Monk?

Christian monastic life has been in existence for over a millennium and a half, which, as an organized expression of human cooperation, is notable. And yet, longevity is not, in itself, a badge of honor, or a sign of blessing. Marriage, of course, is the longest sustained human organization of all, monasticism a mere baby by comparison. Still, Christian monasticism is impressive in its duration.

When one considers the volatility of human society throughout history, and the vicissitudes of Church history in particular, Christian monastic life stands out as a singular human achievement worthy of admiration and respect. Nevertheless, monks and monasteries have engendered mixed and often passionate opinions regarding their value. The great Lutheran martyr, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, wrote critically that monasticism:

(The Cost of Discipleship, Macmillan, 1963, p.50)

Bonhoeffer had much of value to say here, for the greatest temptation of the “religious” is the constant pull of pride, the not subtle suggestion, however small the interior voice, that I have been chosen. Indeed, who doesn’t want to be chosen ?! It’s part of the fabric of the human personality to want to be special, to be noticed, to stand above, even, with tragic irony and effects, for one’s “humility”. Bonhoeffer was right when he observed that the world had invaded the cloister in the ideology of perfection which had infected its spirit. There have always, in every era, been examples enough of such monks.

And yet, monastic life endured the havoc of Luther’s revolution, and endures into our own day. Pride is a fact, a part of the very fabric of our broken spirit. The monk, as I have frequently pointed out, is no different, and, just as the rest of us sometime succumb to the lure of believing in our unique blessedness, so can he. That is an honor that only Christ can claim, and a burden only He can carry. The great gift of the monastic way is that it provides few places to hide from one’s inner truth, a picture often difficult to bear looking at in honesty. With few places to avoid the truth, the truth has a chance to do its work, a form of interior cultivation, where first the fields of weeds are painfully plowed under, only to grow again, as weeds will do, to be plowed under anew. Its an ongoing process, year in, year out, with humility the season’s harvest.

This is the great hope monastic life offers the one who senses he is called. Perhaps his efforts, though never bringing the perfection temptation offers the unwary, will at least produce enough sweat that he can moisten a cloth and cool his Lord Jesus’ face. We can all do that at least, even the monk.