Seven reflections at the end of a novitiate: 7QT XV, seriatim.

n 2002, on the advice of a friend, I read The Clois­ter Walk by Amer­i­can poet Kath­leen Nor­ris. The book details a year in her life as a Bene­dic­tine oblate of St. John’s monastery in Col­legeville, Min­neso­ta. She prays, she reads, she spends time with monks, she con­tem­plates the litur­gi­cal year, and finds her sec­u­lar life deep­ened and her soul “enlarged beyond mea­sure.” There is no way to describe the beau­ty of the lan­guage or the depth of inte­ri­or space and encounter with the divine. Nei­ther my friend, nor I, nor even Nor­ris her­self, were Catholic; I am the only one of the three to have become Catholic since, and in part it was due to this book.

At the time, and being 33, I was look­ing for a more rad­i­cal com­mit­ment to God than I had found in main­stream, sur­face-lev­el, once-a-week Protes­tantism. I sought some­thing whol­ly inte­ri­or and whol­ly con­tem­pla­tive. “In the world but not of the world” has nev­er inter­est­ed me. I pre­fer St. Jerome.

Years before, I had already been more than undone by read­ing St. Tere­sa of Avi­la and St. John of the Cross in grad­u­ate school, who intro­duced me, stu­pe­fied, to the pos­si­bil­i­ty of an inte­ri­or retreat into prayer and soli­tude with God. Was there in fact more, and found in a small cell or the space with­in? I was a Methodist; no one tells you these things. But I could not just rise and join a monastery and leave what all. I was not Catholic, and folks already looked at me askance any­way as one keep­ing too much of him­self apart.

So you may imag­ine what this book did to a man who had no idea that Third Orders were pos­si­ble or exist­ed. I can actu­al­ly be a monk with­out going off into a monastery? I can just say, “I’m a Bene­dic­tine now,” pray and read and con­tem­plate dai­ly, and find the Lord in still­ness, and con­tin­ue to live in the world just as before? Why had I not known this?

II.

But no. It is not just that sim­ple. God will have His way, and change us.

A Third Order Bene­dic­tine, or an oblate, does not leave his life or pos­ses­sions and enter a monastery. But he—and she too, in this case—does join a par­tic­u­lar monastery, while con­tin­u­ing to live in the world. The oblate spends a novi­tiate year dis­cern­ing whether or not he has it in him to offer him­self and his prayer (an obla­tion is an offer­ing) to one par­tic­u­lar monastery for life.

A Third Order Bene­dic­tine makes a promise to live the charism of the Bene­dictines in his dai­ly life. He reads from the rule of St. Bene­dict every day. He prays the Litur­gy of the Hours, the dai­ly prayer of the Church, every day. He prac­tices lec­tio div­ina—the con­tem­pla­tive and prayer­ful read­ing of Scripture—every day. He promis­es to serve his parish as he is called. His prayer and his con­tem­pla­tion, and his ser­vice to his church, sanc­ti­fy his dai­ly work, and draw him deep­er into rela­tion­ship with God and into the uni­ver­sal call to holi­ness. It makes us larg­er and deep­er.

It sounds so sim­ple, this order and rou­tine: ora et lab­o­ra, pray and work.

But try a year like that, in a novi­tiate, and you find your­self dai­ly knocked about by slam­ming into the thick walls of such sim­plic­i­ty.

III.

No. There is anoth­er way to say it.

Rou­tine and order­li­ness appeal to me; I like the expect­ed. I don’t like plans that change, or plans that are made last-minute; if you want to invite me some­where, tell me a week in advance, at least. Prefer­ably a year. It may mean I have to move moun­tains of rou­tine and spend the last two days, or months, psy­cho­log­i­cal­ly prepar­ing for the cat­a­clysm.

Flan­nery O’Con­nor once said that “Rou­tine is a con­di­tion of sur­vival.” I like her great­ly. I should have met a woman like that at twen­ty-three.

So this is not dif­fi­cult for me, these promis­es of rou­tine, prayer at fixed times, study at fixed times, read­ing at fixed times, work at fixed times. What could be more sim­ple, what to yearn for more?

IV.

But no: Life, as it will do, turned com­pli­cat­ed and took twists. I moved from Delaware to Cincin­nati; I got mar­ried; I lost my daugh­ter; I got divorced; I bounced from Unit­ed Church of Christ to Pres­by­ter­ian Church-USA; to Luther­an Church Mis­souri Syn­od; I found again lost litur­gi­cal long­ings and became Catholic. That is a short way of describ­ing ten years of detour and failed hopes and weak pur­pose.

Then I found, as I was becom­ing Catholic, that a friend from work attend­ed the same parish I had wan­dered into. (She thought I was scream­ing­ly anti-Catholic and said Hail Marys for me and was shocked to bump into me after Mass.) And I found that her par­ents, who attend the same parish, were Bene­dic­tine oblates. What had been attrac­tive and aban­doned became present and pos­si­ble again.

V.

But no. In fact, it is not sim­ple to say “Prayer at the sixth hour, and then again at the ninth.” The will rebels, and what seems easy and nat­ur­al and desired, because it is rou­tine after all, becomes blast­ed hard to do.

What do you mean pray again? I don’t want to pray again. I just did pray again, and now I’m sup­posed to pray again, again?

No.

Which is, of course, why you need it and why you do it.

VI.

It changes you. In my naivete twelve years ago I sus­pect­ed that being a Bene­dic­tine oblate was no more than to rise one morn­ing with the cock and say, “I pro­nounce myself an oblate attached to the monastery of myself,” to recite a few prayers, read a few vers­es, and go on as I had gone on and would go on, world with­out end, Amen.

But no.

It is a Rule and a Rule is meant to keep you on a path rather than zigzag­ging about. With­out the cen­ter line I’ll smash into a truck or veer into a cow. As I have before, ever and oft. Well, look: I pray and I don’t pray; I read a cou­ple chap­ters in the Bible and then for­get it for a year, or a score.

And I say I love rou­tine, which means that I love the idea of rou­tine. But I find in prac­tice that my will rebels, because it is a wet and soft sponge. And that is why I need rou­tine, which is dif­fer­ent than to say I want it only. What I desire I, in fact, do; but what I need requires a Rule and a heroic—not mere­ly a common—act of will.

Bene­dic­tine oblates fol­low the Rule, and our promis­es, because we need a dai­ly reminder. Yes, I just said those prayers yes­ter­day. But did I not just for­get them a half hour lat­er, because I’m mid­dle aged now and the cat just tore down the hall and leaped the cof­fee table with a roll of bath tis­sue in his mouth and the cell rang and the din­ner is about to burn and I could­n’t tell you what day of the week it is or where I was yes­ter­day let alone any­thing about that psalm I prayed last hour.

But by a Rule, and a supreme and coura­geous act of will, we in fact are changed, because we are remind­ed and made new each morn­ing; and we recall our­selves through­out the day; and we tell our­selves before we go to sleep; and we repeat it again tomor­row.

It changes us so pro­found­ly that we must change even our name. Choos­ing a name for one’s final obla­tion is more than just a sen­ti­men­tal act of find­ing a saint that appeals to us and to whom we can say “Pray for me.” Rather, to choose our new name is to be slapped upside our will and turned upside down and inside out and back­ward and told: “You were once named Scott, but you are now Gre­go­ry.”

I have not cho­sen St. Gre­go­ry; St. Gre­go­ry has cho­sen me. (More on which.)

VII.

But no, I am not ready. Could I be, or any­one?

That is what the novi­tiate year, the year of dis­cern­ment, when you live the Rule and the promis­es (or try and fail, and try again) is meant for you to ask: Can I do this? Am I ready?

But no, I am not ready; and I can not do this, not of my own pow­er, or my own will. As much as I say, “by an act of will,” I do not have the will in me. Will must be bor­rowed by grace.

Yet it is exact­ly because I am not ready that I am mak­ing my final obla­tion.

For one is nev­er “ready.” That is the wrong ques­tion. Rather, I do ask myself: Am I com­pelled?

And to that ques­tion I say yes. I have want­ed this for twelve years, in wan­der­lust and return. And so on Sun­day, Feb­ru­ary 23, 2014, I will make my final obla­tion as a Bene­dic­tine oblate and become attached to the monks of St. Mein­rad Arch­abbey. I take the name Gre­go­ry, after Pope St. Gre­go­ry the Great. And I make the obla­tion and the promis­es, and find the will to pray through the act of prayer itself; the will to con­tem­plate through con­tem­pla­tion; the will to study through study; the will to work through work; and holi­ness through a supreme and qui­et act of turn­ing inward to be with God.

Pray for me.

 

Read more of this week’s quick takes at Con­ver­sion Diary.