Reflections on Monastic Life in the New Millennium

This document represents the first in a series of essays which forms an auxiliary role to the Lectio Divina Home Page. Nevertheless, it and its probable successors have a close relationship with lectio because its practice can be traced almost two thousand back when Christianity was just getting off the ground as a religion distinct from Judiasm. At the completion of this essay (late March 2002), I do not have any specific plans for the exact content of future essays; one or two may emerge over a period of time whereas others may spring from specific points begun with this, the first such essay. No strict or formal theological position is adopted; this isn’t the purpose of the essay nor the proper context. I think it’s rooted in the give and take of daily a community where you rub elbows on a daily basis with a variety of persons. This stance reminds me of a visit from a Russian Orthodox monk while in the process of writing the essay who said that monastic life is a work in progress. It was such from the beginning and will remain so to the end. Monasticism is therefore open-ended and any current manifestations are not cut in stone for all eternity. This is a helpful point to keep from the corner of one’s eye because the generations preceding the Second Vatican Council lived monasticism in a rigid fashion, often inimical to normal human development. Furthermore, monasticism has been the wellspring for many reforms in the Church and will probably keep this position, albeit in a modified way.

A brief introduction is in order concerning the present text. I add “Part I” to the title because at the stage when it was begun (December 2001) I am not sure whether the document will develop along the lines suggested by the title or will evolve into something else. As it stands now, the theme is how monasticism–particularly the Cistercian interpretation with which I am familiar–can accommodate itself to the twenty-first century. The theme of adaptation is close to the heart of many Christians, not simply monks; perhaps the thoughts offered here will jibe with this general sentiment and then, perhaps they won’t. It is simply a report from the field, the living field of St. Joseph’s Abbey in Spencer, Massachusetts. As with any report, this one is tentative and subject to modification and revision.

I do not present these reflections in a professional way but cull them from living in a modern day monastery where fellow monks do their best at supporting each other in the same lifestyle. It is therefore amateurish and deficient in many respects. Despite these misgivings it’s a real joy to ponder the dynamics of a vocation dear to us Cistercian monks and to see if it finds echos among other like-minded persons.

By way of a late addendum...In late winter of 2002 the Catholic Church in Boston had been undergoing severe convulsions resulting from some ninety-plus priests who allegedly have had sexual relations with minors. As a result of these disclosures, a domino effect throughout dioceses in the United States appears under way. This problem had apparently been kept hidden for many years and only now has erupted into the daily media. Apart from the immediate effects, Catholics may suffer negative consequences over the long term. This essay does not address the issue, but as with virtually everyone, the matter is both fascinating and repulsive.

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The chief goal of living in the monastery is to center one’s life around God and the people with whom you live. Everyone is called to this; monasticism is simply a more intense form with a unique blend of community and solitude, of structure and freedom. Monks in general are disinclined to talk among themselves about the deepest aspects of their vocation; there’s a implicit agreement not to because if you do, you somehow spoil it. Besides, we are dealing with men and men (unlike women) are more disinclined to discuss their inner thoughts and feelings. This of course is not fully accurate; monks do talk with one another but statistically speaking, most of it deals with outward facts: earning a living or maintaining the physical plant.

At first visitors find the lack of communication about things divine a bit disconcerting, but on second thought, not speaking about the unspeakable makes sense the more you get familiar with the monastic lifestyle. Monks would find it pretty hard to sustain their way of life if they were constantly reflecting upon it. At the same time monastic living is mundane, strikingly so. It can throw a newcomer off guard which is one reason why we have a probation of approximately two months prior to commitment. We don’t run schools nor maintain parishes; our job revolves around self-support and the multitude of details that go along with it. Our only apostolate consists of the guest house and gift shop, better, having limited contact with people who frequent these places.

People living under the same roof of St. Joseph’s Abbey or any other Cistercian monastery come from disparate backgrounds; they subscribe to an unwritten agreement, that is, to the following of a schedule or horarium (the more specific monastic term). It isn’t geared for the short term but covers the entire course of a person’s life. One person who visited us after a stay of several months at a Buddhist monastery noted the difference: while the daily routine is similar, the Buddhist place was much more structured and formal. That’s because they want to impart a discipline which a retreatant can take home and apply, and the best way to do it is through an intense program. On the other hand, ours is more “spread out” and at first glance appears not as intense as one would think.

The Cistercian horarium pretty much runs on its own; on an average it takes a person approximately one to two weeks to get into the swing of things, that’s how quickly he can fall into line. The community into which a newcomer inserts himself has a living history present among those monks already there. They embrace many cultural backgrounds but on the whole come from major American urban centers of the Northeast; most are of Irish, French or Italian heritage, at least those at our abbey. We have a few monks for other countries, for example, Viet Nam, England, Spain and Germany. It has been said that monks don’t choose the people with whom they live but the vocation chooses them. Theoretically the vocation provides the common bond but in practice it can be otherwise due to differences in culture and even more so in personalities. Despite this tension, monks work together for a reality larger than themselves as individuals; it’s never fully achieved but always in the process of being realized. All in all, anyone would give high marks to St. Joseph’s Abbey...and this doesn’t come from an insider’s point of view but from comments offered throughout the years.

It isn’t the purpose of the essay to describe the process of entry but a quick outline is in order with the intent of getting at something not discussed that often, namely, the long-term aspect of commitment. Let’s say that a young man arrives at the door with some interest of signing up. He begins a lengthy process of discernment which involves scrutiny by a whole gamut of monks–the vocational director, novice master, Abbot and others with whom he has come into contact. Although he may have been introduced to the monastery through earlier visits and a period of observership (about six weeks of hands-on living in community), he doesn’t get his feet wet until after being here quite for a few years. He goes through the novitiate (two and a half years), simple vows (three years; can renew these vows once a year up to six times) and then solemn profession. Until this final commitment a person is goal-oriented; each stage up until and including that point has its particular form of initiation. In brief, this initiation consists of more responsibility on the work front and more in-depth study of monasticism whether it be history, culture and methods of prayer. Even after solemn profession–the final goal–a certain glow can hang on for several years. After all, this person has gone through a rigorous discernment process and voting by the community. He is entitled to this glow, and why not?

In addition to the grace of final profession, the ensuing five years may be described as a time of relief when you can say to oneself, “At last I’ve found my home; this is it for better of for worse. This is where I live, move and have my being, right here with these flesh and blood monks.” The period of five years is not arbitrary; it comes from a study done by a French Cistercian nun in the early 1990s. Her research revealed that many young solemnly professed monks and nuns have second thoughts about their commitment after approximately five years in solemn vows. The young monks has gained knowledge–in the superficial sense–both of his community and heritage. This doesn’t take long at all in an enclosed environment, really, and leaves one with a sense of is-that-all-there-is-to-it? Another element involved is the large number of aging communities. Perhaps some of these younger monks wake up one day after the glow of solemn profession has worn off. They feel as though they have entered a nursing home or a monastery destined to close down, sooner rather than later. What’s the point of making a life-time commitment? Nobody else in society seems to be doing it; look at the high rate of divorce and how frequently people shift careers.

Now tack on about fifteen years to these five after solemn profession; the monk’s commitment can wear off like everything else, so you have to take into consideration a further commitment or a deepening of your original one. As a side note, many a monk will say their real solemn profession started the day they entered; they started right off living the life which has continued unbroken to the present. True, but that’s a retrospective view; it makes sense only for someone who has been around for a while and has no inclination of pulling up roots.

Former Abbot Thomas Keating claimed it takes twenty years to be a monk, more specifically, a good twenty years after solemn profession. This totals up to being in the abbey around twenty-five years, a conveniently round figure. A further discontentment sets in at this point...not exactly the best term, but let’s use it for now. The monk lacks further goals which he can look forward to like those stages leading up to solemn profession. Keep in mind that a monk lives in a monastery as opposed to a congregation, the latter offering a wider scope of activity. The same applies to a Benedictine community which usually offers a similarly broad range of apostolic activities. Since Cistercian monks lack this, the unconscious need to have a goal before one’s eyes can mutate into a desire for heading up this or that department or holding a special office in the monastery. Some positions have more weight than others and confer respect despite what you hear about all monks being equal, etc. You could label this as ambition which isn’t always negative; it is a natural drive and can extend to beyond the monastery to the Order and Church at large. Such ambition can be collective, for example, a tacit agreement to make your own monastery a renowned center of contemplation and spirituality.

Over the long haul, even fulfillment in service to one’s community doesn’t satisfy. It’s not unlike Ecclesiastes’ “vanity of vanity, all is vanity.” Yes, monks are subject to vanity only its operations are more subtle. You always come up against a limit, of not being satisfied with what you have; monks live within stricter limits than most people, so the tendency to vanity–or any other tendency for that matter–stands out all the more. On top of this, inclinations towards vanity are especially insidious in a monastery because its inhabitants live with an inbuilt tension between self-denial (which is so much a part of tradition) and the desire for self-expression. Perhaps this second phase goes on for a monk’s entire life or spills over to his waning years when he takes up residence in the infirmary. Now the monk is left with more time both to consider and to practice what he had learned (theoretically) in the novitiate.

It may be helpful to introduce two side of monastic life that are beginning to be discussed more seriously as well as planned for: 1) our life span is much longer and 2) in the course of his life a monk can expect to witness more changes in society than at any other period of history. At the same time we are still living with concepts and institutions inherited from previous generations; the world view of earlier generations hasn’t altered much and remains alive in quite a few of them. On occasion a visitor who has had contact with monks will note this, like having stepped into a time warp. Perhaps we will take a step forward, albeit into largely unchartered waters, once those monks who grew up prior to the Second Vatican Council pass away...and that time isn’t far off. Whether they subscribe to it not, these monks who lived under the so-called Trappist regime which put a premium on penance and self-denial fall into two general categories: those who are comfortable with the old regime and those who had chaffed under it. Sometimes monks will stick on the labels “conservative” and “liberal;” however, this fails the mark. The second group was quick to experiment with insights and practices from other traditions ranging from psychology to Eastern forms of meditation. Even if younger monks haven’t had direct experience of that period, they are influenced by stories handed down from their seniors. In many ways they were pioneer days, a free-for-all, both intoxicating and wearisome.

Generational transmission is limited. Those in middle age today know monks who had lived under the old regime and are still with us; they, in turn, have known monks before them who are dead. That’s as far back as living tradition goes in just about any society. The Second Vatican Council was a watershed event pretty much separating two modes of living. The one before it consists in a group of men–still with us, in their 70s, 80s and 90s–who had witnessed less radical changes in society despite earth-shattering events as the Great Depression and World War II. Besides, they remained sheltered from what was transpiring around them. In contrast, the group who entered after VC II have grown accustomed to changes whether in the Church or monastery, two institutions which until then were less susceptible to change.

Let’s return to a monk who entered after the Second Vatican Council, having further recourse to this event which takes on more significance as time passes. Since these people witnessed one radical change after another, their experience of change is more compressed; they tend to have greater maneuverability or adaptability with respect to alteration as manifested in various institutions. This is bound to affect their attention span and attitude towards people familiar with a less-changeless world view. They can be more susceptible to clashing with the timeless nature of monastic observance...timeless up until some forty years ago. To them the term “revolution” used with so many aspects of society is commonplace. Back in the mid 1950s, for example, a person entered a monastery which had always existed and was assured to continue in the same fashion with a minimum of change well into the future. I omit the increased use of the media now taken for granted; it is not pertinent to the matter at hand but can easily be fodder for a separate essay.

Another factor involved in this mix is exposure to scientific developments which are bound up with the notion that everything is relative, including religion. The extension of relativity into realms other than its native home of physics is now pervasive; for better or worse, long ago it had overstepped its native cosmological bounds. Everything is open to question: morals, religion, whatever. A monk finds himself in what almost overnight seems to have become an outmoded, even atavistic environment on the periphery of modern society. I use “old-fashioned” loosely because even to a casual visitor, monasticism and the religious atmosphere which pervades it appear even more out of place. Monks have always been out of place but nowadays it holds true to a greater degree. People may admire the life followed in a monastery but do their admiring from a distance. As one monk said in this regard, “worthy of admiration but not of imitation.”

So here we are, Cistercian monks at the beginning of the twenty-first century, having experienced more changes in the past thirty years than in the Order’s entire history from its birth in 1098. In a sense, those who entered after VC II got used to being in a continuous state of change; at the same time we’re too close to the older generations to get a proper perspective of how our relationship to change will play out in the future. This future looks challenging because the pace of change is destined to accelerate; maybe it will level off somewhere down the line, but this doesn’t seem to be on the horizon. It’s almost as though monks have to adopt a constant revolutionary mode which flies in the face of monastic tradition. Adopt it they must or at least fit its better elements into their lives.

If we assume that changes will continue along the lines already outlined, chances are that monasticism will become more marginalized. Not that it will pass out of existence–nobody doubts that–but some institutional expressions will require re-adjustment. As the Greek philosopher Heraclitus says, all things are in a state of flux, of change, an insight you frequently hear in one form or another. A thought came to light in conjunction with this theme: one morning after Vigils or around four o’clock, I paused in the darkened north cloister. Then I considered the highly ritualized way of life that had been practiced in years gone by. It seems as though it had never happened, some of it having transpired on the very spot I happened to be standing.

In sharp contrast to those days of muscular monasticism is our rapidly aging community which is attracting few vocations compared with the abundance, almost superabundance, of the past; at one point we had so many warm bodies–150 or thereabouts–that it spurred foundation of daughter houses. You can almost feel each monk re-thinking his life as he passes through the once crowded cloisters. This is especially true in the case of those monks who flourished in those so-called golden days. A sign of this is not infrequent mention by older monks about the early 1950s to early 1960s when our monastery was bursting at the seems. Although we can’t recover those glory days, they need being put into proper perspective, painful as it may be. A term I offer to put a positive spin on this change is transmigration, a movement across (trans) the same familiar space. More will be said about it below.

When the older structures were in place, natural needs which nowadays we take for granted were frowned upon–even suppressed–in favor of “the spiritual life.” On top of it was a sticky, sweet sentimental spirituality not representative of the centuries old monastic tradition but was an overlay from the past hundred years or so. There comes to mind St. Theresa of the Child Jesus. Some old-timers say that she was THE model to imitate, the by-all and end-all of the Christian life. However, our community was spared many of these excesses largely due to the forward-looking vision of our first Abbot, Edmund Futterer. Although Edmund belonged to the old school, he was really advanced when you consider the Cistercian Order during the mid twentieth century. Nevertheless, some seniors recount how basic human needs were either overlooked or denied. These monks experienced damage and bear with them psychological scars which were swept under the rug but came out later in the late 1960s with the advent of dialogue. “Survivors,” as one monk called this generation. To be designated a survivor isn’t flattering; the men at that time didn’t enter to end up like this. It was thrust upon them. At the same time, they bear experiences of the past with a graciousness that’s hard to find nowadays.

A further note on the notion of survivor: I’ve heard monks apply it to those who entered in the years shortly after VC II. They were days of radical change and experimentation. To have persisted during that brief window period of about five-eight years is enough to designate one as a survivor. The only problem is that few have come through it, let alone few who had entered during that time.

Society as a whole puts a premium upon communication skills in order to advance in one’s job or the like. Yet when you consider concrete examples, there’s a lot to be desired. Take families, for example, a model which can parallel our monastic communities. In the early days of dialogue–hearkening back to the late 60s and early 70s–we made awkward lurches forward and smoothed down the rough edges in the ensuing years. Not bad when you consider that we came from a “vertical” structure–the monk, the abbot and God–to a more “horizontal” model of being responsible to community as a whole. People who come knocking at the door take communication pretty much for granted and find it operating smoothly here despite our tendency to complain. Nevertheless, the classical expression of monastic life will require some modification. Candidates have a vague sense of this, so there has to be an adjustment between them and the community. This is no easy matter solved in a year or two; it usually takes a good ten years but even then it’s problematic because the old models are just partially helpful for the unchartered territory up ahead.

The older paradigms of what it means to be a monk probably won’t apply with the same force that kept earlier generations–the pre-VC II men–satisfied with their vocations. The survivors (that word again!) from this period made an alliance with those who entered shortly afterwards; both had an inclination to jump on the bandwagon of experimentation. This included exploring different forms of spirituality such as Zen Buddhism and Transcendental Meditation which offered new outlets for their longings that weren’t satisfied under the old regime. At the same time, the devotional type of spirituality fell by the roadside almost as though it were an embarrassing encumbrance. Unfortunately, the recovery of the Cistercian and patristic traditions–along with lectio divina which were taking place at that time in some scholarly circles–were discarded as well. This is a paradox because these three areas were just beginning to be rediscovered by the Church at large and best of all, weren’t confined to experts.

The search for God lies at the heart of all this, an umbrella term which covers much territory. The monastery has unique expressions of God; the two which strike people are the liturgy and the all pervasive silence. On the other hand, I’d put silence ahead of liturgy. It is better defined as a presence which hits visitors as soon as they arrive on the property, even before they enter the church for a liturgical celebration. You could say that liturgy and silence are the two constants and will remain that way indefinitely into the future.

Okay, so here we have a monastic community inserted into a long and venerable tradition largely responsible for shepherding Western civilization through the Dark Ages and getting it jump-started afterwards. Surely monks are aware of this tradition in an indirect fashion as they go about their daily lives as opposed to being constantly mindful of it. Most feel that they are participating in something larger than their individual lives and their own community. Like other contemporary religious communities, our house is confronted with an aging population. They have to adapt and to do this sooner...much sooner...than expected. On top of this, those monks who have been formed in the older parochial school tradition can unconsciously perceive the monastery as a continuation of this tradition. These generations were raised in a Catholic culture where everyone knew his place. A side bar, as it were, to this: in light of the recent sex scandals plaguing the American Catholic Church, it seems a greater challenge than the dissolution of the old culture. Maybe some parallels can be drawn, but it’s too early to say.

Chances are that real adaptations won’t occur until such generations–which include a good number of middle-aged monks who entered at the tail end of Catholic culture–pass off the scene. Despite a certain rebelliousness against some values of the older generations, at the gut level both share common elements of the Catholic/parochial school culture. Members of the older generation now in their late 50s and 60s went through the pre- and post- Vatican II experiences. They had experienced cracks in the seemingly rock-solid Catholic culture and had to adapt fast...real fast...even improvise. They also experienced new-found liberties where they could experiment with forms of spirituality outside the Christian sphere as was noted above. Results have been mixed but on the whole beneficial even if their energies were taken up by this transitional phase en route to something which still remains unrevealed.

Now that some adjustments had been made by the pre/post Vatican II crowd–after all, they were in leadership roles during this time–the question on the minds of younger monks is, “Where do we go from here? Is it more of the same but on a smaller scale due to declining numbers, or what?” No one has the answer but some avenues are worth examining even if they run the risk of not panning out.

Let’s begin with an outline of the spiritual life as lived within the monastic context. It has a two-fold dimension, private and communal. A person starts out with a blank slate in contrast to a previous era when a tacit indoctrination into the basics of spirituality had been presupposed. Maybe it would be better to omit the term “spirituality” and substitute “Catholic culture” which the parochial school system supported. Now for some fifteen-twenty years the newcomer goes through the traditional stages of monastic indoctrination. I use this twenty year point as an approximate cut-off point; it can correspond with a mid-life crisis but not necessarily so. Comparably speaking, most professional careers–law, medicine and clergy–require a good twenty years for a person to master his field at which point he may want to branch out and experiment. Until this juncture you’re simply not experienced enough to undertake creative work.

One element that has come to affect how we live as monks in rent years is the extended life expectancy. Sure, there have always been monks who lived to a ripe old age but now people take this for granted. Thus we’re faced with a young man entering in his early to mid twenties who can expect to live at least until eighty, ninety or beyond...all in one place, the same monastery, the same people. These are uncharted waters, to be sure, because earlier times have never faced such a challenge. You can’t expect a monk to live the same way fifty years down the line as on the day when he entered.

One phenomenon associated with a long life span in the monastic context is that people who have gone through several decades of monastic living can become fixed in their ways. “Conservative” would be one term for such folks. Again, much of it has centers around that Catholic culture from which they came and into which they entered. In a sense, they really didn’t depart the world, only graduated to a higher level within the same parochial school system. Part and parcel of this system is an emphasis upon devotion which was similarly carried over into the monastic context. Many traditional forms have gone out of style although the driving force has remained largely in tact. Devotion is fine, but you can hit a wall after a while. Perhaps some of the underlying tension in monasteries and the larger Catholic culture is this conflict between traditional devotions and newer approaches that have found they way into cloisters. Not only new material but a rediscovery of the patristic tradition and its treatment of Scripture which stands in a vague, semi-conflict with Catholic devotion in the more modern sense. Then again, the traditional devotion can take some of these elements and incorporate them into its own way while keeping their transformative influences at bay.

Let’s say that the projected age span of a twenty-first century monk is ninety years, seventy of which are spent in the monastery, a not uncommon phenomenon judging from the Order’s statistics. That would put the midway point of one’s career at around fifty years of age. Imagine a person at this juncture looking back at the last twenty-five years and then projecting this same experience into the future! On the surface level, a community has newcomers and elderly monks living the same external life with no distinction on this plane: the Divine Office, meals, work and all the rest. The prospects can be scarey despite what anyone might say about the spiritual life being marked by constant progress. As one former abbot said, people in previous epochs could drive themselves hard at ascetical practices because they knew they would be dead in a short time. Furthermore, people were less mobile and had fewer distractions preventing them from quicker attainment of spiritual goals. They also had a larger Christian culture–political and ecclesiastical–to support them even though they were tucked away behind cloister walls.

The midway point of a monk’s life is a time of decision when you resolve–hopefully once and for all–whether to move forward or to make a “career change.” A lot of choices are available nowadays; it is not the purpose of this essay to trace them out but to look a little more closely at the most desirable option, that is, when a monk decides to stick it out. Certainly the years before were fruitful; he wouldn’t have gotten to this point if it weren’t for these early struggles. Nevertheless, the first half can be marked by a so-so commitment when the reality of being enclosed for the bulk of one’s life hasn’t hit a monk in the face. I might add that monk is not simply enclosed in the geographical sense but enclosed with the same group of men despite the coming and going of candidates.

One good place to examine this second phase of a monk’s life is by a re-consideration of movement. It’s basic, so much so that we barely give it a thought. The more you ponder movement, the more you realize how mysterious it is. Perhaps it’s more so for enclosed monks because they’re more sensitive to what they have given up; also they have taken a vow of stability which roots them in a particular community, not the Order as a whole, as the case with other religious groups. At the same time monks may get visits from their contemporaries who are advancing in this or that pursuit...perhaps even going from one marriage to another. In the monastic context movement or the progression of one’s life is bound to assume a different form. Thus it can be misleading to look for models outside this sphere.

With this in mind, let’s get back to the word “transmigration” introduced several paragraphs above. This term is composed of “migration” which signifies not simply movement from one place to another but an uprooting from a familiar to an unfamiliar land whether voluntarily or otherwise. One automatically thinks of the patriarch Abraham (more will be said of him shortly). The Latin preposition trans (across) suggests a deeper uprooting, almost as though one had no hope of return. You could say that a monk has always been in the process of migration–it’s a familiar image in spiritual life–but now he’s faced with TRANS-migration, a real uprooting...but an uprooting within the same place, the same monastic environment.

Transmigration in one place suggests a shift in awareness from what is familiar to that which is unfamiliar. New images and ways of viewing the same material are required. People may shrink from this task because we need to employ our imagination to fully grasp the notion of transmigration; it is subject to misinterpretion as a fantasy world divorced from reality. The question boils down to how to do it. One obstacle stems for an earlier formation–I’m thinking of the years prior to VC II–rooted in scholastic philosophy and the intellect’s tendency to neatly tie down everything. The imagination may have been given freer rein in the liturgy but was generally frowned upon. One only has to recall how Catholics in general weren’t encouraged to read the Bible; the same attitude made its presence felt within monastic cloisters. Even the Cistercian Fathers weren’t discovered until fairly recently with the exception of St. Bernard whose exuberant style seemed out of place in an atmosphere dominated by largely scholastic theology. An old-timer told me that back in the early 50s William of St. Thierry and Aelred of Rievaulx weren’t even known, two contemporaries of Bernard.

Without a doubt, Cistercian monasticism has confronted many challenges throughout its long history. Most if not all have been external whether from society as a whole or from the Church itself. By way of note, the French Revolution was the biggest calamity to hit the Cistercian Order yet that too was external. Now the challenge comes from an unexpected quarter: a lack of challenge, putting it Zen-like. When external pressures were present monks united among themselves and could deal with them more readily. Neglect is another matter. It’s something brand new and is characteristic of a secular society into which we monks are inserted. At the same time, this general disregard on society’s part can be beneficial in that monks are left alone and are psychologically freed-up to explore different avenues minus the obligation of living up to society’s expectations.

Central to the idea of transmigration in one place is the notion of play which enables you to test different insights without being uptight about the results. The purpose isn’t to alter observance but to shift it into a different light. It’s a way of seeing the connections between heaven and earth–if they are still in tact–and to say, yes, they are and have not been severed despite appearances to the contrary. Thus we can apply the fantasy proper to play (in a kind of technical sense) to the experience of a monk in the second phase of his life. He has become very familiar with the traditional elements of monasticism so has inculcated the insight necessary to discern what’s useful and not.

A subtle hindrance in the monastic context, so basic that we barely give it a thought, may be described as follows. Most readings that come a monk’s way–Mass, Office, refectory readings and chapters by the Abbot–are loaded with the “should” word. That is to say, “We monks SHOULD follow the example of Christ more closely” as well as other virtually endless variations. Ancient and modern texts alike exhort people to follow this or that Christian ideal; when you’ve heard it often enough, you easily become jaded. Here is one context in which transmigration operates: the painful knowledge that a monk doesn’t quite live up to the ideals set before him. Thus the “should” word is there to ridicule him; if not, it sets up an ideal against which to measure oneself. We’re dealing with a subtle connection which requires closer inspection because monastic life can make a person more conscious of himself which (theoretically at least) is not supposed to happen. However, it can be an insidious byproduct of the life. It isn’t terribly infrequent that monks find themselves making a distinction between “themselves” and their “behavior,” the latter lurking in some dark cloister waiting to spring upon them.

A term which follows closely upon the heels of “should” is the conjunction “because.” A simple example: a monk lives in the monastery BECAUSE he wishes to follow Christ in a community of like-minded persons. “Because” conditions a monk to act in accord with well-established rules tested over many generations which are intended to make him fit in with his community. Everyone is familiar with the “because” approach from childhood on up; it’s so well established that we hardly give it a thought. Training is part and parcel of this world view which establishes the monk in a kind of pupil-teacher relationship. Throughout the process the monk/pupil is learning from the teacher/tradition (in the form of other monks, the Divine Office, readings and chapter talks by the Abbot). Regardless of one’s progress there still remains material to be covered as well as the separation between knowledge already acquired and as yet to be assimilated.

There are times in this learning process–let’s call it prayer or contemplation–when a monk beholds its limitations. They are high points which occur every so often like oases in the desert. Despite their rarity or frequency which depends upon various temperaments and dispositions, monks remember them most of all and seek to bottle them for future use. In other words, monks tuck them away for a day when they will come in handy which says something important about the faculty of our memory. Usually such high points occur in solitude as early in the morning or during the liturgy. They can happen regardless of whether you are with the community chanting an Office, at Trappist Preserves kitchen or out in the woods. You go forth re-enforced for living with your fellow monks who hopefully had the same experience as you.

Let’s say that a monk has gotten a sufficient number of these contemplative experiences under his belt. He returns to the familiar realm of “because” and perceives that it has magically loosened up; not to say it has lost vitality but is now situated in a larger scheme of things. This is admittedly hard to articulate because we’re in a realm where words are insufficient. It is as though a monk reaches a transcendent point in his life when the training he had received hits a limit he can’t describe. Without a doubt, “because” has undergone a transition; it has become lightsome, not unlike where St. Benedict says in his Rule that after many years in the monastery a monk now runs in God’s commandments. Benedict also speaks of several divisions of monks, the highest type being hermits who go forth into the desert after having lived in community for an extended period. Given today’s longer life expectancy, this last stage is open to fresh interpretation while maintaining its Benedictine essence. Perhaps the hermetical stage could represent the point when a monk has begun to inquire about the “because” nature of his vocation. After all, the second half of his life remains ahead of him; the midway point in which he currently stands was, in previous generations, the end of life.

According to Hans Vaihinger–a disciple of Immanuel Kant who flourished in the late nineteenth-early twentieth centuries and known for his book, The Philosophy of As/If–we can use these two apparently insignificant particles of speech (“as” and “if”) to transform that which is ordinary into that which is extraordinary. It’s akin to pretending and play where elements of the serious world are transferred into a realm of make-believe. This is fantasy in a special sense; its precursor may be described under the form of many years spent in the training realm of “because.” Crucial to these long years is virtue; in many ways it is more vital than prayer and contemplation. At the same time, a monk never attains perfect virtue “because” he shares in the weakness common to everyone and “because” he needs constant improvement. Here the “because word” distinguishes between consciousness (an I) and the object of this consciousness or one’s body, mind and spirit. Although the two halves sometimes experience harmony, that all is right with the world, they remain in relative tension. The harmony is deceptive because it’s a kind of truce, a temporary cease-fire between I and other aspects of one’s personality.

To engage in a fantasy of the Vaihingerian variety is to leave undue seriousness behind. At the same time fantasy has its own discipline but contains an order which doesn’t make virtuous behavior an end in itself. In fact, it is better to say that fantasy isn’t terribly concerned whether one fails or succeeds in virtue. Another way of putting this is that concern is taken off the “because factor.” Measurement is irrelevant; emphasis is not with improvement in a self-conscious way, for the door is opened to freedom which is different from liberty. One way of clarifying this distinction is to say that freedom presupposes an original condition always in our possession. Liberty connotes a previous bondage from which we are now discharged, and this discharge is from “because.”

It may be helpful to examine the two particles, “as” and “if,” how they present a world different from the one of common experience yet having its roots there. This is where that phrase introduced above, transmigration-in-one-place, comes to the fore. The “one place” is the monastic environment and the “transmigration” is moving from the “because” of monastic discipline to one of “as/if”: again, without physically leaving the same environment. “As/if” requires imagination but imagination which has been trained in monastic tradition within a living community based upon the experience of many generations. You can’t make a quantum jump from “because” to “as/if” overnight even though the temptation might be there. Since “because” largely centers around training in virtue, it doesn’t take much insight to see where a monk can trip himself up by blindly going down paths of his own making.

Several pages above I mentioned Abraham, a model which can be tied in with the idea of transmigration. Chapter Twelve of Genesis begins with God saying, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” The common perception is that Abram (he doesn’t get his name changed until several chapters later) sets out on a long journey or if not that, boldy heads forth into a totally unknown land. A closer reading of the context shows otherwise. Consider Gen 11.31: “Terah took Abram his son and Lot the son of Haran, his grandson, and Sarai his daughter-in-law, his son Abraham’s wife, and they went forth together from Ur of the Chaldeans to go into the land of Canaan.” Now skip to 12.5: “And Abram took Sarai his wife, and Lot his brother’s son, and all their possessions...and they set forth to go to the land of Canaan.” In other words, Abram was simply returning to familiar territory, Canaan, not an unknown land.

Abram can be used to illustrate some of what this essay is about, his two-fold move. The first was with his father Terah which we can view as a migration: nothing is said of God summoning any one of this extended family to pull up and go to Canaan. Maybe this migration parallels a person who has decided to enter the monastery after having cleared the hurdles or entrance requirements. He arrives at the door, is taken in and settles down for the next twenty-five years. Now after twenty-five years have passed–keeping in mind this time period already noted as the first half of his life–the monk is summoned by God as with Abram’s case in Gen 12.1 as opposed to having moved to Canaan/the monastery on his own initiative. The monk/Abram goes out to familiar territory but goes out not as migrating but as trans-migrating there. After having settled down into this newly discovered old land the monk’s name is changed: in the old land he retains his former identity but in the new one changes it just like Abram is changed to Abraham. The change of names parallels the monk’s change of places...in one place...and both are effected not by his own efforts but by God’s. This outline is of course limited, intended to make a point, and not saying that divine grace is not operative here and operative there.

At the heart of “as/if” lies allegory which monastic circles has traditionally held in high esteem. Allegory isn’t content with the literal meaning of a text (scriptural, for example). While acknowledging the validity of a text, its contents are used for other purposes. Allegory fell out of favor with the rise of science and a critical attitude towards religion. This is due in part to the admitted excesses of allegory, of making artificial bridges between two different realms, the written word and that which is spiritual and ultimately transcending expression. Here’s where fantasy can be at its worst, as something made up with little relevance to the real world. No transmigration has occurred, just bringing material from one realm–translating it in the literal sense–and putting it in another realm without seeing the connection. The danger to this approach is to minimize the association because the spiritual is more important. You either take it or leave it, and there’s always the Church’s tradition to back you up.

By way of a footnote I take the liberty of inserting a passage from Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason which fleshes out a bit Vaihinger’s “as/if” (recall that Vaihinger is a disciple of Kant): “It would be my own fault, if out of that which I ought to reckon as appearance, I made mere illusion. That does not follow as a consequence of our principle of the ideality of all our sensible intuitions–quite the contrary. It is only if we ascribe objective reality to these forms of representation, that it becomes impossible for us to prevent everything being thereby transformed into mere illusion” (p. 89, Norman Kempt Smith’s translation).

The particles “as” and “if” don’t necessarily connote two clear-cut realms as we might be disposed to perceive them. For example, “as” works hand-in-hand with “if,” the two being inseparable when we wish to express a fantasy or make a projection into the future. “If” does not stand alone; that would make it a conditional sentence. “If” also differs from the parallel use of particles “as/so.” Here “as” pertains to the realm of experience which other persons can verify. “So” takes familiarity common to all and transfers it to another plane which may or may not be actualized. A scriptural example is when St. Paul compares the first man (Adam) with Jesus Christ: “For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive” [1 Cor 15.22]. Everyone is familiar with the use of “as” but much less with “so.” At the same time, Adam and Christ don’t exist in separate compartments sealed off from each other. “As” acts like a springboard giving an opportunity to experience everything under the category of Adam. It says something like, maybe there really is a realm with elements of Adam but of a wholly different order which Paul says is Jesus Christ. Thorough familiarity with the former is essential for the same familiarity with the latter.

On the other hand, “as/if” doesn’t seem to make a clear-cut delineation between separate categories as in the case of Adam and Christ. Perhaps the notion “transmigration in one place” doesn’t pertain here even though there is a movement of sorts from Adam to Jesus Christ. “As/if” is more a projection of the imaginary process to feel out potential options, some of which may be chosen and others rejected. It’s more in the realm of probability whereas “as/so” is less so, keeping in mind the verse quoted from Corinthians. “As/if” doesn’t assure the realization of faith in this instance. “As/so” stands at the threshold of a working hypothesis and hence development into a dogmatic stance. Should this occur, “as/so” is taken as something we must believe in. In a sense, the fun and excitement is removed which is more characteristic of “as/if.”

Let’s take that verse in the original “as/so” mode and alter it to “as/if.” Here’s the original: “For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive.” Now let’s alter it to: “As if in Adam all die...as if in Christ shall all be made alive” (It wouldn’t make sense to say “As in Adam all die...if in Christ shall all be made alive). In the latter there’s the clear possibility that all people may not have died in Christ; the same applies to being made alive in Christ. In brief, everything is up for grabs.

One way of conceiving this “as/if” situation is by having recourse to the image of a centaur taken over from Eastern and Western mythology by Hubert Benoit (The Supreme Doctrine). In other words, Benoit views human nature “as if” it were a centaur. This mythical animal is composed of man and horse which represents a person’s true nature. But before presenting this Benoit uses the image of a rider on a horse: the former is our intellect and the latter, our corporeal nature. The two experience a constant struggle; the rider attempts to control and direct the horse’s movement. Quite often this fails: the horse runs wild and the rider haplessly goes along for the ride. This example is striking in the monastic context because monks have less distractions than people in the world. When an upsetting incident happens, it hits you with greater force; to a person from the outside such matters can be dealt with by access to distracting entertainments. No so with the monastery where you’re stuck in one place and have to confront negative feedback coming at you from without and from within.

Okay, so here we have the monk-as-rider on his horse, his physical body under which we may situate emotions and the like. The monk is taught to consider bodily disturbances as unnatural (admittedly this is a familiar caricature). Then he applies spiritual remedies: prayer, fasting, vigils and so forth which are in accord with the Gospel. This process hearkens back to the realm of “because” noted several paragraphs above. It can go on indefinitely throughout the span of a monk’s life and as long as he subscribes to the distinction between his spiritual nature and the “old man.” After all, he has tradition to back him up. Still, the distinction between rider and horse leaves the monk uncomfortable because he knows that his horse will at best go to sleep after which he’ll return to his familiar habits.

What if a monk were to view his rider/horse condition in terms of a centaur as noted several paragraphs above? This would combine the two: the head of a man and the body of a horse with no one sitting upon him. Here is a quote from Benoit, p. 153: “Our observation only shows us that everything happens in us as though (i.e., ‘as if’) there were two parts separated by a hiatus.” Then again on the same page, “It is our ignorant intellect that takes an illusory leap from the statement ‘everything happens as though’ (‘as if’) to the erroneous affirmation that there are in us two parts separated by a hiatus.”

Clearly Benoit runs parallel with the Vaihingeran “as/if” to illustrate the centaur. When the monk reads this he is still a rider upon his horse projecting an imagined reality which he does not yet realize. Perhaps he views the centaur as an alternate to his wearisome battle. Then again he may be cautious since it apparently stands outside traditional modes of expression or is an ideal beyond achievement. One familiar way of expressing the centaur is the image and likeness of God found in Genesis 1.26 where the two are constitute one human being. An image is fixed regardless of what passes in front of it, good, ugly or indifferent. On the other hand, a likeness is fluid and adapts itself to the image. Thus the notion of likeness may or may not conform to its source, the image. Perhaps we could say that the likeness behaves “as/if” it were the image. This would enable it to appropriate the nature of image without involving any type of usurpation.

A note on the word “should” with respect to “as/if” which was discussed earlier in the course of a monk’s life: “should” is an exhortatory term as opposed to “must;” it can only be suggested through rhetorical devices, never imposed. The realm of “should” presupposes some knowledge of a state yet to be attained. Then again, a person who has attained it returns to his fellows and exhorts them to achieve it. On the other hand, “as/if” can share in this same knowledge of an unattained state yet avoids exhortatory exclamations. Instead, it offers the possibility of realizing new behavior which is after all native to one’s own nature.

“Should” is more akin to “because.” We are prompted to take action or behave in such-and-such as fashion “because” predicted results will follow as a consequence. “Because” presupposes a dogmatic outlook, a kind of know-it-all attitude closed to questions. Here is a world confident in its assumptions and endures as long as people refrain from taking an “as/if” stance. Let’s get back to the monastic context in which this is tried out and with special reference to the second half of a monk’s career, the period of “transmigration in one place.” He knows that “should” can go only so far, that it’s limited and can never satisfy his deepest desires. Perhaps out of weariness this monk will try out “as/if”...living in the monastery “as if” he were a monk.

Let’s take an example devoid of “as” but only using “if,” a conditional sentence. One option is the adverb “then.” Thus, “If you go to the store, “then” you will need some money.” “Then” presupposes something in addition to the primary action which may or may not be necessary for its completion. Furthermore, this primary action is uncertain, that is, IF you go to the store. “Then” mostly involves a consequence of this possible accomplishment. It differs from the pretending-like nature of “as/if.”

Here is one approach to bring out the nuances of the “as/if” approach. “What would I do if I had a million dollars?” In this instance a person does not have in hand a million dollars but projects himself into situations which are otherwise be unattainable. Stories about as in winning a state lottery or a trip to Las Vegas. Now compare this wishful thinking with: “How would I behave ‘as/if’ I had a million dollars?” Here a person doesn’t have a million dollars but asks a question about how he would conduct himself in a manner befitting a millionaire. The non-existing million dollars affects him in a way akin to how faith works. You are indigent yet behave in a way that’s indistinguishable from a millionaire. In reality you don’t have the money in hand; on the other hand, you have the essence of what this money represents, its buying power. There is the possibility of deluding yourself as well as those about you but here we are using “as/if” (you had a million bucks) in a kind of technical fashion.

By way of tentative conclusion...note that this essay conclude more or less unfinished. Perhaps in the near future some elements brought up here will be developed at greater length.

+ The End +