to eat and water to drink, and at least a few personal accouterments. So the real question is not whether we shall have things (sorry Macarius); the question is how shall we have the things we have?

When the monks began to assemble formally in communities, a genuine appraisal of that question became more realistic. Benedict is a great case in point. The monastery is a place of things—unavoidably so. And those things are not thought to be impediments to the life of holiness. Rightly understood, rightly used, they are a path to God—as in fact our entire physical existence is, now that one of the Trinity has become flesh. And indeed, it might be said that Benedict’s view of things is that it—like so much else in his imagination—is profoundly incarnational and sacramental. Of the monastery cellarer (i.e., the person entrusted with making sure that the physical needs of the brethren are met), Benedict says that

“He will regard all utensils and goods of the monastery as sacred vessels of the altar…” (RB, 35)

In the Benedictine imagination, even spoons are to function like sacraments: conveying grace, ushering a person into a lived experience of the Presence, given as a means of facilitating the communion with one another that is ours in Jesus Christ.

And that brings up the key point—like the Sacrament itself, it matters how we treat it—things, that is. As Paul tells us not to eat or drink unworthily or un-discerningly lest we eat and drink judgment upon ourselves (1 Cor. 11), so Benedict thinks that we ought not use things unworthily or un-discerningly, lest we use them in a way that results in judgment.

So let’s ask: What might a “Benedictine” view of how we should treat “things” look like? (I’m drawing from chapters 32-34 here.)

1 - We treat things with the utmost respect. “Whoever fails to keep the things belonging to the monastery clean or treats them carelessly should be reproved” (p. 36). This is because to the Benedictine mind—which, as we’ve said, is informed by the biblical mind through and through—all things are finally God’s things. They are on loan from him, entrusted to us as his stewards. It matters how we treat the things that have been entrusted to us, which means that the little quotidian tasks of daily life have the highest possible significance. Doing the dishes, mowing the lawn, repainting an old fence, replacing light bulbs, cleaning out the garage… Benedict, with the Bible writers, wants us to know that all of it is part of a vast tapestry of holiness, an outworking of the eternal purpose of God, our share in the kingdom. Carelessness is excluded by the call of Christ (it is worth remembering on this point that Israel was finally thrust from the promised land because they failed to give it its sabbath rest—that is, they disrespected and abused a gift of God). 

That’s the first thing to say, and it is challenging enough. But Benedict goes deeper:

2 - We refuse to see ourselves as the “possessors” of things. In a chapter on private ownership, Benedict writes, “Above all, this evil practice must be uprooted and removed from the monastery” (p. 35). To enter the life of the monastery was to have embraced the renunciation of possessions so lauded by the early desert fathers and mothers, and to have come into an experience where “all things should be the common possession of all”, where “no one presumes to call anything his own.” What defines the monk is not what they possess, but who possesses them: that is, Christ; and what needs they had they relied on one another for, seeking to live the apostolic ideal: “and there were no needy persons among them” (Acts 4:34).

I’ll say more on that in a moment. But before I do, the last thing:

3 - We do all this to facilitate the free-flow of strength to the places of greatest need. Benedict, I think, has many goals in mind in his commendation of this way of life, but surely the greatest is simply the breaking down of barriers between the monks so that strength can flow without hindrance to those who need it most. “It is written:” he says, appealing to the witness of the earliest believers in Acts, “Distribution was made to each one as he had need” (p. 37). The goal of this is “consideration for weakness,” he says. The strong should rejoice that they need less while the weak should feel an upsurge of humble gratitude that the community was able to buoy them up when they were in need. The point is that “the members will be at peace.” Shalom will reign among them because of the free-flow of strength, which is really God’s strength, from one member to all the others.

Now by way of application, let’s just state the obvious here. Most of us are not monks. We do not live in monasteries. (Or maybe you do? If I’ve got any monks or nuns reading this, holla!). We live by ourselves or with our families in more or less normal communities of church and work and school and marketplace and what have you.

So here’s the temptation—to let ourselves off the hook. And that, I think, would be a mistake, for the Benedictine view of things I’ve outlined above speaks powerfully to many of the economic and social concerns of our age. We have come to live now in a consumptive, throwaway society where the gap between rich and poor continues to widen; a society driven along by the idea that our value is measured by what we have, or by what we can have at the click of a button.

Need it even be said that this is utterly destructive of our individual and collective humanity? And that on even a cursory reading of the Law and the Prophets and the Gospels, it is against the will of God for human life? How will we address it?

Maybe we can take our cues from Benedict. We can… 

1 - Curb our lust for more and better things and instead take better care of the things we have. We don’t have to have a bigger house. Or a newer car. Or the latest fashions. We can exit the rat race, slowing down into a more leisurely life of the enjoyment and care of the things we already have, embracing them for what they are: gifts of God. Someone once said, “Happiness is not having everything you want, but wanting everything you have.” I think that’s right. It’s learning to love and appreciate what’s already in your hands rather than lusting madly after what is not.

To live this way will make our lives simpler and more streamlined, taking pressure off of our minds, proving attractive to those around us, and—huge upshot!—making our budget much more manageable. Which will help us… 

2 - Start seeing and using the things we have as what they are: resources entrusted to us for the common good. It is pagan and idolatrous to the core to use the good gifts of God for self-aggrandizement. We have not been made stewards in order to boost our brand. (The Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar in the book of Daniel suddenly comes to mind.) We have been made stewards in order to facilitate the free-flow of God’s goodness to the places of greatest need—the poor and vulnerable, first and foremost. To whom much is given, much is required. Should God entrust us with more, to that extent a heavier burden falls upon us—to be, as Paul says, “Rich in good deeds, generous and willing to share” (1 Tim. 6:18). 

“Good, good,” you say, “How can we start?”

Glad you asked.

I think that one of the most obvious ways that we can begin to practice both of these things is by… wait for it… TITHING—a practice that has fallen on hard times of late, if the data is correct. Clearly the practice, in its general form—setting aside a portion of your income to facilitate the worship and ministry of the covenant community—is biblical through and through, attested in the Old Testament as well as in the New.

Pedestrian though it may seem, when you think about it, it’s actually quite radical. Tithing is an affront to our individualistic and consumeristic economic ethos and one obvious place in which we might begin to edge our way into Benedict’s (the Bible’s!) vision. Think about it for a moment. A tithing community is a community that insists:

• All things belong to God

• Resources are given for the common good

• Those who have more are to bear a greater load so that strength can flow to those in need

In short—by just practicing “Financial Discipleship 101”, we can take our stand against the great idolatrous and dehumanizing trends of our age.

I’m not the only one who thinks this. Some years ago Duke Divinity School professor Lauren Winner, in response to a question about a negative tendency she sees among Christians today, remarked thus:

Our failure to tithe. I hear all the time: “I just can’t afford to give right now.” I hear that from my middle-class American peers. I wonder, if we “can’t afford” to give now, why not? And if we “can’t afford” to give now, when will we be able to afford to give? I know of nothing that will transform someone’s spiritual life more abruptly than beginning to tithe. If we want to learn about dependence on God, tithe. If we want to have our treasure in heaven, tithe. If we want to have any hope of having solidarity with the poor, tithe.

Words I think Benedict would nod in hearty approval to. We need not enter a monastery to practice his vision. We can start right where we are—giving our first and best to the Lord in the household of faith.