Some Reflections upon Culture and Monasticism

This essay follows closely upon the heals of another posted on the Monastic Journal Home Page, “The Experience of Boundedness,” which offered some reflections upon our innate human limitations. More specifically, these limitations were examined in light of a cultivated Socratic ignorance: not simply the fact that we “know nothing” (we’re all familiar with that) but with the big difference that Socrates knew that he knew nothing. This operating principle, if you will, was inserted within the context of Cistercian monasticism with which I have a certain familiarity. Secondly, Socratic ignorance can become an instrument enabling us to simulate death. In that same article such simulation was pointed out as a hands-on method accessible to everyone. I hesitate to propound “method,” for that smacks of artificiality, so I prefer to use the term loosely. Anyway, we have an immediate way of getting a handle on physical death because it preoccupies us all to one extent or another. Death brings to an ultimate end our aspirations, yet “simulating” death can open up hitherto unknown realms of creativity. In other words, it’s a paradox, rather, the ultimate paradox. Socrates himself viewed philosophy not as an abstract pursuit but as a concrete way of simulating death, so when the time came for him to drink the hemlock, he wasn’t afraid. He knew full well that he was leaving the land of the dead for a better life. If Socrates was so confident in this, something must have worked for him. If it can work for Socrates, what about us? Why not try it out and see if it can teach us something? Might as well do it now because we will all do it later regardless whether we like it or not. The gesture of simulation done while we are physically alive offers a return trip, whereas death is a one-way ticket.

Socrates has provided inspiration throughout the centuries right down to our own era. Every time there has been a crisis in Western Civilization, thoughtful persons have found renewal in Plato’s Dialogues. Historically, this inspiration has come down to us in various guises, all of which may be placed under the general heading of Platonism. True enough but not quite. Often people were attracted to more abstract or metaphysical aspect’s of Plato thought such as the forms. These insights could be adapted to current situations because of their universality and flexible character. If we use these forms as a guiding point, it’s easy to see that each generation attached their own spin to them at the expense of leaving behind the spirit of confrontation or elenchos favored by Socrates in the Dialogues. The end result is that Platonism has become interpreted as belonging to the domain of scholars or those favoring an intellectual approach with respect to the exigencies of this world. Popularly speaking, this charge has a ring of truth but is not really on the mark. Even if you were to say to a friend that you were “reading Plato,” immediately there comes to mind that yes, it’s admirable but is ultimately an exercise in abstraction with no application to real life which has real problems.

Since people have consistently turned to Plato’s works in times of crisis, let’s take the a current one which has received continuous media attention. For many, the terrorist attacks of 9-11 have become a turning point. Governments all over the world realize that political and ideological differences are secondary to new types of menaces which threaten their stability. What sets these threats apart from others is that it is global as opposed to being limited to one section of the world. That familiar comparison may apply again, namely, the barbarians at the gates of Rome. The so-called barbarians are proponents of militant Islam where the threat today is more subversive and hence menacing. This nebulous yet real danger heightens the perception in existence for some time now that somewhere along the line society has lost its bearings.

Could we be at a point where Platonism may help us make sense of what seems senseless? Close but not quite. This time around we may have an invitation to consider not so much Platonism as traditionally perceived but the flesh and blood person of Socrates. We could call this approach “neo-Socratism.” Again, not quite. Any “ism” can conveniently turn into an ideology which in this instance would detract from how Socrates comported himself as a real person. This approach signals the innate human tendency to get one step removed from a practice we know works yet are afraid of trying it out. The practice (the Greek word praxis is more appropriate) at which he was an expert consists in knowing that he didn’t know anything. Admittedly this approach doesn’t solve the recent problem of global terrorism at the hands of militant Islam extremists. Still, the opportunities are there for putting into practice Socratic ignorance and see if something could arise from it. Some time ago I asked a Plato scholar if he knew of instances–past or current–where people actually implemented cultivated ignorance. The answer was “no” despite Plato being taught in universities and books being written on his philosophy.

Another example of a crisis was touched upon in a recent refectory book, John Adams by John McCullough (We have the custom of reading articles and books of general interest during the noonday meal). Early on the author recounts that like many of his generation, Adams was steeped in classical authors, one of whom was Plato. McCullough recounts how he spent long winter nights bundled up with the Dialogues in hand. Surely Plato was an important influence later at the time of the American Revolution; makes you wonder if Adams got any ideas from The Republic. John Adams and others weren’t sure what form of government the United States should adopt. Perhaps familiarity with the famous Socratic aporia or perplexity was in Adams’ mind as well as other framers of the Constitution.

Since modern society is frequently characterized as faceless and impersonal, maybe it’s time to find a working example or a real person...Socrates...who dealt with his circumstances as best he could. Socrates didn’t go around with the objective of “founding a school”–that was up to later disciples–but was intent upon his praxis of ignorance. He seemed to do it for no other end than for the joy of doing it. So here we have a person who somehow got it into his mind to walk around Athens and say he didn’t know a damn thing about anything. The point is that Socrates wasn’t taken up with the predicaments his society found itself in; he was well aware of them but preferred to go along with the flow of things while remaining “ignorant.” We get an indirect snapshot of this attitude through his almost indiscriminate proclivity of forming friendships. They didn’t happen because Socrates was lonely or curious. Regardless of each person’s station in life, he wanted to ply everyone for the purpose of examining their opinions, of how they came to the conclusions they did. Even more intriguing was how these opinions became encrusted into dogmatic ways of behavior, and Socrates ended up by paying the ultimate price in the face of one such opinion.

We might find this inspiring but are disposed to pigeonhole Socrates: modern society is too large and impersonal compared with the tiny confines of a Greek city state some twenty-five hundred years ago. A great temptation which doesn’t hold water because the parallels with human nature are too striking to ignore. Nothing prevents a person from cultivating ignorance in either a large or small societal milieu; the same applies across the span of centuries. In a certain way, a large faceless metropolis has an advantage. On one hand it offers solitude and on the other, abundant opportunities to question people and see where they stand vis-a-vis opinions.

One impetus that prompted this essay or at least helped in narrowing down the nebulous subject of culture and monasticism was the public reading of the House Reports of the Cistercian Order. This list of each house’s status according to seniority starting with Citeaux was much more interesting than at first glance. It gave us a cross-cultural snapshot of the Order throughout the world, not so much of their internal conditions–that obviously dominated the reports–but more subtly, of how they tied in with their native surroundings. One pervasive note stood out: aging communities and diminishing numbers, even a few were forced to close their doors. The exceptions were a several houses in Europe and considerably more in Africa. The latter are often beset by political strife within poor nations, a factor which may contribute to their more abundant numbers. Apart from a few isolated instances the current status doesn’t sound encouraging, and within ten years we could see some monasteries fading out altogether. In fact, three European houses have shut their doors in the past two years; several in Canada face the same prospect and perhaps more in the USA. I get the sense that those older monks who recall the Glory Days of expansion after World War II are perplexed over how communities, once so flourishing, are in the process of shriveling up.

What does culture have to do with all this? I stick with this notion because instead of directly dealing with the nitty-gritty details or monasticism, let alone its history and theology, culture looks at the end-product of these elements, as it were. In this way we are able to obtain a behind-the-scenes view, of what makes monasticism work. Culture is a kind of offshoot offering a picture from many angles. Sometimes more mysterious features of monasticism are not readily understandable to the general public, so cultural expressions filter them without diminishing their essence. An obvious example is the Divine Office. Many people don’t understand it yet appreciate the beauty of chant. If a person is sufficiently diligent, he or she can see the connection between these manifest realities and the hidden springs from which they emerge. The same applies to architecture and anything else visible to the eye which sets the monastery apart from other beautiful places. Even more than the chant is that silence a casual visitor invariably perceives when setting foot on the property. One went so far as to discern the absence of silence when he literally walked off the property...and this was on a remote road where the distinction between the enclosure and the land outside was the same except for “no trespassing” signs.

Two thoughts come to mind from the house reports. On one hand, monks seem to think that a fairly wide loss of interest in their mode of life now exists despite growing interest in spirituality. It makes them think of where they’ve come from, are at present and where they might be going in the very near future, if any place at all. We Cistercian monks have not been in such a situation for a long time, if ever. Sure, in the course of more recent centuries–monks tend to think in these longer time spans–communities had experienced vicissitudes. For example, take the French Revolution when virtually every house in that country suffered dissolution. Then the rise of the modern era came on the scene quickly followed by the Industrial Revolution and not long after, two world wars with all that entailed. Then secularism–it rose much earlier–really took hold, especially since the 1960s. Nevertheless, through these circumstances (which took place against the larger back-drop of that growing secularism) monasticism as we’ve come to know it survived and even flourished. It’s crucial to keep in mind that most of these events had been external to the overall monastic observance. When times got tough–even to the point of martyrdom–it was quite easy for monks to band together against an external threat. They had a sense of purpose, of standing up for their way of life.

The second aspect concerns a recent phenomenon intimated by those house reports of the Cistercian Order, namely, the emergence of lay associates. Off hand I’d say approximately sixty-five percent of houses throughout the world have some program in place. A few groups are active in the life of the community whereas others are to a lesser degree. Unfortunately, little details are given as to how these groups interact both with the monks and among themselves. I make special note of these lay associates because they are new and may be in the forefront of any cultural renewal. They have the proper contact and distance from monasticism to gain a perspective on it and therefore can become mediators to a larger society. This peripheral existence, as it were, may have just the right position in that such groups have sufficient insight into the cultural ramifications of monasticism or the ability to spell out what goes on there in a way intelligible to the people with whom they interact. At the same time monks may view these people as “interpreters” to communicate their lives to society. It’s still too early to see how they will develop, but something is definitely at work on the level of the Order worldwide.

Another possibility is that down the road these associates will evolve into a new form of monks, men and women alike. For some years now interest in “temporary” monasticism has emerged which, I believe, has been in existence in Oriental monasticism from the beginning of their tradition. In the West a person may “be a monk” for X amount of years and then move on to something else. Regardless of which group may dominate–lay associates or people who are monks in the traditional sense–they will have picked up the essentials of monasticism and pass it on quietly within the secular culture where they live and work. In brief, full-time monks could be on the wane or on the cusp of the wane. One younger monk noted that a bunch of us might end up as minders or guardians of the monastic buildings around which and within which other types of vocations will flourish in unforeseen ways.

In the years following the aftermath of the Second Vatican Council or more precisely, once the dust from that event had settled, monks found themselves faced with a wholly different situation than in the past. Actually, no historical precedents exist. Instead of being confronted by challenges without, they had to face–and face for the very first time–challenges from within. I recall our former Abbot, Thomas Keating, who said that the post VC II period was the most trying the Cistercian Order had undergone since the French Revolution, that favorite bench-mark for us monks. He had in mind the early 1970s or just when the roughest edges of the ‘60s were beginning to smooth themselves out. If a young man newly arrived at the monastery could weather that period, he could face anything that would come down the pike. Now that some thirty years have passed since Keating made his prophetic observation, we can see that it contained an element of truth. Only a few survivors remain from that short yet tumultuous period; they are set apart from both their predecessors and people who entered afterwards in that both groups possessed a certain stability regarding formation.

By way of comparison with societies apart from other historical periods, the Order was not tossed here and there by strife and revolution which had been pretty much endemic. This general stability in society enabled communities to enjoy an equally internal stability despite the occasional social disorders, wars included. People responsible for and involved with those social upheavals still maintained a respect for religion in general and monasteries in particular. This shows that despite growing secularism, the bonds between religion, culture and society were not yet fully dissolved. But when external circumstances (the most notable example being the French Revolution) turned hostile towards religion in general and monasticism in particular, communities could still maintain their inner stability despite the outward chaos. This innate capacity to support order was based on a firm conviction that the monastic tradition had divine roots operative in society and which required (and received) loyalty from the population at large.

Let’s return briefly to those years after the Council when many Cistercian abbeys witnessed the implementation of dialogue among community members. It was painful at first but most houses have done a good job at fostering interpersonal relationships and continue to work at it. Nowadays it’s hard to conceive of any community without some form of ongoing dialogue. Keep in mind that up until the Second Vatican Council, Cistercians observed a strict regime of silence and penance coupled with long hours in church, not to mention fasting. The monks responsible for getting dialogue off the ground in those early years were relatively young and numerous. They were formed under the old regime and were at a time in life to question their formation in light of the exciting possibilities that lay ahead. At the same time this relatively brief period signaled the end of an era, for the ensuing years began to witness a slow but steady erosion not immediately evident.

While all the ramifications from dialogue were quietly going on during the late 60s and early 70s, monks witnessed the start of an exodus of priests and religious which took the Catholic Church off guard. Because monasteries are approximately five years behind any societal changes, they began to see the departure of solemnly professed monks, albeit delayed. It hit harder because a monastery is a closed society, and these departures left those who remained questioning why they continued along in the monastery. Yet even this was a source of creative ferment; over the next ten to fifteen years the drop-out level slowed to a trickle and finally stopped. At the same time–and I have in mind a thirty year period–those who remained in the monastery had...well...gotten thirty years older. Thus the medium age of many abbeys rose sharply, for they operated with the tacit assumption that there would always be sufficient vocations to carry on as usual.

The stable world view that existed prior to the Second Vatican Council went unquestioned; more accurately, it was taken for granted. In a sense the atmosphere some forty years ago was a carry-over from the medieval period. When you look back, it maintained a remarkable consistency despite the modern pace of life evident elsewhere. That sense of connection between modern times and the days of old is a phenomenon only possible within a largely enclosed society (the Catholic Church) which in turn was situated within a larger (medieval) society to which it had originally given birth. In modern times the connection was bound to snap, for tensions resulting from secularism had been afoot just beneath the surface. Many people trace the most definitive catalyst of change to the assassination of President Kennedy which snapped that connection with the medieval world. Being in the thick of the Council made it all the more dramatic for Catholics. Those who were old enough at the time consistently bring up the fact that from that year–1963–the Viet Nam war intensified and the hippie movement came into existence. It, in turn, was followed by Watergate. Given the more insular nature of monasticism, these events didn’t impact us until the early 1970s even though many were sensitive to what had been going on since Kennedy’s assassination. That cushion...indeed, luxury...of monks being some five to seven years behind events in society was abruptly snatched away. Now events are much more proximate, a fact that really hit home by the impact of sexual abuse by priests. While this does not affect us, we as religious have become suspect. The most immediate consequence is greater need to be on guard in our relationship with the world.

So here in the year 2003 we have a group of monks–and I have in mind especially the oldest members–who experienced the stability of the pre-VC II era followed by the inevitable turmoil and somehow managed to hang on. “Survivors” is not an infrequent word some use to describe this group. Often the term is used with admiration for those men who managed to scrape by during those years. When younger post-VC II monks hear the word “survivor” they are confused because that period from 1963 to around 1972 was quite brief and lacked historical parallels. It was almost as though no one bothered to set down an account of these years. Obviously it was difficult to communicate the ferment which occurred then, and these younger monks are sometimes at a loss even to comprehend it. Then again, older monks had been so pre-occupied with the pre-to-post VC II shift that they were just as unaware of it. Now that thirty years have passed, we are enjoying a certain stability which roughly parallels but does conform to the pre-VC II period. As one elderly monk noted, people of his generation haven’t experienced such peace as at the present moment since he had entered the monastery. That was 1929! The peace of that earlier era was more of conformity which tended to sweep problems under the rug and therefore out of sight. The peace today is largely a result of dialogue and of course, an aging community which is less prone to dissension.

During the current period monks have assimilated the principles of dialogue as well as the new modes of communication such as the Internet. Despite this adaptation, they find themselves more or less left alone by society as opposed to suffering persecution, even of the subtle variety. Back in the late 1960s there was talk about monks being irrelevant to society–admittedly trendy–so that period has a distant though distinctly different echo compared with today. For example, Thomas Merton relished in his peripheral existence both with respect to society and his monastic community. At the same time, Merton was right in tune with many ideas being floated about at the time. Nowadays this irrelevance has hit home in an unexpected fashion due to sexual abuse problems by priests which have suddenly made headline news. While the crisis is generally external to monasteries, it’s ramifications run the risk of making us not being taken as seriously as in the past. Again, no outright persecution but simple disdain. In brief, that reverence shown to monks by society has faded. It is harder to wither away from neglect coupled with scorn than to suffer persecution outrightly.

Another factor which contributes to this climate of apparent decline regarding interest in monasticism is a vaguely perceived awareness by monks–and this can easily include other like-minded persons–that religion no longer speaks to people as it had in the past. You don’t hear monks talking about this outright; it’s something that comes at you obliquely over an extended period of time. Yet once more the “culprit” is dialogue which has introduced a greater communal sense of responsibility. It in turn is reflected in the running of the monastery. The basic structure hasn’t altered, that is, the Divine Office and Mass, although much of the solemnity and rigor associated with them has slackened. At the same time the needs and aspirations of monks were subordinated to this demanding formality. Thus when the mode of celebration of both the Office and Mass was relaxed, monks realized that they had been unwittingly enslaved to an ideal: valid but greatly exaggerated. Similarly, secondary supports or devotional practices faded out, for example, the rosary and stations of the cross. If you were to take a monk aside and ask him privately, chances are pretty good that he does not miss those times. He’d add that the general spirit created by dialogue is on the same plane of importance with the Office and Mass, for it affects his daily life in an intimate way. Not that he lives for dialogue, but its spirit has opened up areas of community life that had been previously unexplored.

This somewhat slackened attitude towards so many things that have been revered and unquestioned is one spin-off from those heady days of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. At the same time younger monks are seeking a restoration of past values. They haven’t experienced that period of rigorous observance yet are living with monks who did and who occasionally echo varying sentiments about it, mostly negative. Don’t forget that the latter group went through a transition about which the younger folks only have theoretical knowledge. Putting these men under the label “conservative” is too convenient; rather, younger monks are seeking not so much restoration of the past but more interaction among all community members and therefore a greater sense of belonging. The problem is identifying the word “conservative” with rigorous observance–it may be a convenient way to identify them–but they really want everyone to participate in the monastic life and not remain on the fringe. Often younger members are baffled by how their seniors comport themselves. They forget that these monks had been through more changes than all their predecessors combined. Newcomers have to be on the look-out not to judge; the future is uncertain, and they too may experience similar changes given the fast pace at which society continues to change.

Many monks in today’s Cistercian communities have been trained in the parochial school system which generally has gone by the boards or has been pushed further to the margins of society despite impressive academic achievements. When you look at the population of monastic communities as a whole, most men come from urban areas as opposed to small towns and rural area, places where the Catholic Church traditionally had been most active. In addition to a normal education, the parochial school system offered total immersion: religion, morals and often ethnic values coupled with the well noted emphasis upon “Catholic guilt.” It was only natural for these people to enter religious life, and if they were especially heroic, a monastery. Once in, monks found it easy to adapt, for their new environment paralleled their parochial school background, right down to that “Catholic guilt” which played into the hands of an authoritarian oriented mode of life current in the pre-VC II days. Now men from this background are entering less frequently. Perhaps they can perceive yet not articulate the difference between themselves and their brothers, subtle as it may be. It’s just a guess and maybe incorrect, but at least it demonstrates that newcomers are and will be coming from a more secular oriented society.

Laying close to the center of all the turmoil and ambiguity monks have experienced in recent times is Einstein’s Theory of Relativity which burst upon the scene at the beginning of the last century. It took a good seventy-five to a hundred years both for it and Heisenberg’s Principle of Uncertainty to sink in. Today monks can look out at the world beyond their enclosure and say with some conviction that they are “relative” to it. For a concrete experience, all a monk has to do is go to a city for one day; even a quick trip to the doctor will do the trick. When walking down a busy city street or a shopping mall, even the faintest recollection of what one’s fellow monks are doing within the enclosure seems as unreal as the man in the moon. Then the monk gets into his car and drives home. From this his native place what he had undergone earlier in the day seems equally unreal. Nevertheless, both co-exist...are “relative” to each other. Relativity is great if confined within its proper sphere of physics, but we get into trouble by applying it to the world of human affairs, especially morality. These applications may not hit people as forcefully as monks because they are living within an enclosed environment; in other words, monks tend to be more sensitive to such things.

Another factor which contributed to the post VC II turmoil (that is, from the early to mid 1970s or the end of the Vietnam War) was our monastery’s experimentation with several non-traditional methods of prayer. Included were Transcendental Meditation and Zen Buddhism, not to mention transactional analysis and now out-of-vogue techniques of dialogue including “I’m okay, you’re okay.” Some were more in tune with monastic life and others were not; nevertheless, everyone who lived through that period agrees that despite the disorganization, it was very exciting. Most felt it was a time when monks were attune to what had been going on in society. Then a certain reactionary period set in–not to be unexpected–which sought to re-establish a stability parallel to yet different from the pre-VC II period. Actually the newly introduced stability reflected some nostalgia for that earlier time including younger monks who only heard it second hand. Despite sincere efforts at renewal by stressing traditional monastic practices, the community as a whole was focused elsewhere, if you will, which brings us to the third and current phase of development. Most people looked back fondly on that turbulence with a view of re-capturing the spirit of experimentation minus any excesses. That era, plus the events preceding them, transpired over approximately a forty year period. Another way of looking at it is that both periods occurred over the course of two generations of monks. The character of the new or current period cannot yet be defined because we have just entered upon it and are searching ways of integrating the best from our recent history.

When an institution such as a monastery finds itself within a new phase, people are inclined to reflect upon the period from which they just emerged. This is natural, for it’s the closest reference point at hand. The new time is one of uncertainty, where what we know is projected forward or into what we don’t know. It’s an interesting phenomenon, one that reveals our inherent limitations as well as strengths. At the same time it is indicative that we are most comfortable in the knowledge we possess and seek to preserve it in one form or another. Hence the reason for setting down some remarks above. It’s an attempt to survey several elements of what we know about modern Cistercian monasticism commencing from a time when its principles went unquestioned. Since our community is a church in miniature, it is only natural that it reflects the same attitudes which are at work within the Church at large. On one hand, experience of a former world view is the only thing older monks are equipped with; some are hesitant whereas others are more adventuresome. On the other hand, newcomers lack this reference point and require time to pick up from their seniors the heritage of the past. Nowadays both groups remain in a quandary as how to discern the future in a time when discernment is problematic compared with a relatively monolithic past. Although this feeling is difficult to articulate, you can feel a tension at work in community dialogue sessions or council meetings...a kind of where-do-we-go-from-here attitude.

One immediate spin-off from community dialogue sessions emerged during a recent chapter given by our Abbot to the community, namely, enclosure. He was more concerned not so much about keeping track of us but of knowing our whereabouts when outside the monastery. Some interpreted this as a Big Brother attitude, shades of the past. The Abbot simply wanted to protect us legally, if you will, in case misinterpretations arise from people outside the monastery. Perhaps this greater accountability is the most immediate concrete example of our current predicament after both the pre- and post-VC II eras. Just the fact that some monks were taking the Abbot’s remarks in the “pre-” mode is indicative of a time when the minutiae of monastic life were highly regulated. Similarly, it reflects a post VC II mode when elements of the life weren’t clearly articulated. In other words, the current accountability regarding enclosure is an example of seeking clarity while avoiding that Big Brother attitude of the more distant past as well as the period of experimentation of more recent times.

Regardless of which era in which we monks find ourselves there is one key factor common to virtually everyone who takes up this mode of life. Let’s put it in terms of a phrase lifted from the Book of Ecclesiastes, “vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” Prior to his entry, a candidate realizes that the world offers only so much: riches, marriage, family, a career. All are good, and some return to them after having gone through a year or two of the novitiate or even later after having been in temporary vows. Each and every one who has taken this route say that they will never be the same, that their few years in the monastery have marked them for life. Whether it is one of these “temporary monks” or one who sticks it out for the long haul, insight into the transitory nature of everything created remains at the heart of the vocation. One monk suggested that the term “futility” might be a modern substitute for “vanity.” He has a point. Futility is more extreme, smacking of despair or coming close to it, yet this term might be situated on the far side of Ecclesiastes’ vanity.

“Vanity” is a difficult concept to grasp in this modern world of affluence or better, the indefinite number of opportunities which are available. “Vanity” can get a young man into the monastery, but does it keep him there? Don’t forget that the human life span is much longer than previous generations, so we have in mind a very long period of time. Thus “vanity” needs to be seen as a first step which leads to something further. After all, monastic life remains the same day in, day out, month after month, year after year. The realization that everything outside the monastery is “vain” is akin to the most important vow monks take, conversatio morum or conversion of manners. This has always been a tough vow to describe because it’s a blanket term which covers everything. It doesn’t deal with one feature of the life such as obedience. However, conversatio morum bears close relationship to stability, that vow where a monk promises to remain in one given place...forever.

Concretely, a monk can check on how well his insight into “vanity” is holding up when he exits the community. Let’s say he goes to the doctor, after which he may pop into a store or eat in a restaurant. Another parallel can be meeting some friends or contemporaries who are married and have flourishing careers. While these folks talk on about their exciting lives–traveling all over the world, closing business deals or whatever–such talk invariably challenges the monk’s vocation. The conversations don’t have to be as dramatic as this, yet they reveal life’s options which the monk has missed. The challenge comes when our itinerant monk returns home that evening to the same place, the same brethren, the same routine. The danger here is that the monk can switch his original insight into vanity (which brought him into the monastery) from the world and onto the monastic life itself. Now his routine appears even more monotonous compared with his being outside the enclosure and the friends he had just met.

In contrast to the sameness of his daily routine, a monk can easily become comfortable with it, for familiarity is reassuring. You don’t realize how different this mode of life is until you step outside the monastery and compare it with others. One visiting abbot said some years back that while he was a young monk the sound of planes overhead evoked a wistful if not mournful feeling. “Would that I could be on one of them!” was his remark. Then when it came time to actually be up there (this was when he became abbot and had to travel), he wished he was down here, that is, down here in the monastery.

The vanity of it all–inside or outside the monastery–isn’t the final goal. However, it contributes to making a clean break with the world which requires constant updating, hence, the value of conversatio morum. Both are pretty much a private affair or shared one-on-one with a fellow monk. One monk who’s been at it some forty years plus noted that if anyone could live with him side by side for a twenty-four hour period, this person would come away dismayed at the banality of monastic life. When speaking with visitors, monks are quick to point out the prosaic nature of their lives. It doesn’t keep people from inquiring, for a mystery remains which sets monks apart almost in spite of themselves. Perhaps it’s the heightened nature of the struggles a monk undergoes that captivates people, for they are better able to see them reflected within their own lives.

“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity” indeed remains with a monk throughout his (hopefully) long career. It never leaves and sets his perceptions in stone for life. As far as I know, there doesn’t seem to be a more systematic exploration of how vanity relates to conversion of manners. The best way for a monk to test if he still retains this conversion/vanity insight is as noted earlier, is to go outside the monastery or at least be in touch with people who live real lives out there. “Vanity” does present different aspects as a monk gets older even if he is unable to keep this in the forefront of his mind. Perhaps one of more basic shifts occurs which coincides with the well know mid-life crisis. At this stage a monk realizes that he has spent some twenty years within the monastery and knows full well that if all goes well, he has at least the same if not twice the amount of that time looming ahead of him. Then again, a monk realizes that spiritual values transcend space and time. Since he can’t live on that lofty plane permanently, there will inevitably remain a tension between the two. One fellow in his mid 70s observed that yes, the tension is present but one’s skin becomes tougher with age. This monk seemed to say that time makes the territory more familiar and hence easier to handle.

What’s the great enemy to “vanity of vanity, all is vanity” and therefore to conversatio morum? I threw out one of the more apparent temptations above, namely, to compare one’s life in the monastery with folks outside. Comparisons are always odious but are deadly in the monastery, for they can divide a monk’s heart and therefore his vocation. Unlike holding down a job or even being a priest out in society, monasticism is total because monks live under an abbot and within a community. These two features are always with you, even in the solitude of your cell or out in the woods. Despite this, closer observation reveals that the monk has a distinct advantage over other people. He lives in a kind of cradle-to-grave environment not unlike the old Soviet system. There people may have complained about the regime but more often than not, sorely missed the security when the state dissolved. This security is something a monk rarely thinks about during the first half of his career. Too much energy is spent adapting and learning the ropes of this total environment. During the second half of his life security becomes more paramount; one only has to consider the sky-rocketing costs of health insurance which scarcely gets the attention of a monk.

If a monk is lucky enough to have gotten through this first half of his life–it generally lasts some twenty-five years, daunting at first glance but time always pass more quickly in the monastery than in other environments–he reaches a magical point which is hard to describe. It comes upon him suddenly, something akin to a deep voice from within which tells the monk that the place in which he had resided is not an institution but is his home. Although a monk may have felt at home throughout his earlier years, it pales in comparison with this deeper, more mature sense of rootedness. One indirect way of discerning this comes to light when the monk compares himself with contemporaries in society during the second half of his career. Chances are that they have undergone trying experiences one way or another. While they may be engaged in such struggles, the monk realizes that he is sheltered from them. He may have had to endure years of monotony, of adopting to an enclosed way life but later realizes that what others fear he has no reason to fear. If this insight could only be communicated to young aspirants, more of them might stick it out, especially through the rigors of the novitiate and subsequent years of profession both simple and solemn.

Apart from these advantage what longer lasting benefit does a monk have over other folks, if I may put it somewhat crudely? Leisure is the answer or to use the richer Latin term, otium. Many folks who have pretty much accomplished what they set out to do in life look forward to retirement or better, leisure time when they can do the things they didn’t have the opportunity to realize. This doesn’t necessarily pertain to external activities but more to thoughtful pursuits, of filling in the gaps of one’s education in the broader sense of the word. So often you hear people saying not so much that they’d like to travel or try another career but to have time for reading. Such is a way of expressing that they wish to delve deeper into the meaning of life. A monk hears this and cannot help but smile. After all, this is what he has been doing from the day he entered although he may not have been aware of it; obviously I have in mind the first half of his career. During that time energy was directed towards acclimatizing himself to the new monastic regime, of getting through the mid-life crisis preceded by those periods of growth normally associated with one’s younger years.

Suddenly a monk realizes that all along he has been doing full time what people in the world can only do part time. They express this feeling of incompletion through anticipation of retirement or more immediately, through a yearly vacation. As for weekends, forget about them since they are taken up with an endless round of activities and family chores. The leisure of monastic life is frequently expressed in those classical photos you find in vocational booklets. Count on at least one photo of a monk before a pond, stream or field with his hood up and book in hand. Better, the photos are taken at an angle or from behind, never from in front. That would spoil the mystique. Any monk will tell you that this is artificial yet an image that has sunken into the minds of many people.

Another feature of monastic leisure...otium...is that monks don’t take vacations like people in the world or even like members of other religious orders. Some observers find this inhumane. Take retreatants who frequent the monastery. When they come for their yearly stay they observe the same monks doing the same thing precisely like last year. The concept of vacation is so ingrained that people think in terms of time at work and time at home or on holiday. To top it off, monks (at least of the Cistercian variety) don’t have periods of recreation such as the Benedictines. An apologist could argue that monks are always on vacation, true to a certain extent. A closer look reveals that despite being current with many things in society, monks are following a life style not unlike people in the late Roman Empire and Medieval Age. During those periods the idea of vacation didn’t exist. It probably emerged around the Industrial Revolution when people started working outside their homes or in factories. The monastery is really one’s home: “household” is better since it’s more inclusive, embracing not just people and the physical complex but a manner of life which again bears a striking resemblance to that of the pre-Industrial Revolution era. Apart from this, monasticism (despite its occasional rigor and tediousness) may be said to be done “at home” amongst one’s “brothers.” Therefore a monk does not “go out” to work but moves to a different part of his household to keep the place running. The same applies when he’s not tied down with the usual obligations but has free time. “Interval time” is the old phrase for it which is suggestive of a time previously marked by the sundial and liturgical events, namely, the Divine Office. Yes, one can say with certainty that the Office is the determinative factor of living in the monastery. Even here it’s not a question of “going to church” but of moving from one place to another...all within one’s home.

Many of these factors which set aside monastic from secular life are implicit yet not immediately known to someone starting out. They are layers of an onion which you peel off only with time and experience. In essence, it takes just a month to know the monastery’s physical layout as well as how to comport oneself during the Divine Office, but this is just a superficial grasp. In another article on this Home Page I spoke of a crisis which occurs after approximately ten years in the monastery. At that juncture a young man has fully learned the ropes and realizes that there is nothing more to do or look forward to. Again, this dilemma may be viewed in terms of coming to grips with the distinction between the modern and pre-Industrial Revolution modes of living, the monastery belonging to the latter. Getting a grasp upon leisure-as-otium isn’t easy despite the propaganda you hear. It’s a discipline all unto itself and bears close association with the venerable practice of lectio divina, the slow meditative reading of Scripture. This isn’t the place to discuss lectio, simply to say that it is one important offshoot, if you will, of otium. Anyway, this cultivated sense of leisure is at the heart of being in the monastery, for it underpins everything else. One could express otium through the careful way in which monks chant the Divine Office or celebrate Mass as opposed to out in the world where it’s usually rushed. “Slow motion living” is how one fellow describes it. He has been with us in the novitiate now for over a year. This observation reveals that more than ever that otium is difficult if not foreign to nurture in modern society. To gear-down isn’t an overnight process; actually it takes the bulk of a lifetime, judging by the experience of many young men who have tried out monastic life in our community.

I began this article with reference to another document on this Home Page which touches upon the simulation of death. We all know that physical death is the complete cessation of activity. At the same time, “simulating death” as described there is within the realm of possibility; not just this but invariably one comes away from it with a clear realization that something larger exists which you can’t put your finger on despite traditional descriptions and images concerning the “other side.” Many a year spent in the monastery fleshes out this intimation; it’s simply one mode of life that is tailor-made to bring the monk face-to-face with death along with the world’s transitory nature or better, “vanity.” While this practice is part and parcel of monasticism, I express it here in slightly different terms in order to show that the simulation of death is common to monks and non-monks. I also wish to describe it in plain words while avoiding traditional or familiar rhetoric and categories. Regardless of one’s mode of life, memory of these vivid experiences of death’s simulation remain firmly implanted within the memory and continue to inform this memory throughout the years. At the same time sensitivity to this memory of death varies; some seem to have a kinship for it more than others, a kind of natural aptitude. One could say that such brief encounters or simulations of death are so vivid and compelling because they exist outside space and time...while the rest of our experience is bound by these fundamental realities.

Stretching this insight a bit further, we could say that exposure to the absolute nature of death over an extended period of time can have a positive effect, of slowing down one’s life. The image–not really appropriate here but I’ll use it anyway–is like approaching the speed of light. The closer you come to it, the more you slow down relative to normal living. Ironically people “speed up” their lives in an attempt to forestall death, that is, trying to slow it down. Then the opposite happens; death comes that much quicker.

Okay, we have an experience of vanity which leads a young man to the monastery. Then he undergoes the simulation of death. I stick with this phraseology, the expression of which obviously differs from monk to monk in one way or another. The two can interact throughout one’s entire life time or right up to a monk’s physical death. After a while a monk questions himself in terms not unlike, “What should I do with this? How should I express it? Do others here have the same experience?” Wondering whether one’s fellow monks have insights in line with your own isn’t worth bothering about because their ways of expressing themselves vary. At the same time, monks can be divided into two camps intimated above: those with a parochial school background and those without it. Perhaps down the line as more candidates (hopefully they’ll come!) enter, they will not have had this traditional Catholic background. They will be more in tune with a more scientific or secular mode of expressing themselves which won’t quite fit in with the first group. Anyway, just a thought which only time will prove.

This questioning process needs to be brought out into the open, to be given voice or form in a public way because it lies at the heart of the grand tradition of monasticism expressed through the classical terms of vanity and death. Closely allied to both are the words of Proverbs, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge” [1.7]. The experience of vanity and death are fearful things in themselves. They need to be brought in line not so much because of fear commonly perceived but with fear “of the Lord” which may be posited as a kind of seeing...of being aware...background-like to one’s regular way of perceiving. Note that Proverbs says this fear is the “beginning of knowledge,” not the middle nor the end. The idea of a beginning has always been attractive in the spiritual quest. When one “begins” it somehow turns out to be both the means and the goal, again, a process hard to articulate unless you set your mind to try it out.

If the sense of “beginning-ness” is kept before one’s eyes as much as possible, the questions two paragraphs above concerning what a monk should do when he encounters vanity and death are better apt to find resolution. Apart from the individual monk’s personal growth–and that obviously covers a lot of territory–I’m more concerned to see if an awareness of beginning-ness related to vanity and the simulation of death are instrumental in begetting culture. More specifically, I’m interested to see how monasticism ties in with culture. The curious though consistent feature of all this is that throughout history, people who had a keen sense of this world’s transitory nature were essential to giving birth to new forms of spirituality. This is so paradoxical: at first glance you’d think that denying the values of this world would lead to a dead end. Such is what the casual observer sees; unknown to him or her, this denial automatically leads to an appreciation (rather, a re-appreciation) of the world. The dynamic occurs automatically, on its own, minus interference from us. From this new discovery we can easily see how cultural expressions come to birth because they are always accompanied with a deep-seated sense of gratitude. The first always precedes the second, not the other way around, for the latter–while important–remains secondary. History consists of a dialectic at work between the rise and fall of a given culture...which indirectly implies a rise and fall of spirituality. The process is more or less cyclic as opposed to linear. At first this may fly in the face of conventual perceptions of history, for Christianity (and therefore the West as a whole) is linear with a definitive end in mind. Perhaps that’s that only thing both share nowadays despite the unconnectedness of the two.

The house reports of the Cistercian Order and their somewhat somber tone to which I alluded earlier seem to indicate that an era is fast approaching its end. The emergence of lay associates, a phenomenon transcending national boundaries, was one of the most striking features. In fact, representatives of some associate groups have presented an open letter to the Abbot General which was included in the formal documents of Order’s General Chapter of 2002. Although it is too early to tell, perhaps these associates–now at the periphery of monasteries–will gain in importance while the center gives way. Not that dramatic, of course, but something like this may be the pattern. Right now these groups are just coming to birth; when you talk with such folks, most in their own way have perceived the vanity of the world. Although they may not have simulated death as presented here, they are keenly aware of their personal mortality which boils down to pretty much the same thing.

Parallel to the founders of old (the Cistercian ones, that is: Sts. Robert, Alberic and Stephen Harding; the year is 1098), we may say that lay associates are in the process of “moving” from society; they are not physically removing themselves from it but are taking a few steps back or just enough to gain better perspective. Their attraction to the Cistercian form of monasticism is interesting because compared with conventional expressions (at least in the United States), it remains relatively close not only to its origins but extends further back to the Desert Fathers of Egypt. Other forms of monasticism such as the Benedictines got involved in missionary work and the running of schools which can be seen as detracting from this very early tradition. At the same time many Benedictine communities have the potential of turning into cultural centers not unlike medieval times when society around them was breaking down. That’s another story beyond the scope of this article because I’m more acquainted with the Cistercian variety of monasticism.

An example delineating the connection between religion and culture may be found in an article by Armand Veilleux entitled “Monchtum und Kultur” in Cistercienser Chronik (109 Jahrgang 2002 Heft 1). Veilleux centers upon the example of Jacob’s dream at Bethel, Genesis 28.10-22. During this dream the Lord revealed himself as God of his father and that the land on which he was laying would be given to Jacob and his descendants. The central verse here is “And he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven; and behold, the angels of God were ascending and descending on it” [vs. 12]. This ladder with its angels is a connection between heaven and earth, of the human and divine spheres. Note that the Lord “will bring you back to this land” [vs. 15], that is, regardless of how far he or his descendants may stray, they will return home. Jacob then erects a memorial of his dream which he calls Bethel or House of God. As Veilleux remarks, all three elements of religion are present in this incident: experience (Erfahrung), memory (Gedachtnis) of the experience and interpretation (Auslegung) of the experience.

Central to Jacob’s dream is the actual encounter interpreted in terms of a ladder, symbolic of connection. The other two elements–memory and interpretation–flow naturally from it in a kind of hierarchical form not unlike the ladder itself which rests upon an innate human feel for the divine as being “up there” whereas we in our bodies are living “down here.” Such a hierarchal expression is linear by nature, not cyclical, yet in a sense it’s also cyclical in that the image may be perceived not so much as going straight up and down but as spiraling upwards (and downwards, for the angels are also descending the ladder). If this view is taken, both the linear and cyclical models may be incorporated.

Perhaps the three elements central to monastic life–vanity, the simulation of death followed by awareness of a beginning–may follow the same lines as Jacob’s ladder. The three are different yet have in common a setting-apart from regular societal life. Next this has a natural attraction towards the divine, even if people have a general or vague awareness of it. Just as the monk’s encounter with death becomes fixed in his memory, so does Jacob’s memorial pillar of the ladder image become fixed in Israel’s collective memory by reason of her pilgrimage to Bethel, the original site. The pilgrimage and Bethel are not the ladder itself; they are cultural reflections of the ladder to which people hopefully may subscribe.

Ever since the Second Vatican Council we’ve become familiar with what has become a catch-phrase or slogan, “back to the sources,” which in our context may be interpreted as reading the Cistercian Fathers, etc. All this is well and good, yet only a handful of monks scattered here and there are motivated to read these texts. Perhaps the gap between that earlier time and us is too great, and the obstacles of closing it are beyond the reach (and interest) of most monks. An added difficulty in the monastic context is that monks are constantly bombarded by readings from Scripture as through the Divine Office. The Cistercian authors were similarly imbued with Scripture, so looking at their material can appear like more of the same stuff only in a different package. Therefore it can be difficult re-capturing or re-articulating modern monastic experience through Scripture and the Cistercian Fathers, so maybe we need to take a step back from what we’re constantly exposed to. Generally, monks had this distance when the liturgy was in Latin. Now that the mother language of English is used in the liturgy, we are in danger of allowing our familiarity with texts to breed a subtle form of contempt or at least weariness.

These familiar yet rarely explored conditions are helpful to keep in mind, especially in light of monks living much longer than their predecessors. To make a point, one could go so far as to say that the Cistercian Order was perfectly geared for a life span of forty years, maximum. Beyond that, it is open to some legitimate questioning.

In a large and diverse monastic community not everyone may be on the same wave length as far as their interpretation of vanity, simulation of death and “beginning-ness.” On the other hand, a small number of monks may find themselves thrown together with lay associates or persons, usually from the field of education. Almost always these partnerships arise spontaneously; this is a common consensus when trying to make sense of how it came about, for there is no real hard evidence out there to examine. It is as though some other force invisible to all was in control. This can easily evolve into a theme or another concept I’ve been working on with several friends. The word is filament which means a small, slender threadlike object as found in light bulbs with the capacity of withstanding high temperatures. Here is not the place to discuss filaments; to be sure, I will take up the theme upon completion of the present one.

With regards to that three-fold practice just noted, a key element seems to be a confidence in one’s ability to follow through on its ability to bring about some positive affect, even if a person must go it alone. Usually doing it in isolation is necessary as a kind of purification. Without a doubt–and I’ve seen this from personal experience–a few people do establish contacts with like-minded persons. How they do it is unknown even to them, but it does happens which is testimony that something greater is at work transcending the individuals involved. In fact, virtually all mention this phenomenon once they have met. The invisible yet steady guiding hand seems to behind any true renewal of culture; it doesn’t necessarily depend upon a formal organized effort. Somehow an intangible force assembles a handful of persons from unlikely sources. Perhaps Plato had something like this in mind when writing his Republic. The text isn’t meant to be a constitution for an actual city state but takes its sources in the individual person as a republic. First a “citizen” cultivates virtue on his or her own. After some time this innate character is gradually extended outwards to incorporate other persons until a kind of critical mass is reached which can set the larger society in one direction or another. Of course, the parallels between the Rule of St. Benedict and Plato’s Republic come to mind.

From about the close of World War I to the mid 1960s Christopher Dawson wrote a series of books related to Christianity and culture, many of which I’ve read as background for this essay as well as to appreciate the role of culture in the West. Two important points stick out. The first is the rise of an overwhelming secularization that occurred in the West after the Industrial Revolution which has continued with relentless momentum until the present. Previously societies were imbued with religion, especially during the Middle Ages, when it permeated every class and human activity. The second point has relevance for today, namely, that the individual person remains essential for getting any new insight off the ground despite influences arising from determinism. In one of his books (I forget which one off hand) Dawson observes prophetically from the early 1950s that only a small group of people will find themselves thrown together in a common pursuit.

Dawson’s first point ties in with the recognition of “vanity” and simulation of death. These are the very last things that people want to discuss yet lie close beneath the surface of everyone’s awareness. Since there are fewer and fewer people capable of lifting their heads above secularization, those who do instinctively recognize others of like mind when them meet. This doesn’t come from the clothes they wear, the work they do nor even their educational background. Like Jacob’s descendants, these people manage to find their way to the monument at Bethel where their patriarch dreamed of that ladder between heaven and earth. Since these folks already have perceived the connection–those invisible filaments–between these two spheres in their own ways, a desire to articulate this connection is one of the first things they talk about even if this term isn’t used. The numbers will always be small. They won’t suffer persecution from society because what interests them is of no concern to a secularized environment. Even the books they share–classics of Western Civilization–will avoid being outlawed because the authorities will be incapable of recognizing their contents.

I began this article with reference to another one on this Home Page, namely, Socrates’ professed ignorance. Deep inside we all know that we know nothing but behave otherwise. Our “knowledge” often results from conforming to social conventions or if we’re honest enough, we admit that it is a form of deceit in order to create an air of self-importance. Socrates, however, knew that he knew nothing and didn’t hide this fact. He went about indiscriminately proclaiming the fact or better, saw it indirectly manifest through his questioning of everyone with whom he came in contact. Throughout history, various forms of Platonism came to birth which are take-offs of the original. All have had varying degrees of success by focusing on one or two aspects of the Dialogues. At the same time, people seem to have skirted the person of Socrates or put him on the back-burner. Recently I asked as noted Plato scholar is this was true, and he agreed. He suggested that people are reluctant to put into practice Socratic ignorance or to really know that they know nothing. At the same time, those familiar with the Dialogues are very fond of teaching them.

If this cultivated ignorance is so central to Plato’s Dialogues and has been overlooked (deliberately or better, unconsciously for fear of revealing personal ignorance to the same of everyone), could it become equally central to any rebirth of Christian culture, monastically speaking? I don’t have the answer simply because folks haven’t practiced Socratic ignorance; perhaps they are reluctant to see what would happen once they knew that they knew nothing. They may admit this privately to themselves or to confidants, but make it a principle by which to live? Actually Socratic ignorance dovetails nicely with insight into the vanity of this world, the simulation of death and well as that idea of beginning-ness. Even more specifically, all three are characteristic of Socrates’ own life which he saw as a rehearsal for death.

At the moment it may be premature to claim any rebirth of Christian culture stemming from (Cistercian) monasticism. Putting it a bit crudely, people sympathetic to Socratic ignorance need to speak with each other, for this seems to be a component central to Western Civilization. Even this type of dialogue is difficult to conceive. Imagine four of five people gathering, each knowing that he or she knows nothing. Could a conversation come to birth under these circumstances? Most of the discussion would–as we have on record from the Dialogues–arise from opinions each person holds dearly. The difference between these people and those who cherished their opinions is that the former would more readily admit them, that they were not accurate representations of the truth. Thus the conversations might be composed of admissions where beliefs come to light and gradually fade away. I have no concrete instances where or when such conversations might have occurred, yet the basis for holding them seems valid. Ideally speaking, a monastery is such a place, kind along the lines of an academy. Perhaps such communities existed or now exist, but I have no knowledge of them.

All right, here we have a few people...monks...who know that they know nothing and freely acknowledge it to each other. Putting it in another way which is in tune with the premise of the essay, they have recognized the vanity or transitory nature of this world as well as have simulated the death process. Perhaps they did this in their own way but again, are not unlike Socrates himself who considered philosophy as a rehearsal for death. Could the stance adopted by these folks have something to do with “creating culture?” I don’t think their conversations would be task oriented like this, for that would give rise to more opinions. By indirectly and freely pointing to their common field of ignorance, the participants would quickly discover the presence of some underlying reality that hasn’t come to the fore in other modes of discussion. When people like this know that they know nothing they can appear dumb and ignorant, almost fruitlessly awaiting the emergence of someone who’ll show them the path to true knowledge. This is not like sitting around a crystal ball waiting for some communication from beyond; actually, it’s just the opposite. There seems to be a dynamic not so much of offering opinions but of discovering...of recalling...that one has and has always had full knowledge, albeit in unarticulated form. Again, it wouldn’t be accurate to visualize these people as grouped around a table self-absorbed, trying to remember or bring out in the open what was inside their minds.

Since we share a common humanity, a person actively cultivating Socratic ignorance would quickly ascertain that what is already present within his or her mind is equally present within someone else’s mind. I’m not sure if the word “archetype” applies here, so I will leave it aside. Anyway, let’s get concrete with this theoretical discussion group where each person knows that he or she doesn’t know anything. One person might get up and start the conversation simply by stating this fact. The other participants would acknowledge this–don’t forget, it’s innate to us all!–and state the same from personal experience. Then somewhere down the line another person might “offer an opinion” as to the source of this cultivated ignorance. It’s inevitable, for we are curious by nature and want to discover things as best we can. Most likely the discussion would gain insight into discerning an opinion from truth. When an opinion is offered, the other folks would instantly recognize it for this and thereby keep the discussion on track. One could say that as far as this group goes, an opinion is limited in scope, despite its validity. On the other hand, truth seems more self-evident, almost pre-existing or inwardly existing as far as the participants go.

A certain paradox remains. You can’t have a bunch of people talking about nothing which is equivalent to not talking at all. There’s bound to be some uneasiness because people usually get together to discuss something...and here there’s “nothing to discuss.” That’s a major hurdle to overcome, but after a short while our hypothetical discussion would center around something like, “Let’s distinguish our admitted common ignorance from opinions or that from what we ‘know.’” This would strike a sympathetic cord among everyone. They may proceed to articulate themselves with clearer awareness that they have been habituated to offer opinions or beliefs–partial or incomplete knowledge–which invites a response. The knowledge which would gradually be assembled among these folks may not at first glance differ from other types of knowledge. However, it would be couched in their collective ignorance and would be recognized as being provisional, not absolute.

If this is played out over a period of time–and again, I’m being strictly hypothetical or along the lines of Plato’s Republic which starts with the individual soul and expands outwards–certain structures may emerge or become visible which previously had remained hidden. Down the line, we could describe that what got these people together was not unlike that discipline of vanity and the simulation of death. Then the participants would share their feelings of being boxed in which can either lead to an implosion or desire to break out. That “place” to which they break out isn’t physical. It is akin to our innate (Socratic) ignorance. Once recognized, could the fact that everything else we offer–opinions and beliefs–have any bearing upon human affairs, especially creativity?

A temptation may exist to extend this setting of a small group into a larger society or nation which isn’t the case at all. The process will always remain microcosmic, for most people are not accustomed to such discussions. If it were not so in Socrates’ day, we can be sure that the same holds true today. The dynamic by its very nature is small-scale as Christopher Dawson foresaw in the early 1950s. After all, how many people subscribe to “vanity” and the simulation of death, let alone recognizing that they know nothing? At the same time a tiny group of individuals does have a leavening affect on the society in which it is inserted. Regardless of results, we shouldn’t overlook the fact that engaging in this form of group discussion is an end in itself.

Almost certainly a point will come after slogging through the thicket of opinions. People will learn to operate on the plane of memory in the Greek sense of anamnesis or recollection. This emerges spontaneously; again, only within a small group, to which I apply the Greek term polis, a city or originally pertaining to a city state. Related to this concept we have the monastic community. As history reveals, monasteries were largely responsible for preserving and handing over the best of classical civilization after the fall of the Roman Empire. When a person speaks from his or her anamnesis or memory-as-recollection, it will reverberate with other persons and trigger the same response from them. Connections will automatically form instead of forcing–even subtly–these connections. The same holds true with people who have existed in the past. Actually, time (and thus space) becomes irrelevant, for one can find just as much identity with so-called “dead” people as with those alive right now. Sometimes we may view this dynamic as though people from the past were existing in some nebulous realm out there and who fade in and out according to our sensitivity. This concept can be projected onto the Christian notion of heaven. It is difficult to describe to someone outside the group, because it presupposes that a person actually confront the vanity of existing things and actually simulate death. These two vital actions can’t be stressed enough, and we need to be reminded of them.

Then again, we can say that a person who recognizes the difference between opinion and truth refrains from opinion and realizes that he or she is a participant in some kind of “form” present among like-minded persons. This form (actually, the Greek word morphe is a better word) is the real agent which governs the dialogue, not the other way around. If we were to take the latter stance, we’d fall into opinion, and the discussion would devolve into like any other get-together, however lofty the intent. When speaking from anamnesis or a keen sense of recollection a person doesn’t say something like, “Yes, I recall.” It’s more like, “Yes, I am subservient to a form (for lack of better word) larger than my own world and which has a positive affect upon my by behavior and statements.”

If we expose ourselves through anamnesis or recollection of these forms, some of them may be more clearly intuited by the group. Obviously the classical form is that of the good which embraces all the others and to which they are subjugated. This good is immune from opinions simply because it becomes present...present once the barrier of opinion has been breeched. In other words, opinion dislocates awareness of the good. At first, use of this term (in Greek, to agathon) is so general that you can’t get your hands on it. There’s one way to test whether it is abstract or has concrete application. Once you’ve become aware that to agathon has all along been the operative principle in these small discussions, you perceive that it is somehow related to virtue. Again, this virtue isn’t something you acquire but discover, not unlike recalling it, anamnesis-like. Proof isn’t in describing it here; it simply happens and like a scientific thesis, is verified by being repeated.

From here it is not difficult to see how Plato’s structure of knowledge (his image of the cave is perhaps his best example of its deficiency), depiction of Socrates and all the rest flow naturally. While this is true, still there’s a crying need to actually “be like Socrates” and know that you know nothing. This almost nonsensical principle, paradoxical as it is, is the sound basis for recognizing the good while admitting the barrier of opinions. If we stick with the example of several like-minded folks assembling to practice Socratic ignorance and follow it through with discipline, we can avoid latching onto some elements that Plato justifiably imposed, if you will, upon the person of Socrates. The theory of the forms is the most prevalent and most likely to be misunderstood as something existing out there independent from the realm of human affairs. If Socrates were to miraculously appear, most likely he’d say these forms were rubbish, for being fascinated by them is not unlike those prisoners within the cave who are captivated by the shimmering forms or shadows on the cave’s wall. Hence the value of “know thyself” which doesn’t quite outrightly say, know that you don’t know a thing. If the latter were put forth, perhaps a lot of people would be turned off and not proceed further. There would be even less chance of people practicing Socratic ignorance than now, and that’s reducing the odds to a fantastic degree.

One saving quality of this anamnesis which binds together the practitioners is its independence or freedom from the same members. It is a kind of awakening, more like an art form. Even just a glimpse into the nature of the good shows that our allegiance to it is free and not bound by constrictions. The only constriction turns out to be the opinions any member happens to hold.

If this group were to persevere for an extended time, chances are they would come to a point where they wish to crystallize their insights. Here we could locate not so much culture per se but its emergence; one could almost say an “idea of culture,” Plato-like. Similar to the Republic, culture would start with the individual and broaden out to relationships with other persons and hopefully from there, outside the discipline of this small group. Maybe within the group itself there is “no need” for culture. Being present to the good in and by itself is sufficient, for the participants have enough anamnesis amongst each other not to “become incarnate.” An awkward statement, to be sure and open to misunderstanding. Still, it locates us on the boarder between what is visible and what remains hidden from sight.

Thus the group which sets out “to do” Socratic ignorance imitates–insofar as it remains on guard concerning opinions–the invisible good without knowing that it imitates the good. Then again, either simultaneous with or after having achieved cultivated ignorance, the group needs to know that it does this imitating not in ignorance but in knowledge, kind of the inverse of what it set out to accomplish. This may be viewed in cyclical fashion, not linear. At the risk of repetition, the group starts out cultivating ignorance without the intervention of opinions. Next people recall the good within themselves which transcends themselves. They move on to imitating in a knowing fashion that they have been ignorant of the good (develop, obviously!).