No one is born a saint. I think we often look at these folks we call saints and who have made such a profound impact upon society and somehow operate mentally as if they were born that way. But they were not, and when we use our critical mental capacities we know they were not.

That’s why its helpful to read good biographies of saints; they open our eyes to the real flesh and blood people who somehow became saints in spite of their status as sinners, just like the rest of us. I also like biographies because they tell me about the historical context the person lived within, for me one of the best ways to fill in the historical picture.

Some recent biographies of monastic figures of note would be: The life of St. Benedict–Gregory the Great, commentary by Adalbert de Vogue, Petersham, Mass : St. Bede’s Pub, c1993; Bernard of Clairvaux, an intellectual biography by G.R. Evans, New York : Oxford University Press, 2000, and A second look at Bernard of Clairvaux, another intellectual biography by Jean Leclercq ; translated by Marie-Bernard Said, Kalamazoo, Mich : Cistercian Publications, 1990; and finally, a broad overview of the most significant figures in monastic history is covered nicely in Seeking the absolute love : the founders of Christian monasticism, by Mayeul de Dreuille, New York : Crossroad Pub, 1999. Of course, the most significant writing of a monk in the twentieth century is Thomas Merton’s autobiography Seven Storey Mountain, a book that has had a profound impact on many people in our own time.

I knew a monk who, for me, was a saint, though no one will write a book about him. He lived in a small hut on a ridge out in the woods of the property of the Abbey of the Genesee, where he was a monk. He lived there many years without heat, but for some passive solar windows open to the south, which in winter took off the chill for a few hours on sunny days. Western New York gets its fair share of snow, and it’s cold in the winter. He was a hermit and a carpenter, of slight build, strong as flint (a former marine), with a full beard that could not conceal the brightest, biggest, most ever ready smile I have ever seen. His name was Br. Elias and he gave everything to the God he loved, until he died of bone cancer in the infirmary of the monastery, with his brothers praying by his side.

I visited his hut one rainy autumn day sometime after he died and just sat on the edge of his cot looking at the prie-dieu in front of a huge crucifix on the wall, the only other objects in the room, but for a burner that ran on bottled gas, to heat his tea and soup. He must have spent hours on his knees, alone, in front of that crucifix, which held fast the one he loved. Only God knows what took place there, but I’m certain Br. Elias, at times, felt no cold on the most bitter nights in deepest wintry January.

Br. Elias, pray for us.