Reflections of a
Benedictine Wannabe

by Canon Alice Clayton

The press release on “A Benedictine Experience” promised that I would find in the rule of a sixth century Italian monk the tools to bring balance to my life. That coupled with the lure of a week of quiet—and often silence—sealed the deal. Sign me up. I’m gonna be a Benedictine.

Driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains from Knoxville, Tenn., to Black Mountain, N.C., I wondered what the week would bring.

I didn’t know Benedict from Balzac. What could a monk who lived hundreds of years ago teach me about balancing my life in the 20th century? What would I risk? Would I fit in? Would this be a safe place? Would a week of virtual silence be as heavenly as it sounded?

As I pulled into the long tree-lined drive of In the Oaks Episcopal Center, a peace descended upon me. The place felt like home. I walked up the steps of the old gray stone house, passed the giant rocking chairs and stood in the lobby. There a fellow Benedictine wannabe greeted me. I registered and soon settled into the suite I shared with a woman from South Carolina.

About 20 of us gathered in the living room for our first session around a crackling fire that cut the spring chill. Going around the circle, we each told why we were there. Balance. Peace. A way to get closer to God. Quiet. Some were experienced Benedictines. Some were novices like me. But we found we were there for the same reason: to be still and listen for that small voice within.

Our leaders, the Rev. Liz Canham, director of Stillpoint Ministries in Black Mountain and the Rev. Clark Trafton, former superior of the Order of Holy Cross, outlined the norms for the week. We would follow the monastic rhythm of worship, study, work, leisure, community, and silence—sweet, sweet silence.

I fell easily into that rhythm as the week progressed. Our mornings began with matins, and we learned to chant the psalms tuning our voices together so that no one voice dominated. We ate breakfast in silence. Never had I been so aware of the sound a fork makes on a plate. For working prayer, we tended the grounds around the retreat center. I dug holes to plant hemlock trees, moved rocks to line a pond, and planted corn seeds in straight rows. Our study consisted of lectures about St. Benedict and the rule he wrote and how it applies to our daily lives. We also practiced lectio divina or divine reading, which is a method for praying the scriptures and allowing the word of God to speak to one in extraordinary ways. We celebrated the Eucharist together every day.

One morning after matins, I studied in my room alone. I slowly read the day’s Old Testament lesson waiting for the tug of some word or phrase to catch the “ear of my heart.” When I read “Do not be afraid. I have named you and you are mine” from Isaiah 43 I stopped. For the past year, God had been far from me. Not by God’s choosing but by mine. Serious doubts of God’s existence had surfaced like an oil slick threatening to smother my faith. But in this reading, God offered a gift: you are mine and I don’t easily give up on what is mine.

As I looked out my window to a patch of Jack in the Pulpit wildflowers growing green against a rock wall, another phrase manifested: I am always with you, little one. Even when you do not

believe, I am with you. This experience distilled the essence of lectio divina for me: that prayer is a dialogue with God not a monologue of me listing my wants and concerns and then going on my merry way, never waiting to hear what God might have to say to me about God’s wants and concerns.

As the week progressed, I began to discern what it was about the Rule of St. Benedict that appealed to me. Written at the time of the fall of the Roman Empire, Benedict’s rule offered a respite from chaos and uncertainty. Benedict presented a plan—not a law—for living a spiritual life that provided balance and stability.

Across the centuries, Benedict’s “little rule for beginners” spoke to me in gentle ways that acknowledged that I am new at this, that I’m going to mess up, but that I shouldn’t give up: “Do not be daunted immediately by fear and run away from the road that leads to salvation. It is bound to be narrow at the outset. But as we progress in this way of life and in faith, we shall run on the path of God’s commandments, our hearts overflowing with the inexpressible delight of love.”

For Benedict all time and all tasks were holy. There was no time when the monks were not connected to God. Reading the daily offices seven times a day reminded them that the whole day was holy not just the times set aside for prayer. Work connected the monks to the creator and continued what God had set out in creation. Tools of labor and the tools of the altar were to be treated with the same care.

What I brought away from my week as a monastic was a guide on how to look for God’s hand in every aspect of my life. Benedict’s rule taught me to look for the holy in ordinary occurrences from sitting in a traffic jam to sitting at my desk working. The experience gave me tools to connect to God through reading scripture with the “ear of my heart.”

When I returned home from my Benedictine experience, I continued to practice lectio divina although, I admit, not daily. I conducted a quiet day at my parish and introduced a new group of seekers to St. Benedict and his rule. To be honest, I have not been as faithful a Benedictine as I would like to be. But when I apply myself, I can find balance in my 20th century life using the tools given to me through the ages by a sixth century monk who said: “Are you hastening toward your heavenly home? Then with Christ’s help, keep this little rule that we have written for beginners. After that, you can set out for the loftier summits of the teaching and virtues we mentioned above, and under God’s protection you will reach them. Amen.”

This article by Canon Clayton first appeared in The Journal of Women’s Ministries, Winter 1999.