To the Benedictine mind, no small amount of spiritual formation happens at or around meals.
And perhaps this should come as no surprise, since meals play such a crucial part in the biblical story. Food was the occasion of the first family’s fall from grace. Food figures largely in the sacred activities of the Old Covenant. Jesus signified and enacted the grace of the New Covenant with a meal. And we will, when the final curtain falls, eat and drink with him in the kingdom of God. The consummation of all things is a meal—the Marriage Supper of the Lamb.
So clearly, what happens around the table matters. It is a vital principle of life, at more than one level. Benedict knows this. And his Rule reflects it.
But we know it, too, don’t we? Our “tables” can be a source of joy and life—full of nourishing food and drink, communion with one another, and (an old word, but one I like) conviviality.
We have all experienced this. Just last week Mandi and I shared a meal for the first time with a family who is somewhat new to our church. The time together was truly “nourishing” on many levels—physically, spiritually, and relationally. We went home happy and blessed. Satisfied.
Which is as it should be. Salvation shared at a table.
But our tables can also be a source of sorrow and death—too much or too little food and drink, taken hastily, alone or (perhaps worse) practically alone, the atmosphere empty and cold.
We—all of us—have sat at too many of these tables. They wound us by their absences.
Here again is a place I find Benedict so helpful, for he gives us some practical help for turning our “tables” into places that convey the Lord’s life (chapters 38-43).
First, he wishes us to make mealtime a priority. As much a priority, in fact, as communal prayer—for the very excellent reason that a great deal of communal prayer happens at the table (more in point #3 below). Monks that are negligent in coming to the table for mealtime are reproved, since the regular sharing of food is a vital principle of life in the community. To neglect it is to do damage to the cohesion of the community.
Second, he commends to us—as part of an overall dietary hygiene—the discipline of moderation. Good food. Nourishing food. Not too much. Not too little. Good drink. Nourishing drink. Not too much. Not too little. (A funny moment here: “However, with due regard for the infirmities of the sick, we believe that half a bottle of wine a day is sufficient for each” [p. 41]. The teetotalers among us wince with displeasure. Haha.) And all taken in a way and at a time that supports and sustains our life rhythms of work and rest, prayer and play.
Benedict doesn’t want us distracted—one way or another—by food. He wants food to serve us, not us it. Which is why, for example, he allows the timing and amount of food to bend and flex to accommodate the work schedules of the monks—so that “the brothers may go about their activities without justifiable grumbling” (p. 42).
This sensibility regarding food, by the way, is a noticeable departure (or development, depending on how you look at it) from the desert fathers and mothers, who often went to extreme lengths in depriving themselves of food. Not so Benedict, who is always concerned about the damaging nature of extremes. He wants us balanced, and whole; sound in mind, body, and spirit; properly poised for the work of God. The Benedictine nun Mary Margaret Funk explains:
When food becomes my dominant thought, it becomes the center of my interior life…a right ordering of my desire for food and drink removes the constant deliberation about what, when, and how much I eat. I am out of balance when I shift too far in any one direction…Eating too little or eating too much is equally harmful. Extremes are indicators of thoughts being out of control…The value of moderation is that extremes do not become another, eventually more intrusive, thought than the original thought of food. If I am a compulsive eater, I have no thought in my consciousness other than food. This compulsive thinking leads to compulsive action. There is no distance between the thought, the desire, and the action. Fasting reverses this. My thinking patterns are checked by my fasting practice, that is, eating at the appointed time, eating what is served, and not desiring an inappropriate quality of food. (Thoughts Matter, 19-20; emphasis mine)
Again, it is important to note that when Funk says “fasting reverses this”, what she does not mean is that every so often we should undertake heroic fasts, but that we should live a “fasted” lifestyle—that every 24 hr. period would be characterized by alternating rhythms of eating and not eating. Eating to strengthen the body. Not-eating to quiet and purify the body, to strengthen the mind and the spirit. St. Benedict knows that this way of being is healthful for us, on every level. (Wild, isn’t it, that he was commending “intermittent fasting” before it was cool? But his understanding of its benefits is far broader, and deeper—grounded as it is in the fear of the Lord.)
Third, he requires that mealtime be an occasion for the word of God and prayer, our eating and drinking sanctified by conscious communion together with God. “Reading (that is, the reading of Scripture) will always accompany the meals of the brothers,” (p. 39) says Benedict. Many of us do this at our tables, alone or with our spouses and/or children, if we have them. This is good.
What I find so refreshing about Benedict, however, is that he insists that this reading not get buried underneath a pile of well-intended commentary. “Let there be complete silence,” the old monk barks at us. “No one should presume to ask a question about the reading or about anything else, lest occasion be given [to the devil]. The superior, however, may wish to say a few words of instruction” (p. 40). And when, of course, the meal and readings are complete, the community proceeds to prayer. Communion with one another, Coram Deo. That’s always the ideal.
Now consider for a moment how our lives might be strengthened by the three things he commends here. What if we prioritized being together at the table, as often as possible? And what if when we gathered at the table, what we served was nourishing, prepared, served, and taken mindfully, with moderation? And what if, in and around all of that, was an openness to the Word of God, an atmosphere of prayer and thanksgiving? How much better off would we be?
Mandi and I have been married for nearly a quarter century, and have been parents for nearly twenty years, and we have—often failing—tried to practice this. With four kids (three of whom are teenagers) whose schedules are all over the map, it is admittedly difficult. But we are fighting for it. Fighting for those few moments each day when the six of us gather together, facing each other, sharing food and drink lovingly prepared as we catch up with one another.
We have, since the kids were little, always taken time at the table to read the Bible and pray. The practice takes many forms. So often, when time is scarce, I’ll look up a passage and hand my phone to one of the kids, and have them read it aloud while we chomp away. I am trusting that seeds of the Word are falling in the soil of their hearts individually, and of our life together. Often the passage will prove poignant to something we are experiencing together. If so, I’ll point it out. Often, I’m not altogether sure how or if it applies. No bother. I’ll just let it linger in the air as we continue eating. Who knows what the Spirit will do, is doing…?
Sometimes, however, when we have the luxury of a little more time together, we’ll do the reading at the end of the meal, when our mouths and minds have calmed a bit, and we’re more settled. We’ll read, and then I’ll invite us into a minute or two of silence before the Word, listening together, welcoming the Presence. And then I’ll pray a blessing over us. And then we’ll clean up and go out from the kitchen, blessed and strengthened. We’re always better for it.
It seems to me that so much of our society is organized against this. Our serial busyness makes gathering with any kind of regularity difficult. Food is a master rather than a servant in Western culture. And as for cultivating an atmosphere of sacredness around the table? Forget it. We’ve all got phones in our hands.
To live this way will take some intention. You’ll have to stand against the tide. Work for it. But if you do—I promise; Benedict promises; the Bible promises—you’ll be better for it.
The table matters, friends.
Peace,
A
Conviviality! I love it!❤️