The American Benedictine Review. T. 49-2 (1998)

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23;; The American

Benedictine Review
v. 4‘1
Ho. 2
49:2 June 1998
l23—Contemplation and the Life Cycle:

“Lord You have Searched Me, and You
Probe Me”
Paul J. Philibert, O.P.
138—Benedjct’s ‘Military’ Vocabulary

Reconsidered
Benedict Guevin, O.S.B.
148—Buddhism as Radical Religion

George Seidel, O.S.B.
165—Hildegard’s Vision of the Eucharist

(Scivias 2.6):
Theology and Pastoral Practice
Hugh Feiss, O.S.B.
195—Review of Terrence Kardong’s

Benedict’s Rule
Columba Stewart, O.S.B.
209—Black Demons in the Desert

Andrew Nugent, O.S.B.
222—Community: The Benedictine

Contribution to Evangelization
M. Basil Pennington, O.C.S.O.
(ISSN:0002-7650)
l
ABR CONTRIBUTORS FOR 1998

FO U ND E RS
Assumption Abbey Congregation of Sisters St. Mary’s Abbey St Vincent Archabbe
Richardton, ND of PerpetualAdoration Morristown, NJ Latrobe, PA
St" MO
Belmont Abbey Lolns’ St. Meinrad Archabbey Subiaco Abbey
Belmont, NC St. Meinrad, IN Subiaco, AR
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Conception Abbey Procopius Abbey
St.
St Johl'fs Abbe
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Conception, MO Lisle,
Collegevme, MKI
PATRONS
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Christ the King Priory St. Andrew’s Abbey St. Bede Abbey St Martin’s Abbey
Schuyler, NE Cleveland, OH Peru, IL Lacey, WA
Mary Mother of the St. Anselm Abbey St. Benedict’s Abbey
Manchester, NH Atchison, KS
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Blue Cloud Abbey San Benito Monastery St. Grego Abbey St. Scholastica
Marvin, SD Dayton, WY Portsmouth, RI Monaste
Fort sml AR
Immaculate Conception St. Benedict's Convent St. Joseph Abbey
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Monastery, St. Joseph, MN St. Benedict, LA St. Walburg Monastery
Ferdinand, IN Covington, KY
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Ridgely, MD
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Continued
The American
Benedictine Review
l23—Contemplation and the Life Cycle:

“Lord You have Searched Me, and You
Probe Me”
138—Benedict’s ‘Military’ Vocabulary

Reconsidered
148—Buddhism as Radical Religion

165—Hildegard’s Vision of the Eucharist

(Scivias 2.6):
Theology and Pastoral Practice
Hugh Feiss, O.S.B.
195—Review of Terrence Kardong’s
Benedict’s Rule
209—Black Demons in the Desert

222—Community: The Benedictine
Contribution to Evangelization
(ISSN:0002-7650)
THE AMERICAN BENEDICTINE REVIEW, INC.
Board of Directors: President, Rt. Rev. Gregory Polan, O.S.B., Conception Abbey,
Conception, MO; Secretary-TYeasurer, Rt. Rev. Vincent Bataille, O.S.B., Marmion
Abbey, Aurora, IL; Past-President, Rt. Rev. Jerome Kodell, O.S.B., Subiaco Abbey,
Subiaco, AR; Rt. Rev. Thomas Frerking, St. Mary and St. Louis Abbey, St.Louis,
MO; Rt. Rev. Kenneth Hein, O.S.B., Holy Cross Abbey, Canon City, CO; Rt. Rev.
Gerard Lair, O.S.B., St. Mary’s Abbey, Morristown, NJ; Rt. Rev. Joel Macul,
O.S.B., St. Paul's Abbey, Newton, NJ; Rt. Rev. Douglas Nowicki, O.S.B., St. Vin
cent Archabbey, Latrobe, PA; Rt. Rev. Neal Roth, O.S.B., St. Martin’s Abbey, Lacey,
WA; Rt. Rev. Barnabas Senecal, O.S.B., St. Benedict's Abbey, Atchison, KS; Rt.
Rev. Aidan Shea, O.S.B., St. Anselm’s Abbey, Washington, DC.
THE AMERICAN BENEDICTINE REVIEW

Editor: Terrence Kardong, O.S.B., Assumption Abbey, Richardton, ND
Editorial Assistant; Renee Branigan, O.S.B., Sacred Heart Monastery, Richard
ton, ND
Editorial Board: Kurt Belsole, O.S.B., St. Vincent Archabbey, Latrobe, PA;
Marianne Burkhard, O.S.B., St. Mary’s Monastery, Nauvoo, IL; Hugh Feiss,
O.S.B., Ascension Priory, Jerome, ID; James Flint, O.S.B., St. Procopius Abbey,
Lisle, IL; Mary Forman, O.S.B., St. Gertrude's Monastery, Cottonwood, ID; Eu
gene Hensell, O.S.B., St. Meinrad Archabbey, St. Meinrad, IN; Ephrem Holler—
mann, O.S.B., St. Benedict's Convent, St. Joseph, MN; Valerian Odermann,
O.S.B., Assumption Abbey, Richardton, ND; Jeanne Ranek, O.S.B., Sacred Heart
Monastery, Yankton, SD; Joel Rippinger, O.S.B., Marmion Abbey, Aurora, IL;
Miriam Schmitt, O.S.B., Annunciation Priory, Bismarck, ND; Placid Solari, Bel
mont Abbey, Belmont, NC; Thomas Sullivan, O.S.B., Conception Abbey, Concep
tion, MO; Judith Sutera, O.S.B., Mount St. Scholastica Convent, Atchison, KS;
Philip Timko, O.S.B., St. Procopius Abbey, Lisle, IL; Simeon Thole, O.S.B., St. Leo
Abbey, St. Leo, FL; Andrew Thornton, O.S.B., St. Anselm Abbey, Manchester, NH.
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EDITORIAL
HARDBALL
When the Board of Directors asked me some years ago to be
gin writing editorials, I knew, and they knew, that we were not
talking about real editorials. They just wanted to give the journal
a “human face,” and people have told us that the effort is appreci
ated. But we still know that these little essays are not editorials.
Editorials are about current events.
In a sense, editorials have no place in a research journal.
Here we deal with the long sweep of history and the somewhat
rarified world of classic texts. Both of these endeavors require a
good deal of detachment from the present and its concerns. Even
though life has to be lived right now, we cannot impose our cur
rent interests too heavily on the past or we will distort it. A clear
and accurate knowledge of the past can help us cope with the pre
sent, but we won’t attain that knowledge by bending the past to
our current needs.
Nevertheless, not all monks have the luxury of maintaining
such a lordly detachment from current events and problems. Any
one who wants to deal with the ongoing life of the world and the
Church has a different assignment. Real journalism demands an
engagement with the controverted issues of the day, no matter
how dangerous the enterprise. This has always been true with
secular journalism, but it has become all too true as well for the
contemporary Church, embroiled as it is in seemingly intractable
controversies.
Certainly “real” journalism has never been a common occu
pation of monks. My own monastery once ran a German-language
weekly (named the Vblksfi'eund: c. 1900-1925), and any number of
other monasteries published similar journals. But those papers
had as their purpose to preserve the ethnic Catholic heritage of a
minority. They rarely entered into the mainstream controversies
of the church and state.
That may also have been the background of The Prairie
Messenger, published by the monks of St. Peter’s Abbey, Muen
ster, Saskatchewan, Canada. No doubt the PM began its life
(1923) as an ethnic support to the German settlers of a remote
corner of the Canadian prairie. But the paper has long since gone
beyond its narrow origins to become an important weekly
121
Catholic paper for the whole of western Canada. That means that
the PM is a sister publication with such independent American
weeklies as Our Sunday Visitor, The National Catholic Reporter
and The National Catholic Register.
It is important to distinguish such a publication from an or
dinary diocesan newspaper. Even though the PM has the backing
of most of the bishops of western Canada, it is not owned by any
of them, nor all of them together. It is owned by the monks of St.
Peter’s Abbey. As such it is able to maintain a certain indepen
dence from any one diocese and its concerns. It is also able to take
a somewhat more adventurous line when it comes to editorials.
For if the PM is anything, it is courageous. Its longtime edi
tor, Fr. Andrew Britz, is not afraid to tackle the toughest ques
tions, not excluding abortion, welfare reform, church politics and
so forth. To read his editorials is to receive a liberal education.
And to judge from the letters to the editor, it is also to risk
apoplexy. Those letters prove more than anything else that he is
dealing with the hardest problems. The extreme reactions pro
and can show how conflicted society is about these issues.
Someone like me, sitting in any ivory tower and writing
pseudo-editorials about quaint topics, can only marvel that the
PM can dare to wrestle with these issues in the manner in which
it does. Mind you, PM is not just parroting a company line. Nor
does it stop discussing topics that have been declared non-dis
cussable. Apparently it knows that nothing good can come of sup
pressing discussion of burning issues. The human mind does not
work that way.
Granted, it is always tempting to engage in muck-raking for
its own sake since it is a good way to sell newspapers. But even
responsible journalism is a very risky business in today’s Church.
The Italian Paulinists can attest to the possible consequences of
irritating the wrong people by one’s publications. But the Church
needs a “free press” as much as the rest of society. Congratula
tions to The Prairie Messenger for all these many years of real
church journalism.
122 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

CON TEMPLATI ON AND THE LIFE CYCLE:
“LORD YOU HAVE SEARCHED ME, AND YOU
PROBE ME”
You search me, Lord, and know me.

Wherever I sit or stand,
you read my inmost thoughts;
whenever I walk or rest,
you know where I have been.
Before a word slips from my tongue,
Lord, you know what I will say.
You close in on me,
pressing your hand upon me.
All this overwhelms me—
too much to understand!
(Ps 139 ICEL)
These lines from Psalm 139 evoke a mood that belongs to adult
faith. They represent many moments in life when we understand
that God has a better grasp on the meaning of our life than we do.
The Psalmist’s words might be paraphrased like this: “I am a
mystery to myself. I reflect on my state of mind, my predicament
in life, my relationships—and they all seem ungrounded,
shrouded in ambiguity, or cut off from any definite purpose.” Here
Paul J. Philibert, OH, is a Dominican friar and presbyter who directs the
Institute for Church Life at the University of Notre Dame. In 1994, he pub
lished with Frank Kacmarcik Seeing and Believing: Images of Christian
Life. He has written frequently in the area of moral and religious develop
ment. His address is: Institute for Church Life; 1201 Hesburgh Library;
Notre Dame Indiana 46556. This essay was originally presented as an ad
dress to celebrate the 25th anniversary of Mary’s Solitude, a spirituality
and retreat center of the Sisters of Holy Cross at St. Mary’s College in
South Bend, Indiana in October, 1996.
123
is some of the most poignant poetry in the Bible that summarizes
a condition that contains equal doses of pain and trust, ambiguity
and faith. This is why I turn to this text which has challenged
and consoled believers for over two millennia to explore the
theme of contemplation and the life cycle.
The theme of the life cycle refers to a characteristically twenti
eth century literature. Sigmund Freud published his landmark
volume On the Interpretation of Dreams at the beginning of the
year 1900 as a way of symbolically claiming the twentieth cen
tury for the discipline that he brought to birth, psychoanalysis.
Freud was not the first to claim that everyone must live through
seasons of life. But his account of human development became
the best known in this century, establishing a paradigm for oth
ers who would try to describe the changing personal abilities and
internal drives that influence the seasons of human life.
In this reflection, I will pose the question: How do the differ
ences of the changing seasons of life affect the faith and disposi
tions of the believer at prayer? More specifically, I will look at
that form of prayer that we call in Christian literature contem
plation and ask what light a developmental reference may bring
to understanding it. At an appropriate moment, I will examine
the ambiguities surrounding the word contemplation as well.
While we may all imagine that we understand what contempla
tion is, there are different perspectives on what it means, and so
there is a need for clarification.
LIFE CYCLE CHANGES AND SPIRITUALITY

The eminent theologian Romano Guardini, in an essay entitled
“Faith and Doubt in the Stages of Life,” began his reflection with
the phrase: “The religious life of everyone is bound up with that of
others.” 1 The wisdom of beginning here is evident. Although pop
ular thought associates religion principally with what people be
lieve—understood as what people think—the truth of the matter
is that faith is complex and expressive of feeling as well as
thought, of relationships as well as ideas.
Look, for instance, at the faith of infants and young children.
Taking a perspective on the entire human life cycle, psychologist
1Romano Guardini, The Faith and Modern Man (New York: Pantheon
1952) 94.
124 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Erik Erikson placed the foundations of faith (as well as the foun
dations of adult psychological well-being) in the infant’s relation
to the mother. Erikson calls the fundamental prerequisite of hu
man vitality “a sense of basic trust,” by which he means “an es
sential trustfulness of others as well as a fundamental sense of
one’s own trustworthiness.” 2
Erikson explains that infants at birth are separated from their
intra-uterine symbiosis with the mother’s body, thrust into the
world at birth, and, though external to the mother’s body, con
tinue to remain completely dependent on their mother’s nurture.
The human infant “is born with the need for . . . regular and mu
tual affirmation. . . . : we know at any rate that its absence can
harm an infant radically, by diminishing or extinguishing [the in
fant’s] search for impressions which will verify [the] senses.” 3
As the infant grows, the mother develops a whole range of sym
bolic exchanges to express intimacy, security, and educational
challenge. These ritualized expressions of nurture are often para
doxical: “They are playful and yet formalized; quite familiar
through repetition, they yet renew the surprise of recognition."4
Games of hide-and-seek, playful surprising of the child, the desire
to stimulate excitement in the child—all these familiar dimen
sions of raising children are more than just a way to pass time;
they have deep consequences for the child’s feeling of being in
cluded, embraced, and loved. Therefore a “basic trust” in the
trustworthiness of the parents and indeed of God is rooted not in
explanations spoken to the infant, but in the child’s sense of ex
isting in ever-growing structures that encompass the child with
security and meaning.5
2Erik H. Erikson, Identity: Youth and Crisis (New York: Norton 1968) 96.
3Erik H. Erikson, Tbys and Reasons: Stages in the Ritualization of Expe
rience (New York: Norton 1977) 88.
4Ibid.
5In recent years, psychologists and theologians have reflected on the
God-imagery that develops at various stages of the life cycle. Pastoral the
ologian John Gleason remarks: “I . . . postulate that the mother or mother
substitute is in a phenomenological, practical sense the child's first god . . .
and that, therefore, it is at this time that every child learns his or her first
unconscious, feeling-level lesson about the nature and attributes of as yet
undifferentiated gods, god, God.” John J. Gleason, Jr., Growing Up to God
(Nashville: Abingdon) 26.
PAUL J. PHILIBERT, OF. 125

Those who observe the interactions of infants and mothers will
find it easy to imagine that there is something like “infant con
templation.” By that term I mean the total investment of the in
fant in the mother as the heart of reality and the source of love.
What we see in the mutual delight of a young mother with her in
fant is the undoubted self-investment of each in the other.
Cognitively we can only describe the infant’s mental life as
completely fixed upon the mother as the source of its interest and
good. Indeed, cognitive developmental psychology speaks of the
gradual acquisition of object-formation as something which comes
gradually, only at the price of the mother’s not responding to the
infant’s cry for help, attention, or reassurance. There is a kind of
dying and rebirth that takes place even at this stage of infancy:
the infant dies to cognitive fusion with the mother seen as the
whole of reality, only to be reborn in a differentiated ability to rec
ognize the plurality of beings in the world. This growth is neces
sary, but it is marked by the pain of disillusionment.
With Erikson, we could linger over the transitions of develop
mental achievements that belong to each of the eight stages of his
life cycle. We could examine step by step the gradual consolida
tion of bodily strength, emotional confidence, and social learning
that belongs to the first four stages of the cycle of growth: trust,
autonomy, initiative, and industry. We could examine the revolu
tion of interiority that arrives with the period of adolescence,
when the growing person recognizes the insistent development of
a sense of the self that demands fulfillment. Erikson calls this
bridge moment the identity crisis; the crisis involved is the need
to own and act upon self-generated senses of purpose and mean
ing that young individuals recognize as distinct from the idea of
themselves proposed by parents or teachers or even friends. We
could turn to the adult challenges of intimacy, generativity, and
wisdom as conceived by Erikson. These are familiar themes, each
defining some definite moment of transition in the journey of any
individual toward fullness of life and responsibility. At each step
in the life cycle, a new formulation of self-awareness develops,
and with it a new perspective on the mystery of God.6
6Paul J. Philibert, “Readiness for Ritual: Psychological Aspects of Matu

rity in Christian Celebration,” in Regis Duffy, ed., Alternative Futures for
Worship (Collegeville, MN.: Liturgical 1987) 63-121.
126 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

The Ideas of Jean Piaget
But let us turn for bit to another theoretical stream, that of
a
the Swiss developmental psychologist Jean Piaget. Piaget aimed
to discover how infants develop the ability to reason logically. He
was convinced that adult “formal operational” thinking, i.e., adult
logical reasoning, is gradually built up as a complex structure de
pending on a plurality of contributing aspects. He named four
stages of thinking, beginning with the sensorimotor conscious
ness of the infant, then moving to the pre-operational thinking of
the small child, the concrete operational thinking of the school
age child, and finally the formal operational thinking of adoles
cents and adults. I will not attempt to describe each of these
stages, but will rather identify certain aspects that indicate some
of the ways in which believers are initiated into the horizons of
prayer and contemplation.
Piaget assigned pre-operational or pre-logical thinking to the
child who has already acquired the use of language but who has
not yet acquired the ability to exercise simple logical and mathe
matical equations. This period is sometimes referred to as “fan
tasy-filled thinking.” This is the period during which small chil
dren learn immense volumes of lore and information by imita
tion—I am tempted to say by cultural osmosis. But instead of
looking at this period principally in negative terms, that is, ac
cording to its incapacity to deal adequately with logical problems,
we can look at the fantasy-filled thinking of the child positively,
as a moment in which many of the enduring symbols of lifelong
meaning are acquired.
This is the period during which the child landscapes the imag
ination. Personal symbols become crystallized out of the flux of
experience. The convictions of being loved, possessing hope, feel
ing secure, having trust, being empowered and similar emotions
become a kind of symbolic alphabet for the child who desires in
tensely to be included in the company and activities of parents,
family and other adults. These primordial experiences become
the dynamic content for the child’s appreciation of such biblical
phrases as these which we find in the liturgy and in the psalms:
God, you are my rock, my shelter, my stronghold, my safety, my
shepherd, the Giver of my life, and the everlasting home where I
will rest. In other words, there is an interaction between the rela
tional and psychological development of the child, on the one

hand, and the prayer, ritual, and theological language that the
child learns and imitates, on the other.7
Concretely the child is influenced in all of these aspects
through the parent’s religious attitudes, the household’s piety, the
religious education received at home, in church, and at school,
and the reflective and contemplative environment (or lack
thereof) that the child finds in all these contexts. So an important
part of a lifetime of religious experience is affected by the quality
of experience of the child’s family and church-going.
Turning to Piaget’s stage called “concrete operations” or early
logical thinking, the religious play of the child contributes to reli
gious experience.8 Here the word play has a plurality of mean
ings, for we can think of play as theater and also think of it as try
ing on roles. The child “plays” in both of these senses. While join
ing with brothers and sisters and neighbors, young children play
at the professions, at parenting, at imitating TV dramas and the
like; but they also play in the sense of getting the opportunity to
experience what it feels like to enter into these roles imagina
tively. In church, we offer young people the possibility to play at
religion in publicly ritualized ways through altar serving at
Mass, work as sacristans, or (at home) through involvement in
the rituals of Christmas and other Christian feasts. A child who
is deprived of opportunities for the development of this kind of
play at religious roles is, in a sense, impoverished and will never
know certain dimensions of emotional closeness and personal in
vestment in their relationship with God.
7See Paul J. Philibert, “Landscaping the Religious Imagination,” in E.

Bernstein and J. Brooks-Leonard, eds., Children in the Assembly of the
Church (Chicago: Liturgy Training Publications 1992) 10-29.
8Piaget's preoperational cognition has much in common with the child
hood behaviors of Erikson’s third life cycle which he calls the Play Age. See
Tbys and Reasons, op. cit, 98-103. For an introductory explanation of Pi
aget’s stages, see John L. Phillips, Jr., The Origin of Intellect: Piaget’s The
ory (San Francisco: W.H. Freeman 1969). Parallel explorations of religious
development might turn to the following important theorists: James
Fowler, Stages of Faith: The Psychology of Human Development and the
Quest for Meaning (San Francisco: Harper 1981); Sharon Parks, The Criti
cal Years: The Young Adult Search for 0 Faith to Live By (San Francisco:
Harper 1986); and Robert Kegan, Problem and Process in Human Develop
ment (Cambridge, MA.: Harvard 1982).
128 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Touching Piaget’s formal operations, we see the development of
speculation (“what-if” thinking, as Piaget sometimes phrased it).
This period of early adolescence is marked by a revolution of cu
riosity, insight, and analytic passion. This is the same moment in
the life of the young person that Erikson describes as the time of
“identity formation.” In terms of religious development, the fam
ily, the school, and the church ideally will offer theological narra
tives that will allow the young person to embody their speculative
thrust of curiosity in language that connects with the church's
story about God. Such theological narratives, appropriated by cu
rious young minds, make it possible for them to come to be “at
home” in the church’s story. At best, this allows them to develop a
loyalty to the church’s doctrine, even as their curiosity poses an
endless stream of questions to the tradition handed on to them.
All of these elements contribute to adult contemplative experi
ence, in a certain way. They are symbolic roots for religious lan
guage and imagery that come to represent the foundational expe
riences of self-worth, security, and purpose that are essential for
a healthy life. In addition, the experiences of trying on and trying
out the fit of roles that relate young persons to the church com
munity are important in affirming their place there. And the role
of the biblical and religious stories in framing the spontaneous
curiosity of the growing person can be decisive as well. In all of
these cases, however, it is critical appropriation and not uncriti
cal acquiescence that is essential to the development of a vital
mind and vital spirit.
WHAT IS CONTEMPLATION?
Now let me ask the question: How do all these gradually

achieved dimensions of human experience find their way into con
templation? The first response, perhaps, ought to be that we
should not easily presume we know what contemplation means.
It is easy for us to think of the ecstatic raptures of St. Teresa of
Avila or the visionary experience of someone like Julian of Nor
wich as the substance of contemplation. But in trying to under
standing what contemplation is, we should be certain to insist on
what contemplation is not. Look at this passage from Thomas
Merton, written more than forty years ago:
Many poets are not poets for the same reason that many religious peo
ple are not saints: they never succeed in being themselves. They never

get around to being the particular poet or the particular monk they
are intended to be by God. They never become the person or the artist
who is called for by all the circumstances of their individual lives. . . .
They waste their years in vain efforts to be some other poet, some
other saint. For many absurd reasons, they are convinced that they
are obliged to become somebody else who died two hundred years ago
and who lived in circumstances utterly alien to their own.9
I think Merton is right: God is not asking us to re-create in our

thoughts, feelings, decisions, and actions the gestures of some
other human being. God is asking us rather to become the unique
(John Paul II likes to use the phrase “irreplaceable") person that
God wishes us to be, a never-before-expressed part of creation.
God’s creation is not just material stuff; creation is also spiritual
reality—including understanding and love. In fact, more likely
our understanding and love are more interesting and comforting
to God than our exploits, even if we have trouble seeing things
that way.
To return to the developmental imagery just reviewed, let me
suggest that contemplation is the expression of an adult loving
faith drawing upon the dimensions of unique religious experi
ence. Contemplation might be described as incarnate or embodied
faith, since one of the hallmarks of human maturity is integra
tion—the ability to bring into expressive unity the many aspects
of human being and experience. Impressionistically I would spell
out aspects of a contemplative faith in the following way:
Mature adult believers, despite a rich capacity to analyze, re
flect, and express themselves, nonetheless retain the ability to
surrender their being to the originating mystery of God’s divine
love in a way reminiscent of what was earlier named infant con
templation. The contemplative believer also has the capacity to
employ the lavish imagery of fantasy and imagination in order to
explore the mysteries proposed by the Scriptures metaphorically
as something meant personally and genuinely for the individual
believer. Faith seeks understanding not only through logical rea
soning processes, but also through exploratory imagery that al
lows imagination and feelings to be anointed by faith.
In addition, a mature faith is characterized by a common-sense
curiosity that desires to engage the promise of divine love with
9Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation (New York: New Direc

tions 1961) 98.
130 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

the homely, ordinary experiences of life and relationships. Such a
faith does not seek God by escaping from the human condition,
but rather by inviting God into the complex (sometimes insoluble)
dilemmas of human experience. Contemplative wisdom is also
theological wisdom, able to learn from theology and to reason out
the implications of holy teaching for human integrity. Finally con
templation draws upon a rich volume of experience over time, all
of which articulates in some mysterious way the faithfulness of
God in the story of a given life.
My argument, then, is that contemplation—whatever it really
is—is an integration of all the dimensions of life, not an esoteric
refinement of only rational experience. Let me make an aside
about a matter that could easily become the subject for a long dis
course in itself. That is the relation of reason and silence. We are
learning nowadays, particularly through our dialogue with East
ern meditative techniques, how obsessed Western culture and the
Western mind is with “talk.” Even when we are not actually ut
tering words, our minds are cluttered with “talk”—filled with an
anxious concern to settle scores in the past or prepare ourselves
to control the future. So another dimension of contemplation is
the ability to welcome dynamic silence, letting go of the obsessive
managerial control that the human intellect so relishes. Silence
surrenders to a darkness congenial to the mysterious ministry of
God’s holy Spirit.
But in the framework of developmental study, the key point
here is that contemplation is not so much an “act” as a “life.” For
the Patristic Age as well as for the Scholastics, the topic was the
vita contemplativa: a form of life that maintained a fundamental
tone or style, even while those living that life become engaged in
a variety of biological, physical, mental, and spiritual tasks.
'IXvo fundamental contributions to this understanding of con
templative life came from Origen of Alexandria (c. 185-255) and
Gregory of Nyssa (C. 335-95). Origen contributed the three stages
that later became known as the purgative, illuminative, and uni
tive ways. Gregory focused on another dimension: the movement
from light to darkness. In his Life of Moses, he speaks of the
movement from light (the burning bush) into the darkness of the
cloud (Exodus 19) and then the deep darkness in which God is ex
perienced as unknown (Exodus 33).1°
10See W.H. Shannon, “Contemplation, Contemplative Prayer,” in

Michael Downey, ed., The New Dictionary of Catholic Spirituality (Col
PAUL J. PHILIBERT, O.P. 131

These two ways of understanding contemplation are often
called the kataphatic way (Origen’s positive approach to God) and
the apophatic way (Gregory’s way of denial). In the kataphatic
way, human experiences of beauty, truth, goodness, and love are
all windows onto divine reality. Limited though they are, they tell
us something about God who is their origin. But equally impor
tant is the lesson of the apophatic way: no ideas, thoughts, words,
or symbols are adequate to God as God is. To allow God to speak
directly to us, we have to be stripped of our conceptual and affec
tive control over the encounter. God must lead us into silence and
darkness, to initiate a new language of the Spirit. Much of the
story of growth in prayer is the story of human rebellion against
this divine dispensation.
Psalm 139 deals with this mystery in these haunting words:
Where can I hide from you?

How can I escape your presence?
I scale the heavens, you are there!
I plunge to the depths, you are there!
If I fly toward the dawn,
or settle across the sea,
even there you take hold of me,
your right hand directs me.
If I think night will hide me
and darkness give me cover,
I find darkness is not dark.
For your night shines like day,
darkness and light are one.
For years the popular teachers of the church treated the three
ways of Origen, the purgative, illuminative, and unitive ways, as
a kind of spiritual meritocracy. These stages were seen as moving
believers from beginners to proficient to perfect practitioners of
Christian contemplation. Today, in the light of the concept coined
by Erikson, viz., the epigenetic principle, these three dynamics of
the contemplative life are more likely to be understood as con
comitant dimensions, although the emphasis will shift in the
legeville, MN: Liturgical 1993) 209f. Also, Andrew Louth, The Origins of the
Christian Mystical Tradition: From Plato to Denys (Oxford: Clarendon
1981).
132 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

course of life from one dynamic to another.11 Put another way, the
person living the unitive form of Christian experience will not
lack the illuminative and purgative aspects; nor will such a per
son ever cease having to struggle against darkness or sensuality.
But finally the key point of this observation is that this tradition
sees contemplation not as learning to exercise particular kinds of
acts that are characterized as contemplative, but rather as devel
oping a form of life that is marked by growing intimacy with God.
CONTEMPORARY IMAGES OF THE CONTEMPLATIVE LIFE

Let me presume that my readers have in one way or another
experienced all the phenomena described here. Then let me ex
plore with you some metaphors that might illumine the phenom
ena of adult prayer, what I am calling here embodied contempla
tion, using images that are more contemporary. My argument
will be that contemplation—or better the contemplative life—is
not a fragment of human endeavor, but rather a perspective on
human endeavor motivated by the knowledge of God’s love and a
totalizing gratitude of reciprocal love.
In introductory psychology books, the Gestalt phenomenon is
introduced with a familiar drawing of an ambiguous image that
shows what appear to be two faces posed in juxtaposition one to
the other. That is the ground. After some meditation, the viewer
is able to see as well a figure in between the two grounding im
ages which becomes a cup or chalice. With additional observation,
observers are able to move freely back and forth between figure
and ground, reversing the centrality of one or the other at will.
This image suggests to me that contemplative life is a bit like
the reversal of figure and ground. We spend most of our life think
ing of prayer as a periodic interruption of the flow of ordinary
self-controlled experience. In the flow of life, we are the master.
In prayer, we interrupt our mastery to introduce contact with
God in petition or adoration or praise. But as contemplative life
deepens, a reversal takes place. Life comes to be seen more and
more as the experience that our contingent being is always and
11See Erik H. Erikson, Insight and Responsibility (New York; Norton

1964) 225, where the author speaks of the epigenetic principle “according to
which the constituent parts of a ground plan develop during successive
stages.” In such a view, the forces of the constituent values coexist as con
comitant in the developed person.
PAUL J. PHILIBERT, OR 133

everywhere a gifi; from a God who is always and everywhere lov
ing us. Our work and our management of life come to be seen as
something inserted within the overarching context of God’s cate
gorical primacy. If such an image is apt, then the contemplative
life would be to grow more and more dominantly attentive to the
mystery dimension where God is the beloved Giver present in ev
ery gift, and our negotiations 0f the business of life are relativized
by that fundamental ground.
A similar image comes from the world of music. It is commonly
thought that the silences or pauses in music are interruptions in
the flow of an impulsive melodic theme. It takes considerable ex
perience as a musician to arrive at the point where the silences or
pauses in the music are weighted as significantly as the notes
that are played. Yet there are some moments of music that reveal
to us that the silence is not an interruption of the flow of the mu
sic, but that music is a gift arising out of the abundance of silence.
Think of Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies, for example, where one can
sense in the slow haunting movement of the melody that the en
vironing silence is the fundamental reality. Some passages of
Fauré’s Requiem have the same quality: the Lux aeterna, for ex
ample, in its solemn and stately movement, makes us feel the
vast silence of eternity that is the context for this musical mo
ment. This thought about music reminds me of some lines from
Thomas Merton’s poem “The Ohio River—Louisville” where he
says:
No one can hear the loud voice of the city

because of the tremendous silence
of this slow-moving river
quiet as space.12
Some moments of music are as imposing in their silence as Mer

ton’s river.
Painting can do the same. Edouard Vuillard painted a number
of interiors that evoke mystery. Quite often, several rooms are
shown in his pictures. One has the sense of a presence hidden in
the room beyond the focal point, a presence that provides feelings
of comfort, interest, or fascination typical of his rich but im
12Selected Poems of Thomas Merton (New York: New Directions 1967)

29.
134 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

mensely calm compositions. Some landscape painters have the
ability to portray a plurality of receding planes: foreground, cen
tral space, focal object, background, horizon, and environing sky.
English and Dutch landscape painters of the eighteenth century
were the great masters of this. We can both recognize the world
we inhabit in such a picture and yet feel ourselves invited beyond
it because of the iconographic vastness of the image. The contem
plative life is something like this, I think, in that contemplative
living is definitely living in this world, but with the enduring re
alization that this world exists in a frame of reference beyond our
limited capacity to articulate.
Poetry too can provide a metaphor for contemplative experi
ence. Think of these lines of Rilke:
. . . Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in
your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a
whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end,
you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not,
as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)—
they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see
many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals,
must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers
make when they open in the morning. . . . And it is not yet enough to
have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many,
and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return.
For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have
changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are name
less, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves—only then can it
happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in
their midst and goes forth from them.13
This process of gathering into a poem the juices of lifetime, to

a
vitalize the words and make an immortal song, has its parallels
in contemplative living. Nothing is irrelevant to the contempla
tive. I think of Teilhard de Chardin’s wonderful line: “God is inex
haustibly attainable in the totality of our action.” 14 Like the poet,
the contemplative draws upon the inexhaustible riches of life’s
experience. But like poets waiting for the fermented vision to rise
from the depths of their expectation or for the incandescent word
13The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, ed. and trans. by Stephen
Mitchell (New York: Vintage 1984), “From the Notebooks of Malte Laurids
Briggs," 91.
14’I‘eilhard de Chardin, The Divine Milieu (New York: Harper 1965) 63.

to emerge from the searching of their imagination, the contem
plative must also negotiate the enriched silence of waiting. The
contemplative waits for the moment of God’s unpredictable visi
tation. Such a moment is spelled out in the rich imagery of
Thomas Merton’s poem “A Psalm”:
When psalms surprise me with their music

And antiphons turn to rum
The Spirit sings: the bottom drops out of my soul
And from the center of my cellar, Love, louder than thunder
Opens a heaven of naked air. . . .
But sound is never half so fair
As when that music turns to air
And the universe dies of excellence. . . .
And I go forth with no more wine and no more stars
And no more buds and no more Eden
And no more animals and no more sea:
While God sings by himself in acres of night
And walls fall down, that guarded Paradise.15
DEVELOPMENTAL READINESS AND CONTEMPLATION

I
have tried to show that contemplation is the normal fruition
of aChristian life lived with generous patience. There are things
to learn, skills to acquire, guidance to be had, reassurances to be
given, and disciplines of letting go and dedication to be refined.
But fundamentally it is the work of normal people living normal
lives that is the blossom of humanity. The flowering of divine love
is manifested on the vine of ordinary life.
Contemplation will appear esoteric to someone in initial stages
of religious socialization, just learning the paschal narrative or
still making preliminary efforts at impulse control. But it is a
shame if contemplation still seems esoteric to adult Christians
whose lives have provided repeated purification in the crucible of
toil and pain. Living as a contemplative is not so much proving
adept at rarefied spiritual actions, but grounded in a life whose
meaning is rooted in intimacy with God. Different moments of the
life cycle from childhood wonder to young adult passion to adult
15Selected Poems of Thomas Merton, 84-85.
136 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

responsibility to mature wisdom contribute to the unique quality
of contemplative living that is one particular person’s graced des
tiny.
In each transition there can be the dizzy fear of having lost
one’s equilibrium, letting go of what was familiar and walking
with uncertain balance on a new path called forward by light and
grace. Integration is the challenge of the contemplative way. We
are blessed on our journey by patient conversation, radiant wor
ship, and consoling peace.Then as the fruit of loving persever
ance, we are finally ready to make our own the concluding
phrases of Psalm 139:
Search my heart, probe me, God!

Test and judge my thoughts.
Look! do I follow crooked paths?
Lead me along your ancient way.
PAUL J. PHILIBERT, OR 137

BENEDI C T’S ‘MILITARY’ VOCAB ULARY
RECONSIDERED
Visitors entering the front door of my monastery will find di

rectly in front of them a large iron grille separating the guest par
lors from the monastic enclosure. If the visitors happen to pause
before entering the parlors, they will notice that the grille-work
itself spells out the word PAX. Peace. Benedictine peace. An
evocative phrase that conjures up a variety of images: Benedict’s
Monte Cassino, an oasis of peace in the midst of a peninsula rav
aged by invading barbarian armies; Benedict, the man of peace,
because a man of God (vir Dei); centuries of monks and nuns qui
etly going about the business of monastic life with that look of
peaceful serenity on their faces; the peace and quiet of the clois
ter, a desert in the midst of a turbulent world. Romantic images
to be sure, but not entirely false ones. Benedict was a man of
peace. His Rule speaks about peace.1 There is something peaceful
about a monastery.
Things military by their nature seem at odds with peace. The
military is about war, the opposite of peace. There is something
overtly physical about the military which seems out of place when
talking about the spiritual life. The rigid system of officers, non
commissioned officers and enlisted men and women appears anti
thetical to a community of love, mutual obedience and service
which are the hallmarks of a Benedictine community.
Little wonder, then, that some monks and nuns of today might
be discomfitted by the “military” (militia/militare) vocabulary
found in the Rule of Saint Benedict. This was certainly the case
for Christine Mohrmann2 and E. Manning.3 But in light of two re
Rev. Benedict Guevin, O.S.B., is an Associate Professor of Theology at Saint

Anselm College, Manchester, NH. He holds a Ph.D in History of Religions
and Religious Anthropology from the University of Paris/Sorbonne, and an
S.T.D. in Moral Theology from the Institut Catholique in Paris.
1See Pro] 17; 4.25; 4.73; 34.5; 53.4; 53.5; 63.4 and 65.11.
2Christine Mohrmann, “La langue de saint Benoit” in Philibert Schmitz,
Sancti Benedicti Regula Monachorum, editio altera emendata (Maredsous
1955) 9-39.
3E. Manning, “La signification de “militare-militia-miles» dans la Regle
138 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

cent studies—one an article,4 the other a commentary5—both of
which retrieve the martial character of Benedict’s military vocab
ulary, a new look at this vocabulary is in order. In Parts I and II,
I will present the positions of Mohrmann and Manning, Borias
and Kardong, respectively. Before drawing some conclusions, I
will assess the positions of each in Part III.
I. CHRISTINE MOHRMANN AND E. MANNING
Monks and nuns are not alone in their discomfiture with an

overly martial interpretation of Benedict’s military vocabulary.
Christine Mohrmann, the renowned Latin philologist, suggests
that Benedict’s adoption of the terms militia and militare came
in the wake of their use and meaning in Augustine and the Vita
Hilarii.6 She writes:
During the period of the Empire, [these words] no longer had the ex
clusive meaning of military service; they were applied to civil service
as well, especially to junior employees of the imperial palace. . . . It
cannot be said that these traditional monastic terms still meant for St.
Benedict that hard struggle against the demons that had so domi
nated the life of the hermits of the East and that one finds in Cassian.
Militare recalls the notion of service of the servi Dei under the disci
pline of the Rule. . . . From then on, the stress was not so much on the
idea combat as was on the disciplined and organized service of
it
70f
God.
Mohrmann clearly considers Benedict’s use of militare/militia vo

cabulary as an evolution from its earlier meaning, namely, the
struggle against the demons that had characterized Eastern
monasticism and Cassian. The disciplined service of God, not
combat, she maintains, the framework for understanding this
is
de saint Benoit” in Revue bénédictine 72 (1962) 137-38.

4André Borias, “Saint Benoit et l'Italie du VIe siecle: essai d’approche so
ciologique de la Regle bénédictine" in Collectanea Cisterciensia 57 (1995)
280-307.
5Terrence Kardong, Benedict’s Rule: Translation and Commentary
A
(Collegeville: Liturgical 1996).

6See Mohrmann, p. 28. All translations in this article are by the author
unless otherwise indicated. Translations of the RB are taken from RB 1980,
ed. Timothy Fry (Collegeville: Liturgical 1981). Translations of the RM are
taken from The Rule of the Master, trans. Luke Eberle, CS (Kalamazoo:
6
Cistercian 1977).
7Mohrmann, 29-30.
BENEDICT GUEVIN, O.S.B. 139

vocabulary. The one exception to this general use is found in Pro
logue 3, in which the monk is called upon to do battle for the true
king, Christ the Lord, armed with the metaphorical “strong and
noble weapons of obedience.” 8
E. Manning takes Mohrmann’s notion a step further in his own
study of this vocabulary. He suggests that
I‘[m]ilitare . . . can only be understood to be mean ‘service' as a ‘way of

life,’ an ‘obedience.’ In other words, militare, while retaining some
what vaguely the notion of struggle (against self-will), has become the
equivalent of obedience. This ‘obedience’ (to the abbot) is, de facto, a
‘service’ (of Christ). It is normal that this obedience and service be
come a habit, a Way of life.’ 9
II. ANDRE BORIAS AND TERRENCE KARDONG

In André Borias examines the RB from a soci
a recent study,10
ological perspective. He maintains that Benedict’s retrieval of
militia /militare vocabulary was the consequence of the harsh
daily realities occasioned by the Ostrogoth-Byzantine war. He
writes:
When they saw King Totila, surrounded by his officers and court, pre
sent himself at the gate of the monastery, could they ignore what an
earthly king meant? When they witnessed the ferocity of Zalla, could
they not take seriously the harsh realities of occupation, especially
when they have endured its violence? To take up arms, to fight for a
king (RB Prol 3), to serve under commanders (RB 1.2) were not mere
literary metaphors. Far from weakening Benedict’s style, the histori
cal circumstances were an invitation to give it renewed vigor.11
From the first lines of the Rule, Benedict personally addresses

those who wish to enlist in Christ’s militia. He invites them to
place themselves in the service of the true and only king and to
take up the arms of obedience (RB Prol 3). The king in this case is
not an Ostrogoth king; not even the Byzantine emperor. Rather,
he is the true king, the general, who leads his troops in war
against the powers of Satan, leading his soldiers to a victory
which will be fully enjoyed with him in his kingdom. The ceno
8Cf. Mohrmann, 30.

9Manning, 137-38.
10See note 4.
11Borias, 285.
140 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

bitic community is, thus, a fraternal army, serving under a Rule
and an abbot. It is an army arranged for battle (acies: RB 1.2-5),
requiring long and serious training to fight against the devil. Its
arms are not the bloody instruments of war, but rather the pow
erful and glorious weapons of obedience.12
If Borias is correct, Benedict, writing during a period of war,
would have retrieved the vocabulary militare-militia, with its nu
ance of spiritual combat, from the hermits of the East and Cas
sian, a position definitely at odds with that of Mohrmann and
Manning. This vocabulary, while found in the RM, written during
a period of peace, would have lost the nuance of spiritual combat.
Terrence Kardong, like Borias, also retrieves the martial di
mension of Benedict’s military vocabulary. In his overview of the
Prologue, he writes:
In describing the struggle of obedience, the Prologue employs two vig
orous images to make the point: fighting and running. In Prol 3, the
disciple is exhorted to fight for Christ with the sharp weapons of obe
dience. Scholars have sometimes downplayed the bellicosity of mil
itare, but the repetition of the term in Prol 40, and the clear military
language of RB 1.4-5, which defines cenobitism as warfare against Sa
tan, suggest this squeamishness is misplaced.13
Kardong makes the point even more forcefully in his overview

of RB 1. While Kardong admits that the military language of the
RB is metaphorical,“ nonetheless he acknowledges the “rather
bold, aggressive tone of this chapter” in which the monastic life is
presented as a “ruthless, relentless battle against the powers and
principalities.” The enemy, of course, is not an external one; “the
enemy of the monk is within; the battlefield is the heart; the
weapons are the ascetical and spiritual arts.” 15
Borias and Kardong take positions which are at odds with
those of Mohrmann and Manning. Both wish to preserve the mar
tial quality of Benedict's military vocabulary, a vocabulary which,
albeit metaphorical, is apt to describe the monastic battle against
Satan.
12See Borias, 285-86.
l3Kardong, 29. In the note to Prol 3, however, Kardong seems to agree
with Mohrmann: “Compared to the RM, Benedict generally seems to retreat
from militant attitudes. For RB, the monastic struggle is less against exter
nal enemies than a common service of Christ, our Lord."
14See Kardong, 45.
15Kardong, 44-45

III. ASSESSMENT
Now that I have presented the diverging positions of four very
competent scholars of Latin and the RB, it is time to assess the
merits of their arguments. First, a brief comparison between the
vocabulary of the Master and of Benedict is in order.
The service vocabulary of the RM and the RB16 refers not only
to actions to be performed, but to those who perform them as well.
As God is the principle object of the monk’s service, it is impor
tant to see how the Master and Benedict express that reality.
Very early on Christians adopted for themselves the title “ser
vants of God.” 17 This title, and others like it, were later adopted
in monastic circles to refer to monks.18 The noun servus was a fa
vorite title of the Master to designate the monk. Thus, the monk
is called servus Dei (cf. RM 11.26; 28.47; 77.5), servus Christi (cf.
RM 15.51; 90.14) or miles Christi (cf. RM 15.54 and 92.63).
Unlike his predecessor, Benedict never refers to the monk as
servus or miles. When Benedict does use servus (cf. Prol 7; 2.20;
64.21), he is usually citing from or alluding to scriptural passages
in which there is no specific Christian connotation.19 The one ex
ception is RB 64.21 where Benedict promises the reward of a good
servant (servus bonus) to an abbot who has served well.20
Now the absence of this kind of vocabulary in the RB does not
mean that Benedict had no concept of the monk as “servant of
God” or “servant of Christ.” But to designate this reality, Benedict
will more often than not use expressions closely related to this
kind of service, viz., the noun militia (cf. RB 2.20) and the verb
militare (cf. RB Prol 3, 40; 1.2; 58.10; 61.10).
16For a fuller discussion of this vocabulary, see my articles “Dominici

schola servitii: ‘A school of the Lord’s service?’ or ‘A school of the Lord’s way
of serving?’ A Grammatical and Contextual Study" in The Downside Review
(October, 1996, 294-312); “The Vocabulary of ‘service’ in the RB and RM: A
Comparative Study" (to appear in Revue bénédictine, 1998).
17See Mohrmann, 27. For example, the Shepherd of Hermas and Tertul
lian (sumus servi, Dominum enim habemus Deum, Adv. Marc. 4.29).
18See André Borias, “Le Christ dans la RB” in En relisant saint Benoit
(Bégrolles-en-Mauges: Abbaye de Bellefontaine 1990) 240.
19Ibid. The same can be said for one of his uses ofthe noun servitium (ex
servitio) in 2.18. But here Benedict is referring to “slavery” as a social des
ignation vs. the freeborn.
20See Mt 24:24 and 25:21.
142 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Like the noun servus, militia in its various forms has early
Christian roots later adopted by monasticism.21 We have read
Mohrmann’s suggestion that Benedict’s adoption of the terms
militia and militare came in the wake of their use and meaning in
Augustine and the Vita Hilarii,22 with the meaning of “the disci
plined and organized service of God” by the servi Dei. What are
we to make of Mohrmann’s suggestion? If she is correct in her as
sessment, why, then, did Benedict not simply borrow from his lit
erary predecessor the readily available vocabulary of servus Dei
and servus Christi? Why his use of expressions like militare
/ militia?
A look at the Latin concordance shows that militare/ militia
vocabulary is, indeed, present in the RM. In all instances except
two (RM 7.36; 87.9), militare refers to service to God in his
“school” and “churches,” or to his delegate, the abbot (and the
Rule). The two exceptions refer to serving one’s own judgments
(7.36) or will (87.9). So for the Master, militare is the verbal ex
pression of what the servi Dei do. As for militia, a common thread
which joins its various uses, is that of an organized service of God
within the confines of the coenobium.23 Thus, the Master’s use of
this vocabulary is closer to Mohrmann and Manning’s conclusions
with respect to the RB. But is this how Benedict uses it?
21See Mohrmann, 28-29. For example, Origen, In Lib. Iud. hom. 7.2; Ser~
apion, Ep. ad mon. 11; Orsiesius, Lib. 34; Cassian, Inst. 5.18.2; Vita Hilarii
3.11, 4.14, 26.6; Augustine, De op. mon. 22.25.
22See note 5.
23The Master’s use of the noun militia varies greatly according to the
context in which it is found and, broadly speaking, is similar to his use of
the verb servire. In RM 1.75 militia is found in conjunction with probatio
(militia vel probatio) with reference to doing the “will of God,” which is the
way of the life ofthe cenobite. In RM 2.19 militia is found in the expression
aequalem servitii militiam baiulamus to describe the equal service of those
who were freeborn or slavebom. Christine Mohrmann writes that servitii
militiam is a genitive of inherence, i.e., the coupling of two nouns which
have become nearly synonymous. In other words, in this instance the nouns
servitium and militia have virtually the same meaning. The third use of
militia is found at the end of RM 10 (v. 123) to denote the conclusion of the
spiritual doctrine section of the Rule, called the actus militiae cordis. In RM
11.10, militia appears as an accusative of relation with propositus (propositi
militiam) and means “service of religious life.” In RM 34.1, militia appears
in the phrase militiae ordo. . . . observationis to designate the divine office.
In RM 44.19, militia is used in the context of how the brothers are to sleep:
in one room, under the surveillance of the abbot, who is able to observe the

The Master’s use of the militare/ militia vocabulary has a fur
ther nuance, one which has parallels with the RB. The three par
allel uses of militare / militia are found in RM Ths 40 = RB Prol 4O
(militanda); RM 1.2 = RB 1.2 (militare); RM 2.19 = RB 2.20 (mili
tia). In all three instances, the monastic life is described as one of
spiritual combat. This is most clear in RM 1.2 = RB 1.2. Here
Benedict is in full agreement with the Master: the cenobite en
gages in spiritual combat within the context of the coenobium
(RM 1.2-5 = RB 1.2-5), while the hermit, the strongest type of
monk, fights alone (RB 15).“ So at least for three uses of militare
/ militia vocabulary, Benedict seems to have borrowed from the
Master.
What are we to make of Borias’ argument then?
Borias hypothesis is interesting. But how reliable is it? If one
admits the now accepted dating of the RM to the first quarter of
the sixth century (c. 500-25), this would certainly place its compo
sition within the period of peace and prosperity under Theodoric
(493-526).
But what about the RB? Was it written, as Borias insists, dur
ing a time of war? If one admits that the RB was written some
time within the second quarter of the sixth century (530-60), then
the socio-political situation is very different. Theodoric’s death
brought with it the division of his kingdom. Romans and Goths
were unable to live in harmony, in part because the latter where
Arians. Moreover, the lengthy Byzantine War (535-53), which
was to bring an end to the Ostrogoth kingdom, ruined any
chances of restoring an already fragile unity. These were, by all
accounts, terrible years for the people of the Italian penninsula.
In terms of history, then, Borias is correct.
Where Borias may have overplayed his hand is in trying to ex
plain the martial quality of Benedict’s military vocabulary by
these events. There is not the slightest allusion in the RB to the
events described in Procopius of Caesarea’s De bello gothico.25
“attitude of each brother in his service.” Lastly, militia is found in RM

90.70 to contrast two stances: service to the world (militia saeculari) and
service to Christ (in servitio Christi). Here, as RM 2.19, militia and servi
tium seem to have similar meanings.
24For other instances of this theme in the RM and the RB, cf. Borias, p.
244 and note 4.
25See Borias, 281.
144 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Nor can one rely uncritically on Gregory’s Dialogues, as does Bo
rias, to establish facts regarding the life of Benedict and to draw
implications from them.26
What is, perhaps, more important is that Borias also fails to
consider two immediate sources for this vocabulary: the RM with
its three parallel uses, and the Prooemium and chapter 1 of the
Admonitio ad filium spiritualem of Pseudo-Basil.27 The unknown
author of this fifth-century Latin text,28 whose inspiration proba
bly comes from Rufinus’ Latin translation of the Regula Basilii29
and is clearly used by Benedict in RB Prol 1, 3 and 4 (cf. Admoni
tio Prol 11), desires to teach his spiritual son the meaning of
“spiritual service” and how he is to serve his king (Cupio enim te
instruere. . .quibus regi tuo militare debeas). The author then pro
ceeds (in chapter 1) to contrast Christ, the heavenly king, with
the earthly king, and speaks of “spiritual weapons.” So while
Benedict may have, as Borias suggests, retrieved the vocabulary
of militare/ militia, with its nuance of spiritual combat in re
sponse to the geopolitical upheavals of his own time, he has done
so—at least in the early verses of the Prologue—immediately but
indirectly, through the Basilian tradition.
Kardong’s interpretation of Benedict’s military vocabulary in
his overview of RB Prol and RB 1 is, on the basis of my analysis,
the correct one. This is why I find his agreement with Mohrmann
and Manning in his note to Prol. 3 curious: “[c]ompared to the
RM, Benedict generally seems to retreat from militant attitudes.
For RB, the monastic struggle is less against external enemies
than a common service of Christ, our Lord.” 3° It is true that
26Borias will go so far as to write that “St. Gregory’s attitude is without

doubt close to the true feelings that Benedict had experienced in the face of
this historical situation" (p. 281) and this after admitting that neither Pro
copius’ account nor Gregory’s are objective (p. 281).
27See PL 103.683d-85a.
la tradition basilienne, edited and translated by Jean-Marie
28See Dans
Baguenard, Spiritualité orientale 58 (Bégrolles-en-Mauges: Abbaye de
Bellefontaine 1994) 303-05.
29See Adalbert de Vogiié, “Entre Basile et Benoit : l’Admonitio ad filium
spiritualem du Pseudo-Basile” in Regulae Benedicti Studia 10/11 (1981-82)
19-34. See p. 21.
30In fact, Kardong is agreeing with a position that Mohrmann does not
hold. Prol 3 is the one exception to a vocabulary which is in all other in
stances as Kardong describes it. See note 8.

themes like “spiritual combat" and a “common service of Christ”
are not foreign either to the RM or the RB. But the frequency
with which the Master uses the noun servus (twenty-two times!)
suggests that he is more inclined to view the monk as a good or
bad servant/slave of God, Christ or the Lord and one who is en
gaged, successfully or not, in spiritual combat. Benedict, who
never uses the noun servus except with reference to abbatial ser
vice, imputes a different role to the monk, one colored by “mili
tary” images. The monk or nun is a servant of God/Christ in that
he or she, like the Lord Christ and in obedience to the will of the
Father (cf. Phil 2:8), is engaged in spiritual combat.
IV. CONCLUSION
Lest my final point be lost in the seeming minutiae of textual
analysis, I would like to restate it and expand upon it in this con
clusion. The monk or nun is a servant ofGod/Christ in that he or
she, like the Lord Christ and in obedience to the will of the Father,
is engaged in spiritual combat. In order to grasp the import of my
contention, it is important to understand the different reasons
why the Master and Benedict wished to establish a “school of the
Lord’s service."
The Master’s designation of the monastery as dominici schola

servitii is rooted in Christ’s call: “Shoulder my yoke and learn
from me, for I am gentle and humble of heart, and you will find
rest for your souls. Yes, my yoke is easy and my burden light”
(RM Th 14; cf. Mt 11:29). This Matthean logion, which becomes in
the RM a call to regeneration in the waters of baptism, is suc
ceeded by the call to put oneselfin that place where one can learn
from Christ, viz., in the schola, i.e., in the monastery. It is for this
reason that the Master must “establish a school of the Lord’s ser
vice,” so that, “never rejecting his guidance but persevering in his
teaching in the monastery until death, we may by patience merit
to share in the sufferings of Christ so that the Lord may make us
coheirs of his kingdom” (RM Ths 45-46). In short, the Master de
sires to establish a monastery so that the monk may learn from
Christ by placing himselfin his school.
The Master’s move from the Church (into which one is incorpo
rated by baptism) to the monastic schola (the content of the
Thema on the Psalms), and presented by him as a kind of “little
church” in which the abbot’s role is analogous to that of the
146 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

bishop (cf. RM 1.82-83), was not adopted by Benedict. While
Benedict retains the Master’s Thema on the Psalms, which cul
minates in the establishment of the schola, his point of departure
is found in the words with which he begins his Prologue: “Listen
carefully, my son, to the master’s instructions [praecepta mag
istri] . . .” (RB Prol 1). This beginning is clearly echoed in the con
clusion of Benedict’s Prologue: “Never swerving from his instruc
tions, then, but faithfully observing his teaching in the monastery
until death, we shall through patience share in the sufferings of
Christ that we may deserve also to share in his kingdom” (Prol
50). To observe “his instructions” is nothing other than obedience,
as the subsequent verses at the beginning of the Prologue make
clear (cf. Prol 2-3). Obedience becomes the raison d’étre for the es
tablishment of the dominici schola servitii.
The monk enters the schola in order to learn obedience to God
by obeying Christ, the abbot and his brothers: “Whoever listens to
you, listens to me.” 31 But the monk also comes to the monastery
to obey like Christ: “I have come not to do my own will, but the
will of him who sent me.” 32 Benedict makes this clear in his third
step of humility: “that a man submits to his superior in all obedi
ence for the love of God, imitating the Lord of whom the apostle
”
says: ‘He became obedient even to death.’ 33
Monastic obedience, then, is both to Christ and in imitation of
Christ. Monks and nuns are his servants to the extent that they
“put on Christ.” They do so by giving up their own will and,
armed with the strong and noble weapons of obedience, do battle
for the true King, Christ the Lord. The battle, whether Christ’s or
ours, is the same. He had to contend with Satan (cf. Mk 1:12-13;
Mt 4:1-11; Lk 4:1-13, etc.) as we ourselves do. The weapons, too,
are the same: obedience, even unto death.
Battle . . . weapons . . . arms . . . death. Military language?
Certainly! Metaphorical language? Clearly! Appropriate meta
phors? Most assuredly! But many soldiers—and it is hoped that
monks and nuns are among their number—engage in warfare for
one purpose only: the establishment of peace.
31KB 5.6 (See Lk 10:16).

“RE 5.13 (See Jn 6:38).
33RB 7.34 (See Phil 2:8).

BUDDHISM AS RADICAL RELIGION
Buddhism represents the ultimate solution to the tangle that

is sex, death, and religion.1
It takes care of sex by stilling, quieting down, extinguishing
desire, the thirsts (tanha) for a continuation in the rounds of re
birth which is samsara.
It takes care of death in the same process. For one will never
die again if one has not been reborn.
Finally, it takes care of religion as well. For if religion is, es
sentially, the pain devised to overcome the ultimate pain of death
for the self,2 then with the realization of the fundamental unsat
isfactoriness (dukkha), the basic impermanence (anicca) of every
thing, above all the lack of any permanent and controlling self
(anatta), the need for religion, as the means of getting the self to
the other shore, is simply obviated. There is, literally, no-self (an
attd) to make the journey.
THE SELF AND THE SELF

According to Buddhism there is no Hindu Atman. In other
words, not only is there no self to be reborn, there is no Self, to
which the “individual” self might be joined in religion. It is in this
sense that Buddhism is understood as no-religion.
Buddhism is a religion so stripped down to its barest essentials
as, indeed, to appear to be no religion at all. This is its interpre
tation of itself by its most important practitioners, namely the
George J. Seidel is a professor of philosophy at St. Martin’s College in

Lacey, Washington, where he has taught since 1962. Author of seven books
in the area of philosophy, his most recent is Angels (1995) and, published
under a pseudonym (George Lacey OSB), If I
Be Lifted Up, a series of
Lenten meditations. Address: St. Martin’s College, 5300 Pacific Ave. S.E.,
Lacey, WA 98503.
1The Buddhism presented here is that preserved in the ancient Pali
texts, coupled with my study and experience of the phenomenon in South
east Asia. Special thanks are due to J. and K. Byron for kindly and carefully
checking the manuscript and proofs and for their helpful suggestions.
2Cf. G. J. Seidel, “Prolegomena to the Study of Religion," Journal of
Dharma 12 (1987) 125—26.
148 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

monks. Indeed, the three basic elements of religion—moral code,
cult, and dogma—are present. However, the moralities (silas) are
reduced to five (not killing, not stealing, not lying, not having il
licit sex, and refraining from alcoholic beverages). For the monks,
of course, there are the added rules (227 of them) associated with
that particular style of life.3 The cult aspect of the religion is min
imal. The principal association with cultic practice on the part of
the monks is, significantly, in connection with death and funerals.
This seems to be their only real ministerial function. Finally, the
dogma of Buddhism can be stated in three words: dukkha, the un
satisfactoriness of an existence characterized by suffering; an
icca, the basic impermanence of all things; and anatta, the lack of
any genuinely substantial self (or Self). The belief in reincarna
tion or rebirth for those that would fail to achieve Nirvana may
simply be a cultural presupposition rather than, strictly speak
ing, a dogma of the religion.
Buddhism is a radical religion, one that gets down to the roots
of the human condition, attempting to pull those roots up by the
very roots. The human condition is diagnosed in terms of suffer
ing, the ultimate human suffering or pain being death. It is no ac
cident that some of the most trenchant and realistic meditations
in Buddhist practice are those on death. These meditations en
able one to grasp, in a graphic manner, the unsatisfactoriness,
the impermanence, the lack of any real controlling self in the
whole process of existence.
The imagined permanent and substantial self is produced by
the impermanence (anieca) that is without (outside) the self, in
accordance with the Buddhist doctrine of “dependent origination”
(paticcasamuppada).‘ This doctrine states that what occurs in
consciousness arises there on account of what comes to it. There
is no individual (undivided) self because there are really no indi
viduals, only composites. So-called individual selves are consti
tuted of impersonal elements and physical qualities character
ized by impermanence and unsatisfactoriness.
It should be carefully noted that the consciousness referred to
here should not be mistaken for a self. A careful distinction is
3Nanomoli Thera, trans, The Patimokkha: 227 Fundamental Rules of a

Bikkhu (Bangkok: Mahamakut 1969).
4Cf. D. J. Kalupahana, Causality: The Central Philosophy of Buddhism
(Honolulu: UP of Hawaii 1975).
GEORGE SEIDEL, O.S.B. 149

made between consciousness (citta) and a self or soul (atk'z).5 In
deed, in the fivefold complex of aggregates (atta-bhava) there is
the implicit danger that it be viewed as a self. However, such a
complex is itself but a series of transitory mental states, anything
but an immutable soul. Far from being a unitary “thing,” such a
consciousness is a composite, parceled out to the six senses: an
eye-consciousness, ear-consciousness, nose-consciousness,
tongue-consciousness, body-consciousness, and mind-conscious
ness. It is these various consciousnesses, pulled this way and
that, which are responsible for the desires, or thirsts (tanha), that
lead to the continued round of rebirths. In other words, in the
Buddhist context consciousness is not to be understood as an in
dependent reality living somehow in splendid isolation “behind”
the senses of the body. It is right there in relation to them. It can
thus be viewed as no more than a “sixth sense,” a mind-con
sciousness (manas), distinct from the other sense-conscious
nesses as each of them is distinct from the others.
Still, although Buddhism would deny a permanent and im
mutable self, it does not deny self-realization, self-effort, and the
“self” which, like the Buddha, the dharma (the law of nature),
and the sangha (the religious fellowship), is referred to as a
“refuge.” However, the “self” that would realize its-self disappears
with the realization, as also the “self” that makes the effort. Yet
throughout, there remains citta or consciousness; and the word,
more often than not, receives a personal pronoun. It is always a
personal consciousness that is trained, disciplined, calmed, “de
selfed.” In other words, this consciousness may not be a self-con
sciousness in some entitative sense; nonetheless, it is personal.
There would appear to be here a vestige of the Upanishadic doc
trine of the true self and the false self encountered in the Bha
gavad Gite a friendly self, as opposed to an inimical false self. In
the case of Buddhism, however, even the “true” self would en
tirely disappear with Nirvana.
In the West the Buddhist doctrine of no-self has been inter
preted along British empiricist lines of the sort championed by
David Hume, for whom the self is merely “a bundle or collection of
different perceptions” (Treatise on Human Nature 1, 4, 6). Edward
5Aloysius Pieris, “The Notions of Citta, Atta, and Attabhava in the Pali
Exegetical Writings,” Buddhist Studies in Honour of Walpola Rahula (Lon
don: Fraser 1980) 213-22.
150 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Conze, an English student of Buddhism, makes this comparison.
According to this reading the self is essentially epiphenomenal,
that is, simply the response or reaction to what is given in sensa
tion, in Buddhist terms what is given by the various sense-con
sciousnesses, plus the “sixth sense” or mind-consciousness. The
difiiculty with this interpretation of the Buddhist doctrine of “de
pendent origination” is that consciousness, taken even at this
lowest and most basic level, is not really a reaction or response,
and thus cannot represent a storing up of alien stimuli. Further,
viewing the matter in this fashion is to read a mechanical model
of causation, characteristic of Hume’s philosophy. A biological one
would be more apposite, particularly given the way things grow
in the hot and, during the monsoon season, extremely humid cli
mate of India, whence Buddhism originated. Further, in Bud
dhist thought, consciousness is far too closely allied to its world.
The sense-consciousness, as also the mind-consciousness, is al
ways already “right there” in relation to its appropriate objects.
Thus, to understand Buddhist consciousness as the sum total of
its past experiences, as a bundle or collection of different percep
tions, aflaer the manner of a Humean self, is already to give it too
much reality. There is no “bundle.”
Buddhism is a radical religion in that it is thoroughly dedi
cated to getting rid of the self. This does not represent some form
of self-alienation in an Hegelian or Marxist sense, since to get rid
of something viewed as essentially illusory is hardly to lose any
thing. The child disabused of its charming illusion about Santa
Claus may appear to have lost something, perhaps a certain
naive innocence. However, it receives back something more im
portant, a deeper appreciation of its own parents, who are the
real Santa Claus. However, Buddhism goes even further on this
score than Hinduism. Not only does Buddhism deny an illusory
self but also the static entitative Self of the Atman as well, since
this might tend to reinforce the illusion of an individual self. It is
this radical approach to the Indian religious traditions that ren
ders the Buddhist, from the Hindu point of view, heretical. In
deed, the Buddhist sees the matter similarly: Buddhism is “no-re
ligion.” If one is to gain a sympathetic understanding of Bud
dhism on this score, one need but ask the following question: If
there is no Santa Claus, but only one’s parents; and if one’s par
ents are not the roly-poly white-bearded man in the red suit who

resides at the North Pole, etc., is any damage thereby done to the
parents by such a denial?
It is sometimes suggested that Buddhism replaces the notion
of a substantial soul with that of the force or the flowing energies
of karma. One’s karma becomes a sort of “bundle” of the accumu
lated actions and/or consequences of those actions. These ener
gies continue on after the death of the body like “a flame that
burns in the night,” fueled by karmic actions. Still, there is noth
ing really entitative here, even in the Humean sense. For when
the aggregate breaks up, what is left is a ball or lump of karma
without a name.
This force or energy is fueled by desire. It is the push and pull
of desire that gives actions performed intentionally out of desire
their energy to go along the wheel of samsara from rebirth to re
birth. This is the chain of cause and effect in karma. The desire
that is neutralized, the desire that is to be extinguished, is the de
sire that would continue to want existence, a world, a self. For
there is a good desire, the desire for liberation, the desire to be
free from attachment, from craving. It is only because one at
taches one’s “self” to sensations and pleasures (as thereby also to
sufferings) that there is a self. If one un-attaches the “self” from
such desires then there is no more self and, hence, no more suf
ferings. If the self is desire, then by getting rid of desire one gets
rid of the self. However, the converse is also true. If one comes to
the realization that there is no self, then one is also free from the
desires that would fuel karma and rebirth, since there would be
no self to do the desiring. To put it another way: one must un-at
tach—which is stronger than merely detach—one’s “self” from de
s1re.
The Buddhist attitude toward desire may appear odd from the
perspective of Christian monasticism. Indeed, although Western
monasticism has a reputation for being against the passions,
looked at more closely, chapter 49 of the Rule of Benedict on Lent
seems to point at increasing holy desire. Or there is that phrase
in chapter 4.46 of the Rule: vitam aeternam omni concupiscentia
spiritali desiderare (desiring eternal life with all spiritual concu‘
piscence).6 I think the difference here between Benedict and Bud
dhism is that Buddhism did not have the input of a Plato or a
Plotinus for whom eros represents the passionate desire to rise to
6I am beholden to the editor of the journal for this point.
152 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

the true, the good, and the beautiful. There is, in Buddhism, the
desire for liberation. However, that is not the same thing. It is
more a liberation “from” than a liberation “for.”
For Buddhism it is possible to get rid of the self that is desire
in virtue of the conviction that there is really no-self. Still, radical
as is the position of Buddhism on this score, it does not represent
self-annihilation. In the first place, there is no real self there to
annihilate, only an illusory one, which is no great loss. Second,
Buddhism would apply the principle of non-violence (ahimsa) to
the self as well as to other sentient beings. The Buddha urged the
Middle Way, rejecting sensuality, on the one hand, but also the vi
olence of excessive asceticism. Third, the purpose of Buddhist
practice is to eliminate suffering. Excessive asceticism would not
ameliorate the pain that is existence, only add to it.
RELIGION FOR EXPORT

With the realization of no-self (anatta) Buddhism becomes a
way of salvation or liberation so “pure” that there is not even a
way-farer on-the-way. That Buddhism represents a religion
stripped down to its barest essentials may be one of the reasons
the religion travels so well; whereas Hinduism, so heavily
freighted with the ritual and mythology of the culture, has never
really left India. Buddhism might be described as Indian religion
for export. It is a religion ready for travel, able to adapt itself to
any society or culture, except maybe one with too much religious
content. Although Buddhism may originally have been a “philo
sophico-mystical doctrine” (Lamotte), certainly by the time of
King Ashoka, who ruled India from about BCE 255 to about 237,
Buddhism had become a religion with a pantheon, a mythology, a
hagiography, a cult.
Although it is a religion lightened for travel, with little cul
tural baggage to carry along, capable of adapting to the cultures
it enters, this also means that it picks up the folk religious pat
terns of the cultures it enters. In India, for example, the lower
castes continued to worship the gods anchored in popular belief,
while the higher castes often continued with the ancient Aryan
divinities. Indeed, Buddhism has always been in living and fertile
contact with the popular religious beliefs wherever it has im
planted itself.7
7Etienne Lamotte, Histoire du Bouddhisme indien (Louvain-La-Neuve:
Institut orientaliste
1958) 762-64.

However, when Buddhism incorporates the gods and goddesses
of other religions in its adaptation to the cultures in which these
traditions are set, something happens to those gods and god
desses in virtue of the Buddhist assertion of no-Atman. One may
take the example of Mara, the evil demon common to the reli
gious beliefs of India in the Buddha’s time.8 Mara is the god of the
sensible (and sensual) world, hence also the god of death. It is,
perhaps, animistic in origin. Mara becomes the projection of the
ills one experiences, as attributable to external forces. Mara also
appears as the enemy of the Buddha, trying to tempt him away
from the path of perfection. (One may be reminded of the Noon
day Devil in the Western monastic tradition.) This god does not
appear in the most ancient Buddhist texts, perhaps because in
certain regions of India at the time Mara was held to be the
supreme deity. Indeed, the confrontation of Mara and the Buddha
can be read as a proof of the power of the Buddha over the forces
of evil and death. Mara is, very likely, even more the symbol of
death than tempter, the king of samsara, the continuous string of
rebirths.
As may be seen from this, and other examples as well, the gods
and goddesses of Hinduism get relativized vis a vis the Buddha,
with the possible exception of the impersonal Brahman (without
the Atman). This means that the gods and goddesses are also in
need of liberation. Thus, when Buddhism in India gets reincorpo
rated back into Hinduism, it is with its gods relativized, this even
though in later Hinduism the Buddha is declared to be one of the
Avatars of Vishnu. After Buddhism the real god of Hinduism
could only be the impersonal (or supra personal) Brahman. Fur
ther, popular religion could only shift to bhakti devotionalism, to
a Krishna or some other personal manifestation of the divine, to
whom the devotee might self-surrender himself or herself. Indica
tive that the gods have been relativized is that although one may
say that Krishna is God, one cannot say that God is Krishna.
3Cf. T. O. Ling, Buddhism and the Mythology of Evil: A Study of Ther

avada Buddhism (London: Allen and Unwin 1962) who also insists that
Buddhism, like Christianity, is a “radical religion" (pp. 12 ft). See also,
Gérard Fussman, “Pour une problematic nouvelle des religions indiennes
anciennes,” Journal asiatique 265 (1977) 21-70, as also L. W. Bloss, “The
Taming of Mara: Witnessing to the Buddha’s Virtues,” History of Religions
18 (1978) 156-76.
154 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

After Buddhism, Hinduism would never again be the same as
it had been before. It may have reabsorbed Buddhism back into
itself—the process may be observed in the later Upanishads as
also in the Bhagauad Gita—however, it did so only with great dif
ficulty and at considerable cost. It is something like a snake swal
lowing a rodent too large for its gullet, really unable to get it
down.
If Hinduism mutates as a result of its absorption of Buddhism,
the same may be said of Buddhism’s entry into other cultural and
religious contexts. Part of the reason for this lies in the essen
tially monastic character of the religion, at least in its origins.
Monasticism is, basically, an asocial phenomenon. Its members
do not form natural human societies (families). This means that
in order to survive it must adapt itself to the societal structures of
the culture within which it finds itself. In adapting itself to these
societies and cultures, absorbing into itself the indigenous reli
gious elements already present there, Buddhism appears in and
to the society as a religion. Indeed, in its travels, given the baren
ness of its cult and dogma, it can pick up some rather question
able religious baggage, from animistic beliefs to magic, from con
flicting mythologies to superstitious rites.
Nonetheless, in its purest form, or better, in the form of its pu
rity, Buddhism remains a radical religion, the view of God radi
calized and purified to the point where it nearly disappears. Bud
dhism says that human ideas of God are only that, human ideas.
And given the Buddhist view of the human aggregate, such ideas
are bound to be confused and illusory. Further, there is no such
thing as revelation, a means whereby the true idea of God might
be derived. Even to conceive of God as “spirit” is already to reduce
God to a personal entity. This is simply too restrictive. For the
Dharma the way things are, should be, and should be seen, in
cludes not only persons but all living things.
Although Buddhism is a religion without a personal God, with
out a revelation, in its purest form without rites or cult, much less
sacrifice—since in their Brahmanic form such sacrifices were ori
ented toward prosperity, success, etc., that is, desires—and with a
dogma stripped down to its barest essentials, it may, indeed, ap
pear to be no-religion, as it would claim. If that is true, then one
might assume that it is possible to comprehend it by the intellec~
tual tools of philosophy or psychology. This is not, however, the
case. There is, after all, Nirvana. Nevertheless, Buddhism’s claim

to be no-religion can also be taken cum grano salis. A religion
saying that it is no-religion may be put on a par with the state
ment of a Christian saint who says that she is the greatest sinner
of all. For given the character of the Christian virtue of humility,
when St. Teresa of Avila says that she is the greatest sinner of all,
is she really to be believed? What is to be believed is the life lived.
There is something of an anomaly with Buddhism on this
score. For those who represent the “religion” in its enlightened
and liberated form (the monks), Buddhism is no-religion. On the
other hand, for the majority of the laity, that is, the popular or
folk religion, with its admixture of animist elements, Buddhism
is a religion. In other words, for the most religious it is not a reli
gion, whereas for those that are not religious professionally, it is.
Buddhism says that the way in which to get rid of death is to
get rid of birth. And the way to get rid of rebirth is to rid oneself
of desire, which is attachment to samsara. For it is desire that
gives rise to the karma that fuels rebirth. In other words, the best
way to stay off the merry-go-round is not to get on it in the first
place. Existentialism would say that it is possible to choose many
things, but not whether one would be, or would not be, born. One
of Heidegger’s existentialia is Geworfenheit, being thrown out into
a world. Buddhism, on the other hand, would say that one does
choose to be born, or better, reborn, by performing actions fueled
by desire and based upon ignorance.
IGNORANCE AND THE FOUR NOBLE TRUTHS

Desire is not really the bottom line, ignorance is. Indeed, if one
wished to speak of Original Sin in this tradition it would be igno
rance (avidya).9 For if the self is to get off the merry-go-round it
must come to the realization that this is what it is on. This en
demic ignorance is not a lack of knowledge in general. The word
avidya has a privative alpha; it represents the lack of a specific
knowledge. It is not, then, an ignorance of an intellectual or sci
entific sort. For the specific knowledge that is lacked is liberating
knowledge, knowledge that would see the impermanence, unsat
isfactoriness, and no-self character of everything. The ignorance
referred to here is not knowing that life is a pain, not knowing
9Cf. D. M. Williams, “Twelve Terms in the Paticcamsamuppada,” Numen

21 (1974) 35-63.
156 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

that the pain of existence arises from desires, not knowing the
way to get rid of the pain, namely by getting rid of the self, and
not knowing that the way to get rid of the self is the Buddha’s
way of the dharma.
The ignorance, then, is the lack of knowledge of the Four Noble
Truths: concerning suffering, the cause of suffering, and cessation
of suffering, and the path leading to that cessation. It is a specifi
cally religious ignorance. Further, it is all-pervasive in the one
who has it, touching not only future desires but also past attach
ments, characterized by mistaken views, insufficient understand
ing, non-restraint, inattention, and delusion. It is thus a lack of
knowledge with a vengeance, taking revenge upon the one who
has it. For there is another specific content to that ignorance.
The mind-consciousness does not represent a tabula rasa, after
the manner of John Locke, upon which knowledge and experience
would somehow be inscribed. In Buddhism one begins with one’s
karma; and there is a very fateful ignorance regarding the con
tent of that karma. There are subconscious psychic constructions
whose origins and character it is impossible to determine. The
“original sin” is of one’s own making or doing, and one is even ig
norant of what was made or done.
The ignorance is, again, a religious ignorance, an ignorance of
the Four Noble Truths. The first is the truth about suffering:
birth, decay, disease, and death are a pain; union with the un
pleasant, separation from the pleasant, are a pain; any unsatis
fied craving is a pain. The word dukkha is not an easy one to
translate. Its meaning can, to some extent, be ascertained by its
association with the Buddhist doctrine concerning impermanence
(anicca) and no-self (anatta). For what lacks permanence will ul
timately prove unsatisfactory; what has no stable individual exis
tence, no-self, will also be unsatisfactory. It will cause suffering.
The translation “suffering” is quite common in English literature
on the subject of Buddhism, as also in French and German. It
conjures up a comparison with the Wisdom literature of the Bible,
especially Qoheleth (Ecclesiastes) and Job, the latter on unde
served suffering. It is worth noting that these writings date from
roughly the same period of history.
Something of the meaning of dukkha in this tradition may be
gauged from the fact that Indian grammar, like the Greek, has a
middle voice.” The middle voice has an active and a passive
10This is one of the hallmarks of Betty Heimann's interpretation of In

sense, but also a reflexive one. It is something that one does; it is
also something that happens to one, at least to some extent be
cause one has brought it upon oneself. It is, then, not simply the
result of external conditions; for the suffering can take on a dif
ferent meaning if one takes a different attitude toward it.
Dukkha, then, is not a passively received pain; it is a bondage one
brings upon oneself, brought on by desire and ignorance. This is
why there can be no end to the suffering, bondage, or the unsatis
factory character of things without an end to desire and igno
rance.
This brings us to the Second Noble Truth, namely that the
cause or origin of this pain that is existence, is the desire, the
craving, the thirst for existence, gratification, future or present
goods, attachments to past ones, all of which are rooted in the
changing, the impermanent, the conditioned. It is desire that
pushes and pulls one along on the continuing merry-go-round
that is samsara, the cycle of rebirths. It is this desire that, like
the flame of a candle, fueled by karma, is to be extinguished or
“blown out” (the literal meaning of Nirvana).
With the Third Noble Truth the Buddha proposes the cure for
the cessation of suffering. This consists in laying aside, getting
rid of, being freed from this thirst or craving for existence. It is
necessary to free oneself from every attachment, even (if not es
pecially) attachment to one’s own thoughts and cherished opin
ions, above all as one’s own. For the ultimate cause of karma is
the illusion that there is a self. By recognizing the absence of self
one accumulates less karma, since there is no self to accumulate
it. Again, this does not represent self-annihilation, since it is im
possible to annihilate something that is not really there to begin
with.
The Fourth Noble Truth represents the destruction of suffer
ing, its cessation or extinction. This is the Eightfold Path of right
views, right aspirations, right speech, right conduct, right liveli
hood, right effort, mindfulness, and contemplation. This leads to
the end of renewed existence. There is then no more rebirth. As
the Buddha put it, and as I heard an old monk in a forest
monastery hut in Thailand repeat, “This is my last birth.”
As a radical religion Buddhism may appear capable of dispens
ing entirely with what is non-essential. However, with its reli
dian religion, namely that Indian grammar is a mirror of Indian thought
patterns. Cf. Facets of Indian Thought (London: Allen and Unwin 1964).
158 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

gious dogma cut down to the barest essentials, it is also without
an intellectual structure with which to sift out what is religiously
acceptable and what is not. An example is the acceptance of the
notion of rebirth, with its background in the ancient Indian belief
in reincarnation. Though it may increasingly be acknowledged as
a “weak hypothesis,” a hangover from animistic belief patterns,
Buddhism nonetheless seems to require the notion of rebirth, if
not reincarnation, as the lot of those who would not achieve en
lightenment in a single existence. It must be granted that the de
nial of a personal substantial substrate (the Atman) means that
for Buddhism there can be rebirth without transmigration (of
souls). The metaphor used to describe this possibility is that of
lighting one lamp from another. There is “rebirth” of a new flame
without any substantial loss to the original flame. Implied in this
model is that nothing has really passed over. Similarly, the
“birth” of knowledge in the pupil implies no loss of knowledge on
the part of the teacher or master. Although increasingly called
into question against the backdrop of modern biological science, it
must be acknowledged that rebirth and/or reincarnation are part
and parcel of classical Hinduism and Buddhism.
An advantage for a radical religion such as that of Buddhism is
its denial of the self. Christianity seeks to replace the old self of
self-centeredness (sarx) with the new self of spirit (pneuma).
Buddhism’s approach is more radical. Christianity, especially in
its monastic tradition, may preach detachment. Buddhism goes a
step further, urging non-attachment. Such total un-attaching of
one’s self from things is possible in virtue of the realization that
there is really no-self there to attach to anything, and no real self
to the thing to which the “self” might attach its “self.”
Denying the self in a Far Eastern context is not as monstrous
as it may appear to a Westerner. In the West the self is a person,
a subsistent substance possessing intellect and will, or it is a
bearer of rights in virtue of consciousness and freedom. In the
East selfhood does not loom so large, experience does. In the
Hindu context, for example, gnostic experience is focused less on
the individual self, and more in the direction of the Self, or At
man; that is specifically not the individual, but rather what is
common to all individuals, indeed to all living and non-living
things in nature. Rather than being of supreme value, as the no
tion of the individual and his/her human rights would be con
ceived as of supreme value in the West, in Hinduism the whole

idea is to be saved from the individual: “Whoever thinks he per
ceives separateness passes from death to death without cease”
(Katha Upanishad IV, 11).11 Buddhism takes the same position.
Often in the West the human being is distinguished from the ani
mal by self-consciousness. Buddhism, on the other hand, would
say that the animal acts and views itself as an individual self,
whereas human beings, if they would achieve true insight, do not.
Religion of whatever sort requires faith or belief. The object (or
subject) of its knowledge is not sensible in the way that a falling
object is sensible, nor is it cognizable in the way that a scientific
theory concerning falling objects is. As such, religion can appear
to be a manifestation of the irrational. The believer would say
that religious truth is not ante rationem, but praeter rationem, to
the side of reason, as above and beyond it (supra rationem). Bud
dhism is more radical on this score. Stripped down to its barest
doctrinal essentials, Buddhism is almost entirely clear of dogma
in the formal sense of that term. Speculations about creation, the
orizing about life after death, etc., are eschewed.
Further, there is no data of revelation which one might specu
late or reflect upon. It is totally negative toward an intellectual
approach to the solution, or better, the resolution to the problem
of suffering. Knowledge is itself a passion and, hence, something
fueled by desire. This means that the pursuit of knowledge can
only add to the fund of suffering that one would bring upon one
self. Further, the patient would surely die before an intellectual
cure to the problem of suffering would ever be discovered by this
means. Finally, for the Buddhist the human being is viewed as
composed of the four elements of earth, air, fire, and water. As a
composed entity the human being is necessarily impermanent
and insubstantial. And when one adds to this the mind-con
sciousness, the human being becomes the least permanent, the
most insubstantial of things. The intellect thereby becomes the
least trustworthy instrument of all for a solution to the problem
that is human existence.
The Buddhist use of koans in this regard is instructive. There
are, of course, paradoxes in Western thought, from Heraclitus’
“You cannot step into the same river twice” to Bertrand Russell’s
11Raimundo Pannikar, The Vedic Experience (Berkeley: U of California

1977) 852.
160 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

reflections upon the “identity” of Scott and the author of Waver
ley. However, in the case of Heraclitus’ river fragment, as with
Western logical puzzles generally, there is a meaning. One can
not, indeed, step into the same river twice, since the waters are
constantly changing, as is the person who steps into the river a
second time. Reality is change. But there is also another mean
ing. Although the person and the river constantly change, yet do
they also remain the same: the person is still Gandhi and the
river is still the Ganges.
The Buddhist puzzle or koan, on the other hand, does not have
a meaning. It is meant to break the mind of its habit of ratiocina
tion, in the same way that a jawbreaker would break teeth. “The
ax is able to chop every sort of wood or tree except the ax handle”
is not meant to give insight into the nature of reality but, rather,
to make the mind see that a true insight into the real state of
things cannot be gained by conceptual or speculative activity.
The design of the koan is to show to thought that there are
thoughts that thought cannot think. Take the ultimate koan:
“What was your original face before you were born?” It is like ask
ing what one looked like before he or she existed. The question is
absurd, or better, it is a surd for the intellect; which is precisely
its point. The difference in the role of the Western philosophical
puzzle and the Buddhist koan is the difference between some
thing that would provide a springboard for thought and one that
would discourage conceptual thinking entirely. The koan is not
meant to foster knowledge, but gnosis and religious insight.
MONASTICISM EAST AND WEST

Buddhism is a radical religion, above all, by being essentially a
monastic religion.12 The monk is the heart and the soul of the re
ligion, the living embodiment of the ideal. Indeed, in the Hi
nayana, or “Little Vehicle,” tradition the “no-more-birth” can be
achieved only by the monk! For Buddhism to survive in such cul
tures it must have its monasteries. At least there, rebirth, and
hence death, can be escaped. Indeed, this is one of the reasons
why Buddhism disappeared from India—the monasteries were
largely destroyed, especially in the North.
12Jesus Lopez Gay, “El monacato budista,” Boletin de la associacion es

pariola de orientalistas 3 (1967) 93-119.

As radical religion, monasticism is capable of attaching itself
to any religion. In Buddhism the monk is at the very center of the
religion precisely because the monasticism that is radical in its
approach to religion is at its heart. In most other religions monas
ticism finds itself on the fringe of the religion, at times the lunatic
fringe. Now it is impossible to know whether the monasticism
that has attached itself to other religions, whether it be the
Christian monasticism of the Egyptian desert, the Essenes in
Palestine, or the Therapeutae or Gymnosophists in Alexandria,
etc., derives originally from Buddhism or not.13 Whatever may be
the source of the phenomenon in religions other than Buddhism,
it must be admitted that monasticism, as radical religion, does
have clear religious advantages. It encourages the sort of self-dis
cipline that would counter the selfishness and self-centeredness
inimical to genuine religious or spiritual progress. It furthers the
sort of detachment, or the more radical non-attachment of the
Buddhist ideal, that would make for that simplicity of life con
ducive to success in the spiritual pursuit. Above all, however, it
addresses directly the ultimate problem of human existence that
religion proposes to resolve, namely death. Buddhist yogic medi
tation techniques are not meant simply as a conceptual cathartic;
even more importantly they are meant to deprive samsaric exis
tence of its “psychic sustenance,” so that, there being no rebirth,
death is finally laid to rest.
There are, of course, disadvantages to radical religion such as
monasticism. However, with no directly natural means for pro
ducing new members the religious fellowship (the sangha) may
experience difficulty in surviving with it or, above all in the case
of Buddhism, without it. In early Christianity, for example, be
cause St. Paul saw the rapid approach of the end-time, he urged
celibacy and virginity as “my own opinion”: “I wish that all were
as I myself am” (1 Corinthians 7:7). Later, however, in Colossians
(if the letter is actually by Paul) marriage is taken as the normal
state for the Christian, when it became clear to the early Chris
tian community that the Second Coming had been delayed. In
deed, there have been radical religious sects, for example the
13In his La rencontre du Bouddhisme et l’Occident (Paris: Montaigne

Henri de Lubac speculates on the possible identity of the gym
1952) 19 ff.,
nosophists and the therapeutae of Alexandria in Hellenistic times.
162 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Skoptsy in Russia or the Shakers in the United States, whose
strict adherence to a rigorous celibacy insured the dying out of
the sect.
The danger with any radical religion, or radical sects, is that
they become too radical. Indeed, the Buddha chose the Middle
Way, somewhere between sensuality and the excessive austerities
that would extinguish the flame of desire like an oil-well driller
putting out a fire at the well-head by using dynamite. The monas
ticism of the Rule of St. Basil in Eastern Christendom or the Rule
of Benedict in the West are also examples of moderation and dis
cretion. The human animal, when it comes to religion, even reli
gion taken radically, is, only in the rarest of tragic cases, fully
consistent. And such “logical” consistency has little place in reli
gion anyway. It is thus that Buddhism becomes a religion pre
cisely in ceasing to be a radical religion. Indeed, even as a radical
religion Buddhism cannot really be successful in its claim of be
ing “no-religion.” Not all monks achieve Nirvana; and the medita
tion techniques designed to reach it do not, of and by themselves
(ex opere operato, if one likes) guarantee its occurrence. Nirvana
is necessarily an uncaused state. Indeed, it is not a mental state
at all, since all states of mind are the effect or result of (caused
by) “dependent origination.” This means that the self cannot
bring about, by its own personal efforts that which it would de
sire, above all, to achieve. The techniques can do no more than re
move the obstacles to its realization. Nirvana is, strictly speak
ing, a realized state, not a produced one. Further, this realization
of liberation is not something achieved by the monk, but in him.
It was only after the Buddha had failed in his self-effort to
achieve enlightenment by an exaggerated asceticism, and after
he had dismissed his disciples that enlightenment simply “came.”
The same story could be told out of the writings of the Fathers of
the Desert.
In other words, even a radical religion is not a “do-it-yourself”
matter. It is true that the Buddha urges the monk to take refuge
in himself. But this simply means that if the monk does not do his
own meditating it will not get done. Also, there are three other
refuges: the Three Gems of the Buddha, the Dharma, and the
Sangha. One takes refuge in the Buddha as the ideal of one’s goal
of enlightenment. One also takes refuge in the religious fellow
ship (Sangha); which includes the support of the laity in a mendi
cant monastic tradition such as Buddhism. The laity gains reli

gious merit, thus ameliorating their karma, through their sup
port of the monks as the embodiment of the religious ideal. How
ever, one also takes refuge in the Dharma; this is the 'Ii'uth of the
way things are, and as they are meant to be, a notion that brings
back into Buddhism some of the richness of the Upanishadic
background. Indeed, if one holds fast to the boat that is the
Dharma, one will come to the other shore. Does this mean that
one will be united with the Brahman? As the Terigga sutta #8
says: “. . .such a condition of things is in every way possible.” 1“
14Betty Heimann, Facets of Indian Thought, insists that Buddhist

Nirvana is the same as the “It” of Brahman (p. 111). Brahman is a neuter (p.
54) as is the word Nirvanam (p. 163). Paul Horsch also argues that both
Buddhism and the “All-one” theory of the Upanishads arrived, indepen
dently, if by different routes, at the same mystical point, namely the final
cancellation (Au/hebung) of the self, the annihilation of rebirth. “Buddhism
und Upanishaden,” Pratidiznam (The Hague: Mouton 1968) 472.
164 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

HILDEGARD’S VISION OF THE EUCHARIST
(SCIVIAS 2. 6):
THEOLOGY AND PASTORAL PRACTICE
Hugh Feiss, O.S.B.
Introduction1
0 human, who are fragile dust of the earth and ashes of ashes! Cry out
and speak of the origin of pure salvation until those people are in
structed, who, though they see the marrow of the writings, do not wish
to tell of it or preach it because they are lukewarm and sluggish in
serving God’s justice. Unlock for them the enclosure of mysteries
which they, timid as they are, conceal in a hidden and fruitless field.
Expand into a fountain of abundance and overflow with mystical
knowledge until they who now think you contemptible because of
Eve’s transgression are shaken by the flood of your irrigation. For you
have received your profound insight not from humans, but from the
heavenly and fearsome Judge on high (Scivias 1.1 audition).2
There are two things to note in this passage which has paral
lels in a number places in Hildegard’s works.3 The first is the of
Hugh Feiss, O.S.B., is a member of Ascension Priory, Jerome, Idaho. He di

rects the oblate program at Ascension Priory, and is involved in pastoral
and educational work in the Diocese of Boise.
1Earler versions of this paper were delivered at the Medieval Institute,
Kalamazoo, May, 1996 and at Ascension Priory, Jerome, ID, October, 1996.
I am very grateful to Marilyn Hall for proof reading the text.
2CCCM 43.8,31-42; Hart 67. Hildegard’s visionary experiences included
both vision (seeing something) and audition (hearing something). The ordi
nary structure of a “Vision” in the Rupertsberg Codex of the Scivias is illus
tration(s), vision (“I saw”) and audition (“I heard”), then a series of chap
ters. Hence, 3.2.7 stands for Book III, vision 2, ch. 7; while 1.1 audition
stands for Book I, vision 1, the audition which precedes the chapters. The
references to the Scivias by vision, book and chapter will appear in paren
theses in the text. Footnotes will gives references first to the critical Latin
edition, Hildegardis, Scivias, ed. Adelgundis Fiihrkiitter and Angela Carl
evaris, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis 43 (Turnhout: Bre
pols 1978), and to the English translation of Columba Hart and Jane
Bishop, Hildegard of Bingen, Scivias (New York: Paulist 1990) which I usu
ally follow but modify somewhat.
3For example: the declaration at the beginning of the Scivias (CCCM
165
ten remarked strategy of Hildegard (1098-1179) to turn her
marginality into an asset: she is a poor, insignificant, uneducated
woman, who has whatever she knows directly from God’s instruc
tion. Hence, though by earthly standards she does not deserve or
require a hearing, for that very reason her teaching—which can
only have come from God—ought to be heeded.4
The other point to note in this passage is less remarked, but is
equally clear. Who are the ones who are especially required to lis
ten to her? They are those who are educated in theology but do
not have any zeal for preaching the Scriptures. Hildegard is writ
ing for the educated clergy to move them to teach the rest of the
Church. Moreover, she is showing them how to do it, providing
them with catechetical and homiletic aids. Or, to put matters in a
wider context, it is 1150,5 and the educational opportunities for
clerics in Western Europe have been increasing for 100 years. The
education they can obtain in the arts and in theology or law opens
up many possibilities of advancement for them. Like others of her
43.3.9,15-18; Hart, 2): “O fragile human being . . . speak and write these
things which you see and hear. . . . Explain these things in such a way that
the bearer, receiving the words of his instructor, may expound them as the
instructor spoke them to him, and as the instructor wished, showed and
commanded.” Again, Scivias 2.1 audition (CCCM 43.112.96-100; Hart, 150):
“I heard the voice saying to me from that living fire: ‘0 you who are
wretched earth and, as a woman, untaught in all the learning of carnal
teachers and unable to read the writings of the philosophers intelligently,
you are nonetheless touched by My light. . . . Cry out and relate and write
these My mysteries which you see and hear in mystic vision. . . . Say those
things you understand in the Spirit as I speak them through you so that
those who should have shown My people righteousness, but who in their
perversity refuse to speak openly of the justice they know . . . may be
ashamed.”
4Barbara Newman, “Hildegard of Bingen: Visions and Validation.”
Church History 54 (1985) 163-75. One does not want to make too much of
this, because it was customary for medieval writers to profess their unwor
thiness at the beginning of their works. Thus, for example, a priest who
wrote to Hildegard about the Eucharist declares himself to be “minimus
sacerdos” and “fragilis et peccator" (Ep. 43; PL 197.212B).
5The Scivias were written between 1141 and 1151. They were Hilde
gard’s first major theological work. She wrote two others, The Book of Life’s
Merits (1158-63) and On the Divine Works. In addition there is a large col
lection of her letters and a smaller collection of sermons. Many of the letters
are tied to the four preaching tours she undertook when she was in her 60s.
These works are beyond the scope of this paper, but it would not be difficult
166 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

time,6 Hildegard sees another side to the situation. Learning is a
gift which must be freely shared. The education the clergy re
ceives ought not be used just for personal advancement; it needs
to be shared with the laity. She seems to be aware of a need or de
sire among the laity for deeper theological and religious forma
tion, and she is determined that the clergy provide this, espe
cially by preaching and other forms of teaching. As Martin Grab
mann wrote: the style and purpose of Hildegard’s theology have
less affinity with the mystics of the fourteenth century than with
the prophets of the Old Testament in their efforts to call priests
and people to an inner conversion.7
Nevertheless, Hildegard could be a very original thinker. Her
theological style is uniquely her own in the way in which it de
rives from ultimately inexpressible visions and divine auditions
which receive partial and complementary expositions in pictures
and words. Her theological content varies from the highly origi
nal to the very familiar. The content most closely associated with
the visions is the most original.
Hence, by the following analysis of Scivias 2.6, I hope to show:
(1) Hildegard’s vision is the basis for some remarkably insightful
eucharistic theology. (2) The theological development of the initial
vision is only part (25%) of the content of the chapter. Most of
what Hildegard has to say is quite independent of the vision and
constitutes a pastoral guide not just to the celebration of the Eu
charist, but to the exercise of other sacraments which relate to
the worthy participation in the Eucharist by priests and minis
ters. (3) Her pastoral directives regarding the Eucharist, those in
to marshal evidence from them to show Hildegard’s interest in arousing the

clergy to fulfill their teaching mission. A recent and lively introduction to
Hildegard’s works is Régine Pernoud, Hildegarde de Bingen (Monaco: du
Rocher 1994). In English the two best books are Barbara Newman, Sister of
Wisdom. St. H ildegard’s Theology of the Feminine (Berkeley: U of California
1987) and Sabina Flanagan, Hildegard of Bingen, 1098-1179: A Visionary
Life (New York: Routledge 1990).
5For example, Richard of St. Victor, De eruditione 1.3 (PL 196.1236A);
1.15 (PL 196.1254D-1255A); Bernard of Clairvaux, Super Cant. 36.3, ed.
Leclercq-Rochais, Opera (Rome: Editiones Cistercienses 1957) 22524-264.
7Martin Grabmann, Mittelalterliches Geistesleben (Munich, 1926;
reprint New York, 1975) 1: 470, quoted by Gerhard Miiller, “Schau des
Geheimnisses: Die Eucharistic in der prophetischen Theologie Hildegards
von Bingen,” Internationale katholische Zeitschrift Communio 8 (1979) 530
542.
HUGH FEISS, O.S.B. 167

holy orders, and confession are similar to those laid down by her
contemporaries. Nevertheless, in relating these pastoral direc
tives regarding the other sacraments directly to the Eucharist,
she again shows her theological creativity. This triple thesis will
be developed in three steps: (1) the place of Book II, Vision 6 in
the Scivias; (2) Hildegard’s eucharistic theology; (3) Pastoral di
rectives.
SCIVIAS, BOOK II, VISION 6: CONTEXT AND CONTENTS

Context
Book I of the Scivias considers the creation and fall of angels

and humanity and the symbolic structure of the universe. Book
III is a retelling of salvation history through the allegory of a
building. My particular concern here is with Book II, which is en
titled “The Redeemer and the Redemption.” This book begins
with an avowal of unworthiness and a statement of purpose simi
lar to those quoted above from Scivias 1.1:
I heard the voice saying to me. . . . ‘0 you who are wretched earth and,
as a woman, untaught in all learning of earthly teachers and unable to
read literature with philosophical understanding, you are nonetheless
touched by My light. . . . Cry out and exult and write these My mys
teries. . . . Say those things you understand in the Spirit as I speak
them through you so that those who should have shown My people
righteousness, but who in their perversity refuse to speak openly of
the justice they know . . . and blush to speak the truth, may be
ashamed.’ (Scivias 2.1 audition)8
The first two visions of Book II deal briefly with the theology of
Christ and the Trinity. Vision 3 is entitled “The Church, Bride of
Christ and Mother of the Faithful.” Much of the chapter is de
voted to the way the church gives birth to new believers in the
sacrament of baptism. The fourth vision is devoted to confirma
tion by a bishop. The fifth vision is devoted to the three orders in
the church: clergy, monks, and laity. By this point in Book II,
Hildegard has traced the unfolding of salvation from the Trinity
to Christ and to the church. She has spoken of the way the church
gives birth to new members in baptism, and she has urged that
all the baptized receive confirmation from a bishop. Finally, she
has distinguished the baptized into three orders—clergy, reli
8CCCM 43:111.90-112.100; Hart, 150.
168 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

gious, laity—and has spoken about the interrelation of these
three ranks. Now begins the longest vision (2.6) in the entire
Scivias, one entitled “Christ’s Sacrifice and the Church.” If one
were to describe it in contemporary theological terms, one might
call this vision: “Eucharist-Centered Ecclesiology as the Basis for
the Sacramental Ministry of the Good Pastor.” By “Eucharist-cen
tered ecclesiology” is meant an understanding of the church
which flows from the celebration of the Eucharist.
Vision
Hildegard’s vision centers on the actual offering of the Eu
charist. The illustration of the vision consists of two pictures,
slightly more than twice as high as they are wide, each of them
divided in the middle by a painted line. The upper half of the first
picture shows Christ on the cross. The church is at his sideg; some
of the blood from his side flows onto her head, the rest into a chal
ice she is holding. Below the line the same sacrifice is made pre
sent by a fire flaming down from the foot of the cross onto the al
tar. The church kneels in prayer before the altar. Her hands point
to the chalice, which contains her dowry, and at the same time
she lifts them imploringly toward her crucified spouse in the up
per half of the picture. Above her and the altar on either side of
the fire are four medallions showing Christ’s nativity, burial, res
urrection and ascension. In the upper half of the second picture, a
priest is celebrating Mass in the presence of angels. In the bot
tom half of the same picture, five groups of people come to Com
munion, each painted a different color.
These four pictures are two-dimensional still-life depictions of
what Hildegard presumably saw in a single three-dimensional vi
sion which began with the church at Christ’s side, then portrayed
the church moving to kneel beside the altar, and finally included
the celebration of an entire Mass.10 The medallions appeared to
her during the Mass, after the bread and wine had been conse
crated.
9Caroline Bynum, Holy Feast and Holy Fast (Berkeley: U California P

1987) 263-265, points out that Hildegardcalls the church “a female figure”
(muliebris image) which is equated with Christ’s humanity and with the
church, saved humanity.
10For the relationships between vision, audition, picture and verbal de

Explanation of the Vision
The initial explanation of the vision given in the manuscript
between the drawing and the first chapter is expanded by what
Hildegard hears God the Father telling her in some of the ensu
ing 102 chapters. These chapters quote and explain the initial de
scription of the vision almost sentence by sentence“:
chapters 1-5: the church and the paschal mystery
chapters 6-7, 10-20, 51-57: the celebration of the Eucharist
and reception of communion.
Remaining Chapters
The remaining chapters up to and including chapter 60 deal
with other aspects of the Eucharist:
chapters 8-9, 21-35, 41-46: the sacred elements bread, water
and wine;
chapters 36-37, 47-50: minister and form;
chapters 38: time for celebration;
scription of the vision, see Keiko Suzuki, “Zum Stukturproblem in den Vl

sionsdarstellungen der Rupertsberger 'Scivias’-Handschrift,” Sacris erudiri
35 (1995) 221-91.
11Scivias 2.2 vision; Hart 237-38: “And after these things, I saw the Son
of God hanging on the cross and the aforementioned image of a woman com‘
ing forth like a bright radiance from the ancient counsel. By divine power
she was led to Him and raised herself upward so that she was sprinkled by
the blood from His side; and thus, by the will of the Heavenly Father, she
was joined with Him in happy betrothal and nobly dowered with His body
and blood” (ch. 1).
“And I heard the voice from Heaven saying to Him: ‘May she, 0 Son, be
your Bride for the restoration of My people; may she be a mother to them,
regenerating souls through the salvation of the Spirit and water.” (This
sentence is a spoken by the Father to Christ about the church.)
“And as that image grew in strength, I saw an altar which she frequently
approached and there each time looked devotedly at her dowry and mod
estly showed it to the Heavenly Father and His angels [ch. 4]. Hence when
a priest clad in sacred vestments approached that altar to celebrate the di
vine mysteries, I saw that a great calm light was brought to it from Heav
enly angels [ch. 6] and shone around the altar until the sacred rite was
ended and the priest had withdrawn from it [ch 10]. And when the Gospel of
peace had been recited, and the offering to be consecrated had been placed
upon the altar, and the priest sang the praise of Almighty God, ‘Holy, Holy,
Holy, Lord God of Hosts’ which began the mystery of the sacred rites.
Heaven was suddenly opened and irradiated it completely with light, as the
sun illumines anything its rays shine through [ch. 11]. And, thus illuminat
170 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

chapter 39: required fast
chapters 34, 40: effects of the Eucharist
Chapters 61-102 are concerned with the correct celebration of

the sacraments, primarily as these pertain to the worthy partici
pation of priest and people in the Eucharist:
PRIESTHOOD:
chapter 60: proper election and anointing;
chapters 61-73: chastity required of priests;
chapters 74-76: other requirements; maturity, physical health,
male gender;
chapter 92: seeking spiritual office for Christ’s sake;
chapter 93: duty to teach and admonish, especially regarding
confession;
chapters 94-95: priests who don’t teach by word and example.
CHASTITY:
chapters 77-81: sinful behavior to be avoided and confessed.
ing it, the brilliance bore it on high into the secret places of Heaven and
then replaced it on the altar, as a person draws in a breath and lets it out
again; and thus the offering was made true flesh and true blood, although
in human sight it looked like bread and wine [ch. 12].
“And while I looked at these things, suddenly there appeared before my
eyes as if in a mirror the symbols of the nativity, passion and burial, resur
rection and ascension of our Savior, God’s Only-Begotten, as they had hap
pened to the Son of God while he was on earth [ch. 17]. But when the priest
sang the song of the innocent Lamb, ‘0 Lamb of God, Who takest away the
sins of the world,’ and prepared to take the Holy Communion himself, the
fiery brilliance withdrew into Heaven; and as it closed, I heard the voice
from thence saying, ‘Eat and drink the body and blood [ch. 20] of My Son to
wipe out Eve’s transgression, so that you may be restored to the noble in
heritance.’ And as other people approached the priest to receive the sacra
ment, I noted five modes of being in them [ch. 51]. Some were bright of body
and fiery of soul [ch. 52], and others seemed pale of body and shadowed of
soul [ch. 53]; some were hairy of body and seemed dirty in soul because it
was pervaded with unclean human pollution [ch. 54]; others were sur
rounded in body by sharp thorns and leprous of soul [ch. 55]; and others ap
peared bloody of body and foul as a decayed corpse in soul [ch. 56]. And all
these received the same sacraments; and as they did, some were bathed in
fiery brilliance, but the others were overshadowed by a dark cloud [ch.57].
“And when these mysteries were finished, as the priest withdrew from
the altar, the calm light from Heaven, which, as said, had shone round the
whole altar, was drawn up again into the secret place of Heaven."

BINDING AND LOOSING: CONFESSION, ALMSGIVING,
EXCOMMUNION:
chapters 82-88: confession of sins to a priest (or a lay person in
necessity);
chapters 88-91: almsgiving;
chapters 96-101: binding and loosing: excommunication.
EPILOGUE:
Christ born without sin conquered sin (102).
In short, the contents of Scivias 2.6 divide up roughly into four

parts: (I) the first part is a theology of the Eucharist based on the
vision described and depicted at the beginning; (II) the elements
of the sacrament of the altar: bread, wine and water; (III) practi
cal directives regarding the celebration of the Eucharist; (IV)
practical directives regarding the holy orders, chastity, and con
fession, insofar as these affect the worthiness of participants in
the Eucharist. Parts I - III are intertwined in the text. Part IV is,
in effect, a prolonged development of the five kinds of recipients
depicted in the lower half of the second picture and discussed in
chapters 51-57.
HILDEGARD’S EUCHARISTIC THEOLOGY

The Theology of the Eucharist in Vision, Picture and Word
We know that Hildegard was aware of current theological
thinking about the Eucharist.12 Those issues centered on the
question of how Christ was present in the Eucharist. The issues
12See Epistolae 43, 47 in PL 197 .212-213; 218-243. Van Acken’s critical

edition does not yet contain these letters. It does contain two others in
which correspondents seem to indicate concern about the truth of the real
presence of Christ in the Eucharist: Ep. 46, to Abbot Wolfard, Epistolarium
Hildegardis Bingensis, ed. L. Van Acken, CCCM 91 ('Ihrnhout: Brepols
1991) 119; Ep. 89, ed. Van Acken, 214, lines 26-34. Translations of these two
letters can be found in The Letters oinldegard of Bingen, trans. Joseph L.
Baird and Radd. K. Ehrrnan (New York: Oxford 1994) 1.119, 200. Van
Acker’s edition assigns new numbers to the letters which do not correspond
to those in the PL. Hildegard also mentions heretical ideas about the Eu
charist in Epp. 43 (213D); and 47 (PL 197. 232AB). Hildegard wrote Ep. 47
in her 73rd year (PL 197. 229C) when she asked the church officials at
Mainz to lift the interdict which had been wrongly imposed on her
172 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

involved had led to bitter controversies: Paschasius Radbertus vs.
Ratramnus, Lanfranc and Guitmund of Aversa vs. Berengarius of
Tours, and most recently her fellow German Benedictine, Rupert
0f Deutz vs. Alger of Liege.13 Hildegard’s theology avoids being
narrowed to the key issue in these debates—how Christ is pre
sent in the Eucharist. She draws upon a rich tradition of perspec
tives and symbols to which she adds her own visionary under
standing.
The wider context of her understanding of the Eucharist is pro
vided by the inscription on a banner held by the Father’s hand,
containing words spoken by the Father to the Son: “May she, 0
Son, be your Bride for the restoration of My people; may she be a
mother to them, regenerating souls through the salvation of the
Spirit and water.” 14 The Trinity establishes the church, empow
ering her to give birth to children through the water of baptism.
This church is bathed in the water and blood flowing from the
side of Christ. That same water and blood constitute her dowry
for her marriage to the Christ. Christ grants to his church “ample
abundance in the sacrament of [his] body and blood” (Scivias
2.6.35).15 Thus, Hildegard situates the sacrifice of the altar in a
trinitarian, christological and ecclesial framework.16
At the church’s behest, a priest approaches the altar to cele
brate the Eucharist in the presence of the angels. As soon as he
does so, a great soft light shines down from heaven upon the al
tar; it remains until the priest leaves the altar.17 This serene light
monastery. In the letter she says that her community was accustomed to
monthly communion (PL 197.219A) , and so the interdict was a grave impo
sition.
13John Van Engen, Rupert of Deutz (Berkeley: U California P 1983) 135
80. Van Engen, 135, and G. Muller, 533, provide some bibliography on the
earlier controversies. See also Gary Macy, The Theologies of the Eucharist
in the Early Scholatic Period (Oxford: Oxford UP 1984); Miri Rubin, Corpus
Christi: The Eucharist in late Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge UP
1991) 1-163;
14CCCM 43.230.198-201; Hart 237.
15CCCM 43.263.1306-07; Hart 259. In Ep. 47 (PL 197.227D-228B)
Hildegard uses this same imagery of a dowry given to the Church. She says
explicitly that the Church received this dowry so that she could engender
spiritual sons, saved by the gift of Christ's blood.
16G. Miiller (537, note 34) cites Augustine, In Jo. Ev. tr. 120.2. CCSL v.
36, p. 8, line 661; St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, 3.62.5.
1'7'I‘l'ris first, softer light which remains during the entire eucharistic cel

stands for the power of God conferred on the minister for and dur
ing the celebration (Scivias 2.6.10).18 After the reading of the
Scriptures and the preparation of the gifts, the priest sings the
“Holy, holy, holy.” With that “he begins the mysteries of the same
sacraments” (Scivias 2.6.11).19 Then a fiery, unimaginable bril
liance flashes down and illumines the offerings. This fire, like the
breath of God, draws the offerings into the secret place of heaven,
that is, the empyrean, which is co-terminous with the cross on
which Christ hangs in the upper part of the picture. The bottom
of the cross breaks the border separating upper and lower, and so
the empyrean is attached to its base. Hence, it is the eternal pres
ence of the paschal sacrifice which is made present when the ele
ments are exhaled back onto the altar, now made into the flesh
and blood of Christ, although to human sight they continue to
look like bread and wine.20 As Hildegard summarizes later in the
Scivias (2.6.36):21
Now therefore . . . when the sacrifice has been offered at the altar
and the priest begins to invoke me in those words appointed for him
by the Holy Spirit, amen I say to you that I am there in My burning
heat, and with full will I perfect that sacrament. . . . To bring about
this mystery I extend over this offering My ardent charity, from the
beginning of the words of the priest invoking Me and making this re
ebration is brought by the angels. It drives away darkness “and illumines

the plan of sanctification" (Scivias 266,10; Hart, 241). In Scivias 2.6.34
(Hart, 259) Hildegard declares more directly: “when the priest does his of
fice as is appointed him, invoking me in sacred words, I am there in power,
just as I was there when My Only-Begotten without discord or stain, be
came incarnate." Elsewhere (Scivias 2.6.36; Hart, 260), Hildegard relates
the transformation which occurs in the Eucharist to the omnipresence of
God, who is always present to his creatures. God the Father declares he is
always present to his creatures, “never withdrawing My power from them
but doing in them by the strength of My will whatever I please. As so too I
truly display My majesty in the sacrament of the body and blood of My Son,
and wondrously perform My miracles there from the beginning of the
priest’s sacred words until the time when the mystery is received by the
people."
18CCCM 43.239.505-10; Hart, 243.
19CCCM 43.240.424-25; Hart, 243.
20Scivias 2.6.11; Hart, 243-44: “How? Because the sufferings of My Only
Begotten are seen perpetually in the secret places of Heaven; and thus that
oblation is united to My Son in My ardent heat in a profoundly miraculous
way and becomes most truly His body and blood.”
21CCCM 43.264.1323-52; Hart, 260.
174 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

membrance that in the agony of His Passion My Son blessed bread
and wine in the sacrament of His body and blood, giving them to his
disciples so that they might do the same for the salvation of the peo—
ple. Truly I say to you that there will never be this invocation over
such an offering in remembrance of My Only-Begotten without the
mystery of His body and blood being perfected there. . . . When the of
fering of bread and wine has been offered in memory of My Son on an
altar dedicated to My name, I, the Almighty, miraculously illumine it
with My power and glory and transform [transfundo] it into the body
and blood of My Only Begotten. How? By the same miracle through
which My Son took a body from the virgin, in this consecration this
oblation becomes (efficitur) His flesh and blood. But the bread and
wine is seen there visibly by external vision while within the holiness
of the body and blood of My same Son remains invisble. How? When
My Son lived in the world with people, He was also with Me in
Heaven; so now, remaining with Me in Heaven, He also remains with
people in earth. But this is spiritual and not bodily.
This transforming fire (“the sanctification of the Holy Spirit”:

Scivias 2.6.5)22 makes present Christ in the mysteries of his in
carnation, passion23 and burial, rising, and ascension,24 the very
mysteries which are recalled in the canon of the Mass after the
words of institution. These great mysteries shine before God the
Father like the dawn until the end of time (Scivias 2.6.17).25 The
22CCCM 43.236.394; Hart, 240.

238civias 2.6.22 (CCCM 43.250.845-46; Hart, 250): “He gave His body
and blood to His disciples, so that they would not forget that he had given
them this example."
24Suzuki, 241, notes that there are really five mysteries here, an obser
vation born out by Hildegard’s commentary in SCivias 2.6.17 (CCCM
43.244.674-75 [also 676-77, 682-84, 690-91]; Hart, 246: “the mysteries 0f the
nativity, suffering and burial, resurrection and ascension of Christ." That
the lower half of the first picture includes only four of these in medallions is
probably because of aesthetic reasons. Hildegard really means five myster
ies are involved. Suzuki suggests that the “suffering” may be illustrated in
the Crucifixion scene in the upper half of the same picture.
25CCCM 43.245.694-95: “quasi aurora ante me in multa claritate ap
parebunt” (Hart, 246-47). A very similar passage occurs in Ep. 43 (PL
197.213AB) which mentions the same five mysteries and comments: “velut
circulus nummi dominum suum ostendit.” See also Ep. 47 (PL 197. 224D
25A). Both G. Miller, 539, and Willibrord Lampen, “Sint-Hildegard en de
H. Eucharistic," Benedictijnstijdschrift 20 (1959) 92, remark the affinity of
Hildegard’s theology with that of Odo Casel. See Casel, “Das Myster
iengedachtnis der Messliturgie im Lichte der Tradition," Jahrbuch flir
Liturgiewissenschaft 6 (1926) 113-204, especially 115, 202.

Eucharist is also a reminder to the Father to remember his Son’s
passion (Scivias 267,11).26 The blood that Christ shed on the
cross “appeared in Heaven as soon as it flowed from His open
wounds, pleading that the salvation of souls should be granted”
(Scivias 2.6.3).27 The appearance of the Son’s passion moves God
to forgive the sins of the baptized when they request forgiveness
by saying the Lord’s Prayer (Scivias 2.6.18).28 The presence of
Christ—apart from a few miraculous occasions—remains invisi
ble to believers (Scivias 2.6.19).29 Then just before the commu
nion rite, the fiery brilliance departs and a voice from heaven in
vites the faithful to eat and drink the body and blood of their sav
ior which he donated for human use, just a person who is finished
with the work he wanted to do often gives it to others to use
(Scivias 2.6.20).30
The priest receives Communion, and so do the people.31 The ef
fect of the Eucharist depends on the state of the one receiving.
Those who receive worthin are bathed in fiery brilliance (Scivias
2.6 vision).32 That is, they are illumined by the same fire which
had transformed their offerings. They are quickened, enlivened
and revived in soul to resist the devil (Scivias 2.6.34, 40).33
26CCCM 43.236-37; Hart, 241; 240.542-45; Hart, 243: “Sponsa Filli mei .
. .fideli recordatione monens me, at in eadem oblatione carnem et san
guinem Filii mei ipsi ita tradam."
27CCCM 43. 235.358-60; Hart, 240. According to Ep. 43 (PL 197. 2133)
the wounds which humanity inherits from Adam are wiped clean and
anointed by the wounds and blood of Christ.
28CCCM 43:245-46; Hart 247.
29CCCM 43.247; Hart, 248. Hildegard lived just before the age of eu
charistic piety and miracles associated with the women mystics of the thir
teenth century. See Rubin, Corpus Christi, 108-29.
30CCCM 43.248.797-800; Hart, 248-49.
31According to Hildegard’s Ep. 47 ( REF) to the Archbishop of Mainz, her
sisters received Communion about once a month. Hence, they had time to
prepare themselves thoroughly, by confession and penitence if need be.
32CCCM 43.231.56; Hart, 238.
33CCCM 43.262.1274-75, 1292: “per cuius passionem de morte liberati et
per cuius corpus et sanguinem vegetati societatem in aetema mansione
habeatis. . . . tanta dulcedine vivificentur." Hart, 259; CCCM 432661410
11: “per hoc sacramentum invisibiliter in anima refocillatus surgat et invis
ibili adversario suo viriliter resistat”; Hart, 261. Like Rupert of Deutz,
Hildegard specifies divinization of the soul as the primary effect of the Eu
charist. Rupert’s critic, Alger of Liege, followed Augustine in saying that it
176 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Hildegard distinguished five groups of recipients in her vision;
they are illustrated in the lower half of the second picture. Hilde
gard does not explain the meaning of the five types of recipients
until chapters 51-5734:
(1) bright of body and fiery of soul: Their faith about the sacrament is
clear. The sacrament makes them holy in body. Their souls are trans~
formed by the fiery gift of the Holy Spirit. They burn with celestial
love and look forward to the resurrection (Scivias 2.6.52).
(2) pole of body and shadowed in soul: Their faith in the sacrament is
weak because they do not understand. They should at least consent to
the Spirit’s teaching; they are revived by the sacrament (Scivias
2.6.53).
(3) hairy in body and dirty in soul: They are unchaste in the flesh
(Scivias 2.6.54).
(4) surrounded in body by sharp thorns and leprous of soul: Their
hearts are surrounded by anger, hate and envy. God will turn his eyes
toward them (Scivias 2.6.55).
(5) bloody of body and foul as a decayed corpse in soul. They make di
visions among people with bloody hands (Scivias 2.6.56).
The latter three categories shouldbe cleansed by penitence before

they approach the sacrament. If they repent, God will show them
mercy. They ought not rashly unite themselves to sanctity while
impure. If they receive the body and blood of God’s Son un
washed, not purified by confession or penance, they will be judged
guilty of presumption (Scivias 2.6.58).35
Thus the church, “subjected to her bridegroom in her homage
of subordination and obedience, receives from him a gift of fertil
ity and a covenant of love for procreating children, and educates
them for their inheritance” (Scivias 2.6.1).36 It is to this task of
was the building up of the church in charity (Van Engen, 155-56). Hildegard
is not unaware of the ecclesial effect: “I draw his elect high to the heavenly
places, that through the elect His body may be perfected in its predestined
members” (Scivias 2.6.18; CCCM 43.246.742-44; Hart, 247). In Ep. 43 (PL
197.2138) Hildegard says that the Eucharist heals recipients of sin and
makes them members of Christ. In Ep. 47 Hildegard describes the effects of
Communion as mutual indwelling of Christ and the soul (PL 197.219B),
cleansing (219C), forgiveness of sins (225A,C), and participation in Christ’s
body, like grains which become one bread (226C).
34CCCM 43.273.1610—276.1728; Hart, 266-68.
35CCCM 43.276.1730-278.1784; Hart, 269.
3‘iCCCM 43.233.297-300: “Ut sponsa sponso suo in subiectionis et

education that Hildegard is contributing by the Scivias, as she
provides teachers with both teaching tools and motivation.
Bread, Wine and Water
Hildegard develops much of her theology of the sacrifice of the

altar around the symbolism of the elements: Wheaten bread and
grape wine mixed with water (Scivias 2.6.8)?7 The chapters she
devotes to the eucharistic elements are not part of the explana
tion of the vision, but for the most part they do pertain to theology
rather than to pastoral practice.
The three elements symbolize the Trinity (Scivias 2.6.44).38
Hildegard notes that God himself chose to conquer the devil, not
by power, but in humility and justice”(Scivias 2.6.2).39 The Son of
God took on human nature in the womb of the Virgin Mary. Dur
ing Jesus’ earthly life his body, like that of any human being, was
sustained by wheat and wine; now His Body and Blood are “con
secrated on the altar in the oblation of wheat and wine, so that
thence the faithful may be refreshed in soul and body” (Scivias
2.6.18).40 Since Christ is pure and a mirror of virtue, everyone,
except children and the mentally handicapped who might spill
the wine, should receive both bread and wine, even though “the
holy flesh is united with the blood and the blood with the flesh in
one sanctity” (Scivias 2.646).“1
Quoting the prophet Joel’s description of abundant harvests of
wheat, wine and oil that shall follow the devastation of the locust
plagues, she sees in the bread and wine a healing remedy for sin:
oboeditionis obsequio subiecta fertilem donationem cum foederis amore ab

ea in procreatione filiorum accipiens eos ad hereditatem suam educat. . . .”
Hart, 238-39.
37CCCM 43.237.437; Hart, 241.
38CCCM 43.269.1484-1485; Hart, 263-64.
39CCCM 43.233.315; Hart, 239.
40CCCM 43.246.732-37: “Nam cum idem Unigenitus meus in mundo cor
poraliter esset, corpus ipsius in nutrimento camis et sanguinis sui de fru
mento et vino sustentatum est, unde etiam et nunc in altari caro et sanguis
eius in oblatione frumenti et vini consecratur, quatenus inde fideles
homines in anima et corpore reficiantur”; Hart, 247. See Ep. 47 (PL
197.231A).
41CCCM 43.270.1534-35: “illa sacrosancta caro sanguini suo et sanguis
ille carni suae in una sanctitate coniunctus est.” Hart, 264.
178 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

“You shall eat this sacrament devotedly for your health and feed
blessedly upon it; and thus, through the oil of My mercy, the
hunger of your souls’ perdition shall be satisfied. For in penitence
My Son brought you a medicine for your wounds” (Scivias
2.6.9).42She returns to the medical theme often: “the poured out
blood of My Son has purged you from Adam’s fall, and as you
chew the true medicine in the body of My Only-begotten” (Scivias
2.6.21).43 Christ’s humanity is a precious ointment with which
God’s Son was clothed, and which he pours over the deadly
wounds of humans (Scivias 2.6.13).44
Hildegard relates the bread and wine of the Eucharist to the
bread and wine with which Christ celebrated that Last Supper,
and the chalice to the chalice Christ prayed might pass from him,
as well as to the sacrifice of the cross. The breaking of the bread
recalls the way Christ’s body was broken. Those who partake of
his body and blood are to imitate the example of Christ’s works
and his self-sacrifice. Those who share in Christ's blood are to re
strain their own blood. Christ shares in their sufferings, because
he is in his disciples and his disciples are in him.‘15
Hildegard describes the transformation of the bread and wine
into the body of Christ with many different words, each of which
has its own penumbra of symbolic references46 : e.g., the verbs
transform (transformare47), convert (convertere48), transfer
(transfundere49), effect (efficere,50 conficere,51 perficere52) and the
42CCCM 43.239.492-96: “Unde sacramentum hoc ad salutem vestram

devote comedetis, per illud vos feliciter pascentes, ac propterea per oleum
misericordiae meae de fame perditionis animae saturabimini, quoniam
etiam Filius meus medicinam vulnerum vestrorum in paenitentia attulit";
Hart, 242.
43CCCM 43.249.808-10: “quoniam effusus sanguis Filii mei lapsum Adae
vobis abstersit, ruminantes veram medicinam in corpore eiusdem Unigeniti
mei,” Hart, 249.
44CCCM 43.242-43; Hart, 245.
45Scivias 2.6.21; Hart, 249-50). See also Ep. 47 (PL 197.226B).
46G. Miller, 539.
"Ep. (PL 197.232A).
47
48Ep. 43 (PL 197.213A).
49Scivias 2.6.15 (CCCM 43.244659); 2.6.36 (CCCM 43.264.1344).
5°Sciuias 2.6.12 (CCCM 43.241.568); Scivias 2.6.13 (CCCM 43.242.600).
51Ep. 47 (PL 225B).
“Scivias 2.6.36 (CCCM 43.264.1322 and 1336).

adverb, transubstantially (transubstantialiter53). To argue the ef
ficacy of the words of consecration, she compares this exercise of
God’s power to its expression in creation (Scivias 2.6.37; Hart
260-61), in the birth and growth of a human child, and in the in
carnation of the Son (Scivias 2.6.43; Hart 262-63). The same com
parisons are used to explain the abiding presence of Christ in the
Eucharist:
The human soul, which is invisible, invisibly receives the sacrament
which exists invisibly in that oblation, while the human body, which is
visible, visibly receives the oblation that visibly embodies that sacra
ment. But the two are one, just as Christ is God and Man,54 and the
rational soul and the mortal flesh make up one human being." (Scivias
2.6.14; Hart 245).
The Eucharist was foreshadowed in the Old Testament manna

and the prescribed sacrifices of goats (Scivias 2.6.25)55 and by the
unleavened bread of the first Passover (Scivias 2.6.27).56
In the Old Testament we endured great hunger and were unable to

rise to salvation, for as though it were in a shadow it did not have the
full meaning, but contained much diversity in the way it indicated
what was signified. But now in him we are satisfied, for we drink in
Him the saving cup, faithfully tasting Who God is in true faith.
(Scivias 2.6.29).57
Just as those who gathered much manna always had just

enough, so Christ is completely present in each part of the eu
charist, whatever its size. The important question is the amount
of the recipient’s faith (Scivias 2.6.42-43).58
Earthly desire leads to satiety; satiety turns into desire. The
bread which Christ gives satisfies the hunger of unbelief (Scivias
53Ep. 47 (PL 197. 224C).

5‘inldegard is especially fond of this comparison; see Scivias 2.6.12-15
passim; Hart, 244-46. For the comparison to the soul in the body: Scivias
2.6.19; Hart, 248.
55CCCM 43.254.985-94; Hart, 253.
56CCCM 43.256.1051-54; Hart, 254.
57CCCM 43.259.1134-39: “cum in veteri testamento, quod quasi per um
bram plenum sensum non habuit sed in ostensione significationis multam
diversitatem in se tenuit, magnam famem sustinentes ad salvationem surg
ere non valuimus. Nunc ergo in ipso saturati etiam in illo salutare poculum
bibimus, scilicet fideliter in vera fide gustando quis Deus sit"; Hart, 256.
58CCCM 43.267.1420—269.1480; Hart, 262-63.
180 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

2.6.23,25).59 The bread offered to humanity in the humanity of
Christ has that never sates the angels of heaven
a sweetness
(Scivias 2.6.25).60 The Eucharist anticipates the heavenly ban
quet: Christ,
by suffering for your salvation on the cross, gave you His very self so
that now you may receive with sincere affection, without any bitter
ness, the sweet and pure bread which is His body, consecrated on the
altar by divine invocation, and thus escape from humanity’s inner
hunger and attain to the banquet of eternal beatitude. (Scivias
2.6.27).61
The dryness of the wheat stalk symbolizes the sinlessness of

Christ and the virgin birth: “For as a stalk of wheat, flourishing
without pith, produces dry grain on its pure spike, so too the
Blessed Virgin, conceiving without male power, brought forth her
most holy Son in simple innocence. He drew from His mother no
sap of sin, because she conceived him without the pith ofa man.”
Hence, “the bread that is truly consecrated as His flesh and is
pure in its integrity should be received by the faithful in purity of
heart” (Scivias 2.6.26).62
As grapes are squeezed to produce wine to strengthen human
blood, so Christ’s blood came “from his wounds and sprinkled the
believing peoples with life-giving freedom.” Grapes are different
from fruits with hard shells; people usually suck grapes rather
than eat them. So Christ was different from all others by being
sinless. For this reason, and because the grape is so delicate in
texture, God the Father wills that wine should be consecrated as
the blood of His Son. Moreover, as wine flows from the Vine, so
59CCCM 43.252.923-25; Hart, 252; CCCM 43.254.997; Hart, 254.

60CCCM 43.254.1000-02; Hart, 253.
61CCCM 43.256.1081-86: “in ligno pro salute vestra passus semetipsum
vobis contulit, ita ut et vos sine admixtione ullius amaritudinis suavem et
purum panem divina invocatione corpus eius in altari consecratum sincero
affectu suscipiatis, quatenus per hoc esuriem interioris hominis effugientes
ad epulas aetemae beatitudinis pervenire valeatis”; Hart, 255.
62CCCM 43.255.1030-35,1046-47; Hart, 253-54: “Nam ut culmus fru
menti sine medulla vigens siccum granum in puritate spicae profert, ita
etiam beata Virgo sine virili fortitudine gignens sanctissimum Filium suum
in simplicitate innocentiae edidit, qui de eadem Matre sua nullum sucum
peccati traxit, quoniam ipsa eum sine medulla viri concepit . . . panis qui
caro illius veraciter consecratur, purissimus in integritate sua existens a fi
delibus in puritate cordis . . . suscipi debet"; Hart, 253-54.

Christ went from the Father’s heart. He became the true vine
whose many branches are the faithful. All fruit they bear comes
from the incarnation of Christ, for those who cling to him are
green and fruitful in virtue (Scivias 2.628).“ Taking her cue from
the Song of Songs, she says that the blood of Christ “inebriates
with love” (Scivias 2.6.21).64
Hildegard depicts the church collecting the blood of Christ in a
chalice, but at the same time she shows the church being bathed
in it. The same metaphor she applies to the Christian: “You will
be bathed in the blood that has been shed for you.” The blood
Christ pours out both delivers and cleanses (Scivias 2.6.21).65 The
Eucharist thus brings forgiveness of sins (Scivias 2.6.23-24).66
Water and blood issued from Christ’s side. The wine stands for
his divinity. In the water is understood his humanity,
which is pure and clean without the admixture of the blood of a man.
For My Only-Begotten, the fountain of living water, when he came
into the world for human salvation, cleansed people from the ancient
sin of Adam by means of the regeneration of the Spirit and water”
(Scivias 2.6.30).67 The water added to the wine is symbolic of the way
God tempers the cup of salvation with mild forgiveness. (Scivias
2.6.34)?"3
Christ, the Wisdom of God, “flowing forth in the beauty of all

the stream of abiding charity” came to free humanity. When
Adam was expelled from paradise “because of his guilt, his blood
was driven to overflow with anguish and in that anguish was di
luted and mixed with watery sweat. And thus water is known to
be present in human blood through sweating.” In the Garden
Christ’s blood came forth in drops of sweat. When he hung on the
63CCCM 43.257. The quotation is at 1096-98: “vulneribus eius emanavit,

saluberrima liberatione credentes populos perfundens;" Hart, 255.
64CCCM 43.249.816-17: “inebriaminiin caritate"; Hart, 249.
65CCCM 43.249.815-16: “sanguine illo perfundemini qui pro vobis ef
fusus est”; Hart, 249.
66CCCM 43252942253957; Hart, 252. CCCM 43.253.964-68; Hart,
252.
67CCCM 43.259.1181-260.1185: “aqua etiam humanitatem ipsius osten
dit quae sine commixtione virilis sanguinis pura et munda est, quoniam
idem Unigenitus meus fons aquae vivae existens homines in regeneratione
Spiritus et aquae de veteri culpae Adae emundavit . . . cum pro salute e0
rum in mundum venit"; Hart, 257.
68CCCM 43.262.1270-73; Hart, 259.
182 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

cross, water flowed with blood from the wound on his side.
Hence, water must be present in the wine used for the sacrament
where the mystery of his passion is celebrated, though there
should be more wine than water (Scivias 2631-32).69
The Richness of Hildegard’s Eucharistic Vision

Hildegard’s eucharistic theology is both original and familiar.
Generally, her teaching is more original when it is more con
nected with her vision. Her vision leads her to tie her discussion
of the Eucharist closely to the Church, Christ’s bride. Christ’s
death on the cross is the origin of both the church and the Eu
charist: the sacrament of the altar is the church’s dowry and the
offering which the church gives to the Father. The Eucharist is
food, medicine, sweetness, spiritual inebriation, cleansing.
The blood of Christ makes the church; the church makes pre
sent the blood of Christ. The transforming efficacy of the church
is given to the priest: first, in the gentler light, whenever he cele
brates any sacramental office; secondly, in the brighter light
when he says the words which transform the bread and wine into
Christ’s body and blood offered in sacrifice to his Father.
The Eucharist is a memorial, a remembrance. What the church
recalls is the mystery of Christ: his birth, suffering, burial, resur
rection and ascension. As the church remembers these events,
she recalls them to the Father. In fact, the Father has never for
gotten the sufferings of His Son (and presumably neither has he
forgotten the other mysteries of Christ’s life). The incarnation of
Christ is the constant point of reference and of comparison for
Hildegard’s theology of the Eucharist.70
69The two quotations are as follows: CCCM 43.262.1192-93: “fiens in

decore omnium rigationum infixae car-itatis"; 1199-1202: “sanguis eius de
pulsatione angustiae, quia reus erat, totus inundavit, et sic in angustia illa
liquefactus cum sudore aquae perfusus est. Et ita sanguini hominis aqua
per sudorem interesse scienda est”; Hart, 257-58.
7°In addition to many texts already cited, see also Hildegard, Ep. 43 (PL
212D-13A); Ep. 47 (PL 197.219AB; 223D-24A; 224CD, 231D-32A). One way
Hildegard emphasizes the connection is her repeated use of ‘the power of
the Most High” (virtus Altissimi) with reference both to the Incarnation and
the eucharistic consecration. Sometimes, but not always, she attributes this
“virtus” to the Holy Spirit. Hildegard is, of course, echoing the statement of
the Angel at the Annunciation in Lk 1:35: “Spiritus Sanctus superveniet in
te, et virtus Altissimi obumbrabit tibi.”

The church’s ofi'ering recalls and recalling renders present to
the congregation Christ's suffering on the cross. The Father
breathes Christ's presence into the gifts of bread and wine by fus
ing those gifts with Christ in his sacrifice eternally present in the
Father’s mind; the Father breathes down (the Spirit’s) transform
ing power and the gifts become the body and blood of Christ.
Thus are the material bread and wine formed into one sacrament
of Christ’s body and blood.
The Eucharist divinizes those who receive it and builds up the
church. The efficacy of the Eucharist is limited by the dispositions
of the recipients. Those who have committed serious sins,
whether priests or people, should confess to a priest before enter
ing into communion with the sinless body of Christ, born of a
spotless virgin.
The blood of Christ is poured out for humanity as an expres
sion of the mercy of God for humanity caught in the misery of sin.
Several times Hildegard reiterates that the Word and the incar
nation of Word with all that followed from it originated in the
merciful heart of God the Father. Those who have been freed from
sin by baptism must sometimes struggle by means of penitential
practices to resist the temptation to sin and so remain able to re
ceive Communion. As the bread is broken, so they must imitate
Christ’s sufferings by their own self-sacrifice. They are helped
greatly in their penitence by the practice of almsgiving. Taking
from their substance and giving to the needy poor they share in
the mercy of God.
In her visionary theology of the Eucharist, Hildegard makes
much use of the Trinity of sacramental symbols: bread, wine and
water. These were foreshadowed in the sacrifices, the manna, the
passover of the Old Testament. She recognizes that it was bread
and wine and water which nourished Christ while he was on
earth. She sees in aspects of wheat and grapes symbols of Christ’s
sinless humanity. Those who partake of Christ’s blood are
branches which derive their viridity and fruitfulness from Christ
the Vine.
Underdeveloped Aspects
This is a very rich theology of the Eucharist, much of it still

fresh and green today. Yet, there are clearly some lacunae. In her
theology of the Eucharist and the church, Hildegard focuses her
184 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

attention of the heart of the Father and the crucifixion of the Son.
The epiclesis of the Spirit upon the gifts is symbolized by the
blazing light which comes down upon them. The epiclesis of the
Spirit upon the people remains in the background.
Apart from the memorial of Christ’s resurrection and ascen
sion just mentioned, the resurrection is not an articulated part of
Hildegard’s theology of the Eucharist. However, the overall ten
dency of her eucharist theology is to see in the Eucharist the cele
bration not just of Christ’s offering of himself to the Father but
also of the Father’s acceptance of that offering in the resurrec
tion. Hildegard seems more inclined to connect the resurrection
explicitly with the “second resurrection” of confession.
Hildegard could render more explicit the connection between
sharing in the one body of Christ and sharing with the one family
of God the good things of creation. She does not make it explicit
that the Eucharist is a communal eating, a sharing in the ban
quet of the Lord, with all that implies for the nature of Christian
existence as a life of mutual charity. Nevertheless, she does go be
yond speaking of doing good to another out of love of God; she
speaks much more profoundly of sharing in the very mercy of God
which is the ultimate basis of the incarnation, the crucifixion and
the Eucharist.
Hildegard’s emphasis on the singular purity of Christ’s concep
tion and his sinless life as grounds for requiring chastity and
other virtues of those who receive Communion may ring a bit
strange to some modern ears. However, it is only the insistence on
the close tie between virgin birth and sinlessness which seems
slightly out of tune with the healthiest traditions of the church.
PASTORAL DIRECTIVES
Hildegard’s Practical Directives for Celebrating the Eucharist

The section just finished ended with a practical directive about
the relative amounts of water and wine. This serves as a caution:
the divisions made here are somewhat arbitrary. However, in
general, the further her elaboration of her vision proceeds, and
especially after she leaves the vision behind entirely, the more
Hildegard’s treatise is devoted to practical prescriptions. Regard
ing the celebration of the Eucharist itself we can single out five
topics to which these prescriptions pertain.

Minister and Form
Whenever a priest invokes God and remembers the last supper
and passion of Christ, the mystery of Christ’s body and blood is
perfected through it by God’s almighty power (Scivias 2.6.36)“
The priest should use the proper vestments and words and say
the words distinctly (Scivias 2.6.47-48,50).72 The celebrant should
always receive Communion; if he is weighed down by sins, he
should confess to a priest first (Scivias 26.49).” More will be said
about the qualifications of the minister when Hildegard takes up
the question of ordination.
Time for Celebration
The Eucharist should be celebrated between daybreak and

three in the afternoon, the hours of Christ’s passion when the
church received her wedding gifis (Scivias 2.6.38).74
Fast
The Eucharist should be received fasting, not alter a meal, ex
cept in case of danger of death (Scivias 2.6.39).75
Care of the Host

Priest and people should take great care not to drop the host on
the ground, else both they and the ground will be punished
(Scivias 2.6.59).76
71CCCM 43264-65; Hart, 260. This is true even ifthe priest is in a sinful
state; see Ep.47 (PL 197.213BC).
"CCCM 43270-72; Hart, 264-66.
73CCCM 43.271-72; Hart, 265.
“CCCM 43265-266; Hart, 261.
75CCCM 43.266; Hart, 261.
76CCCM 43.278; Hart, 269-70. Ep. 47 offers two specifics on care of the
host. Hildegard declares that if the bread and wine used in the sacrament
corrupt or are eaten by animals, God will make sure that this affects only
the external “appearances” and not the internal “virtue and grace": “ista
tantum in sacramento visibili, vel sola specie exteriori sunt, virtute et gra
tia ipsius sacramenti, illibata et incorrupta divinitus conservata" (225AB).
People who vomit when they take the Eucharist should not receive it. In
stead, the priest should put the host on their heads and hearts, and God
will sanctify them (227BC).
186 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Hildegard’s Pastoral Directives Regarding Participation
in the Eucharist
Priesthood
Only those who are properly appointed and ordained, who de
sire the authority of the priesthood in order to help others by
word and example, who are mentally and physically fit and com
mitted to celibacy, should be ordained and assigned a church.
And only if they fulfill the duties of their office and state should
they approach the altar and touch the body and blood of Christ.
LProper appointment and ordination of bishops and priests.

Hildegard’s argument against intruders refers to the body and
blood with which Christ dowered his bride, the church (Scivias
2.6.61).77
2. Priests are required to be celibate and chaste.
Hildegard gives many reasons for this: the example of Christ,
the apostles, and the Old Testament priests; the incompatibil
ity of a physical marriage and a spiritual marriage to a church;
in general, those who celebrate the mystery of the altar should
avoid trying to live two roles, one spiritual, one secular. When
1 Timothy 3 requires that bishops and deacons be husbands of
one wife, Hildegard refers this to the union between the cleric
and the church. Priests who observe chastity will receive a
heavenly reward and heavenly companionship. In the early
days of the church, married men were called to the priesthood,
because there were so few priests. Now there are many spiri
tual people from among whom priests may be chosen (Scivias
2.6.62-73).78
3. Only those ordained should be given a church.
4. One person should not seek several churches (a form of
adultery).
5. Priests should be of sufficient age (Scivias 2.6.74).79
6. Priests should be intelligent (and thus able to understand what
service it is to which they are committing themselves) (Scivias
2.6.75).
"CCCM 43.279-281; Hart, 270-71.

73CCCM 43281-289; Hart, 271-77.
79CCCM 43.289; Hart, 277.

7. They should be physically healthy (because that is the way all
in heaven will be) (Scivias 2.6.75)?0
8. A woman should not approach the office of the altar. She repre
sents the earth which receives the seed, just as ground is
plowed not by itself but by a farmer. She can sing the praise
of the creator and bring forth fruit. She can be a virgin (or
widow) betrothed to Christ (Scivias 2.6.76; Hart 278).“ A
woman should not take on a man’s role in her hair, her
clothes or the office of the altar (Scivias 2.677).”
9. Priests should seek office or spiritual government for God’s sake,
not out of greed or pride (Scivias 2.6.92).83
10. Priests should urge people to keep God’s law; they should urge
them to confess their sins, do penance and do good deeds
(Scivias 2.6.93)?4
11. Priests must exercise the authority of their office; they must live
in accord with Church teaching so they will not be afraid to
teach true doctrine to the people. The honor of the priesthood
was given to them for the sake of other people. Their failure to
teach and their evil lives call down God’s wrath (Scivias 2.6.94
95).85
Chastity
Because she insists on the celibacy and chastity of priests,
Hildegard is led to generalize about the chastity required of any
one who approaches the altar to receive Communion. Her focus is
still on the Eucharist. Those guilty of illicit sexual behavior,
whether priests or people, must confess their sins before receiv
ing the body and blood of Christ.
1. A priest who approaches the altar and all who desire the sacra
ment of Christ’s body and blood must appear in chastity. They
should keep themselves in a state of chastity for love of God
the Father. Hence, fornication, sodomy, homosexual acts, mas
turbation and bestiality are all forbidden (Scivias 2.6.78).86
5°CCCM 43.290; Hart, 277-78.

8ICCCM 43.290; Hart, 278.
82CCCM 43.291; Hart, 278.
83CCCM 43.300; Hart, 285.
84cch 43.300-01; Hart, 285.
85CCCM 43.301-02; Hart, 285-86.
86CCCM 43291-93; Hart, 279-80. Although, as was noted above, Hilde
188 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

2. Priests who experience nocturnal pollution should not approach
the altar without having first confessed and done penance
(Scivias 2.6.80)!"
. Those tempted to sexual sin should make use of the available
safeguards: confession to a priest and abstinence from meat
and excessive wine (Scivias 2.6.81-82).88
Binding/ loosing: confession, almsgiving, excommunication

Having insisted upon the need for those guilty of sexual sins to
confess to a priest, Hildegard proceeds to discuss various aspects
of the power of the keys for binding and loosing. Here, Hildegard
moves away from express mention of the Eucharist to an exhorta
tion to make use of the sacrament of confession.
1. Confession is like a second sharing in Christ’s resurrection: the
priest, the minister of Christ, will give those who confess a
remedy of penance and bury their sins in the death of Christ.
Then they will rise again (Scivias 2.6.82-84).89
2. If
someone is at the hour of death and there is no priest avail
able, the dying person may confess to any other person; if no one
else is there, the dying person should confess to God (Scivias
2.6.85).90
3. No one should despair at the weight of his/ her sins (Scivias
2.6.86-87).91
4.Almsgiving is like a mother to one doing penance. Penance is
bitter; giving alms refreshes the giver because it is a share in
the Father’s mercy. Those who give of their substance to refresh
those in want receive from God his mercy in their misery
(Scivias 2.6.88-90).92
.Some who receive alms are most deserving; it is divine provi
dence which has withdrawn earthly riches from them; others
are lazy (Scivias 2.6.91; Hart 285).93
gard forbade cross-dressing for other reasons, she does not include
transvestism explicitly among the sexual sins.
B'7CCCM 43.293-94; Hart, 280-81.
88CCCM 43.294-95; Hart, 281.
89CCCM 43.295-96; Hart, 281-82.
9°CCCM 43.296; Hart, 282.
91CCCM 43.297; Hart 282-83.
92CCCM 43.297-99; Hart, 283-84.
93CCCM 43.299-300; Hart, 284-85.

6. Still others gladly sufi'er poverty for God
's sake; they are ex
tremely lovable to God (Scivias 2.6.92; Hart 285).94
7. Priests receive the power of binding and loosing, i.e., of impos
ing ecclesiastical censures which, among other effects, forbid
access to the Eucharist (Scivias 2696-97).95
8. Such censures should be imposed only for very serious faults
and only on living persons; they should be lifted if a person re
pents before death. After a censured person’s death, the priest
should pray for that person, but the priest cannot absolve the
person from being bound. Those unjustly bound should humbly
ask to be loosed and received into the company of the faithful
(Scivias 2.6.98-99).96
9. Those who refuse to return to Christ will join the company of the
unfaithful and fall into the hands of the devil (Scivias 2.6.100
01).97
Epilogue
In the final chapter of this “vision” devoted to the Church’s cel
ebration of the Eucharist (Scivias 2.6.102),98 Hildegard evokes
the mystery of the incarnation: the Son was the jewel in his Fa
ther’s heart. The Father displayed his jewel in the setting of the
flesh which the Son received from the Virgin his mother. He ate,
drank, slept, and suffered, but did not sin, for only one born with
out sin could loose humanity from sin. Hildegard concludes with
the Father’s words: “Let the one who sees with watchful eyes and
94CCCM 43.300; Hart, 285.

95CCCM 43.302-303; Hart, 286-87. Ecclesiastical censures involved par
ticipation in the sacraments; by excommunication a person or persons were
separated from the communion of the church, in particular from participa
tion in the Eucharist. By interdict, the celebration of the sacraments was
forbidden in a certain church or locale. These censures were used more of
ten in the medieval church than in more recent times. Hildegard’s own com
munity fell under ecclesiastical censure late in her life. In her Ep. 47 to the
officials of the church of Mainz asking that that censure be lifted, Hildegard
acknowledges that those who know themselves bound by church officials
not to receive the Eucharist should abstain (PL 197. 219C).
96CCCM 43.303-04; Hart, 287-88.
97CCCM 43.304-05; Hart, 288.
9{‘ICCCM 43.305-06; Hart, 288-89. The quotation is at 306.2769-71: “Sed
qui vigilantibus oculis videt et sonantibus auribus audit, hic mysticis verbis
meis osculum amplexionis praebeat, quae de me vivente emanant.”
190 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

hears with attentive ears welcome with a kiss My mystical words,
which proceed from Me Who am Life.” Hildegard has seen a vi
sion and heard a voice. Her vision is of Christ, the sinless, incar
nate Son of God, crucified on the cross. This Christ dowered his
bride with his blood. Let the one who sees and hears—the bride of
Christ, the church and the children of the church—welcome with
a kiss the Father’s mystical words, which like the Word proceed
from Him Who is life and are life for those who receive them.
Pastoral Directives in the ELUCIDARIUM of Honorius

Augustodunensis
I have argued above that once Hildegard leaves her vision be
hind, she presents a eucharistic-centered directory on pastoral
sacramental ministry. This is discernible in the summary given
above, but it becomes even clearer when Hildegard’s presentation
is compared with that the Elucidarium of Honorius Augusto
dunesis. Honorius was a Benedictine who lived in the first half of
the twelfth century and was probably a student of Anselm of Can
terbury before becoming associated with the circle of Kuno, Abbot
of Siegburg (1105-26) and Bishop of Regensburg (1126-32). Later
Honorius may have become an inclusus in an Irish monastic com
munity at Regensburg. He wrote the Elucidarium early in his ca
reer, and early in the twelfth century. He intended it to be a com
prehensive summary of Christian doctrine. As a comprehensive
survey of Christian teaching written by a twelfth-century Bene
dictine active in Germany, the Elucidarium has some obvious
parallels with Scivias. In particular, in Latin and in vernacular
translations, it became a popular handbook for the clergy, which
it is here contended was Hildegard’s stated aim for the Scivias as
well. The Elucidarium is in question and answer form, covering
basic theological and pastoral issues. It is, however, not a simple
catechism. While drawing upon Eriugena and Anselm, Honorius
shows himself to be an original theologian in his own right.99
The whole of Honorius’ Elucidarium is not much longer than
the Scivias 2.6; hence one cannot expect him to deal with the Eu
99Lexikon der Mittelalters (Munich, Artemis) 5 (1991) 122-23; Theologis

chen Realenzyclopedie (New York: De Gruyter) 15 (1986) 571-78. If Hono
rius had written the Elucidarium late in his life after he had been in Ger
many for several decades, the comparison would be even more convincing.

charist in the same detail. In the first of the three books of the
Elucidarium, Honorius finishes his discussion of the incarnation,
the life of Christ and his resurrection, and then asks “about the
mystical body of Christ, that is, the church.” He writes:
As a body is attached to its head and ruled by it, so the church is
joined to him through the sacrament of Christ’s body. It is made one
body with him. Therefore, all the just in their order are governed by
the head as members. Of this body, the prophets, who see the future,
are the eyes; so, too, are the apostles, who lead others from the way of
error to the light of justice. . . . The whole body is joined into one with
truth and charity.100
This paragraph on the church leads immediately to his discussion

of the Eucharist.101 Here is an outline of what he says:
1. Symbolism of bread (cf. J
n 6:41) and wine (cf. Jn 15:1). Bread
nourishes; the soul is refreshed by the food of Christ. Bread is
made of many grains; the body of Christ is gathered from many
elect. Bread is cooked in fire; Christ was roasted in the stove of
the passion. This bread is also flesh; for he was sacrificed for us
like a lamb. Wine is collected from many grapes and pressed
out by a winepress; the body of Christ, joined together from
many just, was tortured on the cross. Wine, turned into the
blood of Christ, vivifies our soul, which is in the blood.
2. Real Presence. The Eucharist is the body which Mary bore,
which hung on the cross, which entered the heavens, though
the appearances (species) of bread and wine remain, both be
cause of our sensitivities and because God wishes to exercise
our faith.
3. Salvific Effect. Food is turned into the flesh of the eater; the
faithful person who eats this food is turned into the body of
Christ. Incorporated into him, we will be transferred to where
he is.
1°°Elucidarium 1.27; PL 172.1128D.

1°1Honorius develops his ideas of the Eucharist in the “Eucharistion, seu
Liber de corpore et sanguine domini,” PL 172.1249-58. There he discusses
the idea of the threefold body of Christ: the body which Mary bore and is
now in heaven; the body which is the church; and the Eucharist body which
links the other two bodies together into one. He also develops the symbol
ism of bread and wine at great length. Much of the treatise is concerned
with Honorius’ peculiar teachings on what is received by unworthy com
muicants.
192 ABR 49:2— JUNE 1998

4. All Partake of the Whole Christ. He is fully in each part, while
remaining whole in heaven.
5. Tlvofold Reward for Celebrants. Celebrants receive a twofold
crown: one for presiding devoutly; the other for living in a way
worthy of the sacrament.
6. Unworthy celebrants. Those who live in adultery, fornication or
other sins, and those who engage in simony or kill God’s people
by bad example, and all who defend them, are traitors and
crucifiers of the Lord. They ought not approach the altar. If
they do celebrate the Eucharist, they do no good for the church,
but contaminate what they touch. God and the angels avoid
them. Neither their prayer nor their blessing profit anyone.
Nor do they actually receive the body of Christ. At the moment
they go to receive, the body of Christ is taken by angels to
heaven. Judas did not receive what Peter did at the last sup
per. Judas received the appearance of bread, but the power of
the sacrament (virtus sacramenti) remained in Christ.
7. Motives for Celebration. The proper motives: for God, for the
whole church, for one’s salvation. Improper motives: money,
honor, temporal riches.
8. Communion at the Hands of a Unworthy Priest. Receiving
Communion from interdicted or excommunicated priests is to
be avoided. Even those who do so unawares are contaminated
until they come to their senses. When unworthy priests cele
brate the Eucharist, through the words they recite the ele
ments become the body of Christ, because it is Christ who con
secrates. Those in danger of death may receive viaticum from
an unworthy priest or refuse it; there are good reasons for both
lines of action.
9. Can Evil Priests Bind and Loose? Yes, if they are not separated
from the church by a public condemnation, since it is Christ
acting through them. However, if they have been excluded
from the church, whatever sacraments they perform are in
valid:
10. Bishops of Evil Priests. If they
consent or foster the sins of bad
priests or receive temporal support from them, they share in
their guilt. The sons of priests should not be ordained. It is il
licit, and they tend to be greedy for honor or power.
This discussion of the prelates of evil clergy (1.52) occurs near
the end of Book I. Book II is devoted to an exposition of what

later would be called moral theology. It includes a condemna
tion of simony (2.7) and in a discussion of various occupations
says:102
11. Priests should teach by word and example.
12. A few sections later103 Honorius takes up confession. As origi
nal sin is forgiven in baptism; so actual sins are forgiven in
confession. In confession the priest judges as Christ’s vicar; the
sinner is accuser and guilty party; the penance is the sentence.
13. Neither almsgiving nor penitence helps, if the person does not
stop sinning.
Honorius and Hildegard Compared

Honorius turns to various moral matters in the remainder of
Book II. Book III is devoted to eschatology. In his short discus
sions of orders, priesthood and confession, Honorius covers much
the same ground that Hildegard would cover half a century later.
Hildegard is more detailed; she is more directly concerned with
the duties of the clergy (and hence introduces some material
which is their professional or personal concern: what time of day
Mass may be celebrated; priests who have experienced nocturnal
emissions), but the issues are the same: the practical celebration
of the sacraments. Hildegard’s particular contribution is to center
all this mass of practical detail on the Eucharist. As the Eu
charist makes the church and the Church makes the Eucharist,
so, Hildegard implies, the details of pastoral sacramental practice
should be centered on Communion in the body of Christ. Hono
rius also has the skeleton of a Eucharist-centered ecclesiology,
but when he treats of the same pastoral issues Hildegard raises,
he does not connect them so closely to the Eucharist. Hence,
though the content of Hildegard’s pastoral directives is not origi
nal, her organization of the material is.
1°2Elucidarium 2.17;PL 172.1147D-48A.

103Elucidarium 220; PL 172.1150Cff.
194 ABR 4922- JUNE 1998

REVIEW OF TERREN CE KARDONG’S
BENEDICT’S RULE
Browsing our monastery’s library has revealed the surprising

fact that although the Rule of Benedict has inspired thousands of
pious tracts, conferences and spiritual treatises, there are few
complete commentaries on this most foundational of texts.
Smaller monastic libraries can scare up only a handful of com
mentaries of any kind. Those will probably be of the “spiritual”
variety, meaning they will not attempt thorough study of each
verse of the Rule from historical and critical perspectives. If any
thing of that rarer ilk did turn up, it would be written in a foreign
language, most likely Latin. All has now changed with the publi
cation of Terrence Kardong’s new Benedict’s Rule: A Translation
and Commentary.1 It seems fitting to begin a review of this re
markable book by situating Kardongs accomplishment within
the commentarial tradition of the Rule. Then I will turn to the
book itself.
Commentaries of the Pre-Modern Period

The earliest surviving commentaries, and still two of the best,
emerged from the first great Benedictine epoch in the ninth cen
tury. The first was by Smaragdus (this uneuphonious name actu
ally means “Emerald”), whose other major work, the Corona
monachorum (“Crown of Monks”), gathered monastic texts com
plementary to the Rule of Benedict in a kind of spiritual anthol
ogy anticipating the great monastic fiorilegia of the later Middle
Ages. Smaragdus is loved by many, but my own favorite is the
“other” ninth-century commentary, that of a Frank named Hilde
mar who was a monk in northern Italy. This humane, informa
Fr. Columba Stewart, O.S.B., is a monk of St. John’s Abbey, Collegeville,

MN, 56321, where he heads the Monastic Studies program. He is the au
thor of the recently published Cassian the Monk (New York: Oxford UP
1998).
1Collegeville MN: Liturgical Press, 641 pp., $49.95.
195
tive, and often poetic commentary circulated in different ver
sions, including one attributed to Paul the Deacon, famous monk
of Monte Cassino in the eighth century.
For Hildemar, as in the thirteenth-century commentary of Ab
bot Bernard of Monte Cassino, commentary and customary over
lap with a wonderful glimpse into burning questions like when
fowl could be eaten or baths taken. The precise measure of the
hemina (RB 40.3), that holy grail for devotees of RB minutiae,
concerns both Hildemar and Bernard. Hildemar notes that
Charlemagne sent an emissary to Monte Cassino to learn just
how much wine a hemina is, and Bernard claims that the official
hemina measure was still preserved at Monte Cassino more than
four hundred years after Charlemagne’s alleged investigation.
Bernard also notes the guardianship of the official pound weight
for measuring out bread (RB 39.4). This legacy from the time of
Benedict himself had been sent to Rome for safekeeping when
Monte Cassino was destroyed by the Lombards, and duly accom
panied the monks when they returned to their hilltop.
With the splendid scholarship of the Maurists and Vannists in
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the tone becomes more
scientific, though the context remains that of living monasticism.
From these reformist congregations we have four commentaries:
those of Ménard, Megge, Martene and Calmet. Three of them
achieved wide circulation. Ménard’s comments on the Rule are
part of an even vaster commentary on Benedict of Aniane’s Con
cordia Regularum. Both his and the commentary of his fellow
Maurist, Martene (devoted exclusively to the Rule of Benedict),
have been widely available through their reprinting in the Pa
trologia Latina (PL 103 and 66, respectively). Calmet’s commen
tary circulated widely in its French original and in at least Latin
and Italian translations. Although Cuthbert Butler sang the
praises of a lengthy seventeenth-century commentary by
Haeften, prior of Affiigem (in what is now Belgium), our library
has only an excerpt and I have not seen the whole work. I doubt it
had wide distribution.
In addition to these complete commentaries there are about
half a dozen other partial ones, including that of Johannes
Trithemius, the extraordinary abbot and scholar of Spannheim,
whose numerous writings brought medieval monastic culture
into the early Renaissance. To the best of my knowledge, none of
these medieval or early modern commentaries has been pub
196 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

lished in English, meaning that they have had no obvious influ
ence on English-speaking monasticism except perhaps in the
highly attenuated sense that all Benedictine scholarship feeds
into the great stream of monastic tradition. The one exception
could have been the Exposition of the Rule by the English monk
Augustine Baker, but this commentary seems never to have been
published in its complete form.
Modern Commentaries
Until recently English-speaking Benedictines relied most on
the early twentieth-century commentary of Paul Delatte, abbot of
Solesmes, translated into English in 1921, and the later work by
Hubert Van Zeller, The Holy Rule (1958). Delatte gave a Euro
pean interpretation based on the values of the revival of monasti
cism at Solesmes, and Van Zeller was formed in the English tra
dition of Downside. Both commentaries are more spiritual and in
terpretative than historical and textual, and were written before
Vatican II. Surprisingly, the more “spiritual” a commentary, the
more quickly it dates and the less universal is its application. It
almost seems as if the greater the pose of objectivity, the less uni
versally accessible will be the result. This reminds us that be
cause Benedictinism is always rooted in practice, any attempt to
extract a universal essence will end up betraying the author’s
particular slant. A more textually centered commentary therefore
has a greater shelf life.
Since Calmet’s work in the mid-eighteenth century only his
compatriot Adalbert de Vogiié has attempted a similarly compre
hensive project. Vogiié’s thousands of pages on the Rule of Bene
dict and on its sources have already become a monument to
monastic commitment and scholarship, and he is still writing.
Vogiié has also edited or co-edited many early monastic texts for
the incomparable French series Sources chrétiennes, including
both the Rule of the Master and the Rule of Benedict. Vogiié’s
work is not for everyone. The intricacy of his textual arguments
has necessitated something of a division between the scientific
and the interpretative aspects of his work. The former category
remains largely untranslated from French, while the latter has
become largely available in English but without the detailed in
vestigations upon which much of the interpretation has been
COLUMBA STEWART, O.S.B. 197

based. Furthermore, the sheer volume of Vogiié’s work daunts
those without the stamina or languages to tackle his massive
(and still growing) output.
Despite the dominating mass of his publications, Vogiié is by
no means the only significant modern student of the Rule. Al
though fine scholars are many, however, they have tended to fo
cus their efforts on particular problems or sections of the Rule.
Most of them are European and publish in their own languages.
Their work is often of a technical sort unlikely to be translated
into English, meaning that their contributions are largely inac
cessible to American readers. (Here I must laud the industry Ter
rence Kardong has shown by publishing translations of key arti
cles by these Europe scholars in the ABR.) Furthermore, most
monastic scholars simply lack the opportunity to undertake a
complete commentary, especially one amenable to publication in
other languages.
There is also the issue of context. Anyone undertaking the
work of commentary today realizes the diversity of Benedictine
experience and embodiment of the Rule. In a curious way, Bene
dictines with their various interpretations of a single text and
their centuries of inculturation in incredibly diverse times and
places are striking exemplars of the postmodern tenet that diver
sity must now assume the place once held by commonality and its
mythic ally, objectivity. It can seem these days that a choice must
be made between either a narrowly contextualized reading re
nouncing all claims to generality or a textual archaeology permit
ting only the most tentative of interpretations. In such a world
how could anyone besides the confident Vogiié have the chutzpah
to write a complete commentary on the Rule?
Terrence Kardong’s Benedict’s Rule
The Author. Fortunately for the English-speaking monastic

world, someone with the courage and tenacity required for the
project accepted the challenge. In his new translation and com
mentary, Benedict’s Rule (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1996)
Kardong offers a new translation of RB, a verse-by-verse com
mentary, and sectional overviews. He brings the best of modern
scholarship of the Rule to those who otherwise would never know
it. He tempers Vogué with his own investigations and those of
prominent European commentators such as Anselmo Lentini,
198 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Aquinata Bbckmann and André Borias, as well as scholars be
longing to the English-speaking world such as Michael Casey and
Ambrose Wathen. At the heart of Kardong’s work has been sus
tained, thoughtful and critical engagement with both the Rule
and its many other commentators. For those who read it atten
tively, this commentary becomes a course in modern study of the
Rule.
Kardong addresses the first task of any postmodern scholar by
locating himself and his work. In the preface he outlines his back
ground and qualifications for the project and admits the particu
lar context of American Benedictinism in which he has been liv
ing the Rule for almost forty years and publishing interpretations
of it for twenty-five. He makes the vital point that he had the
good fortune, rare for any Benedictine and perhaps most of all for
a North American one, of time to write such a book. After a cen
tury and a half of Benedictine life on this continent it seems high
time that someone has been trained and, more importantly, freed
up to do this work.
Kardong‘s explicit self-location bears directly on who the audi
ence will be for this book. Those who are somehow Benedictine,
whether as professed members of monastic communities,
Oblates, or fellow-travellers, will be those most at home in this
text. To appreciate it fully one must be at least tolerant of theol
ogy and comfortable with the notion that monastic life is still a
feasible and even respectable undertaking. This commentary
comes from within a living tradition. In some minds that will
compromise its critical utility; for most readers, however, it will
make all the difference.
The Project. Benedict’s Rule consists of two major components:
1) the Latin text of the Rule with English translation; and 2) the
actual commentary. As will be noted below, these components are
interdependent. Kardong defines his task precisely, limiting his
scope to the text of the Rule itself. This means that, for instance,
he does not generally make use of Gregory the Great’s Dialogues
to illuminate aspects of the text (though see the note on RB 7.27),
nor does he trace interpretative developments in medieval com
mentaries or customaries. While I think that would be fascinat
ing, such a project would make for another book.
Format. For each chapter of the Rule, Kardong provides the
Latin text (Neufville’s, as in Vogiié’s commentary for Sources
chréatiennes and RB 1980); a new English translation; a verse

by-verse commentary (“Notes”); a discursive commentary
(“Overview”), which is chapter-by chapter for RB Pr.-7 and other
major chapters, and sectional for other parts of RB. The text and
translation follow rather than face one another, a regrettable
though understandable, consequence of space limitations. Of 619
pages of text, 168 pages are devoted to RB Pr.-7, 47 pages to RB 8
20, 244 pages to RB 21-57, 103 pages to RB 58-67, 52 pages to RB
68-73. This distribution indicates the close attention Kardong has
given to the organizational and disciplinary sections of the Rule
(RB 21-57). These can too often, especially in modern commen
taries, receive short shrifi: compared to the more pronouncedly
spiritual and constitutional chapters. Kardong has recognized
the wisdom and significance of even those parts of the text whose
details are least significant for modern Benedictine practice;
more on this later.
The work concludes with extensive bibliographies of primary
sources (citing editions in original languages as well as English
translations) and secondary sources in several languages. These
publications were Kardong’s conversation partners, and he cites
them throughout the text. Thus we know both how his own inter
pretation developed and where to find a point developed in
greater detail. There is a simple index of key words and themes
discussed in the Notes; the overviews are not indexed but one can
easily locate relevant material. I am rather partial to indices;
perhaps at least an index of biblical passages cited in the book
would have been a good idea.
Translation. The author’s original intention to relate his com
mentary to the well-known American translation in R31980 soon
led him to realize its shortcomings. Historical and textual com
mentary demands, above all, an accurate text. If one cannot pre
sume a knowledge of Latin from one’s readers, then an exact
translation is essential. This means that both the inelegancies of
the original text and the shortcomings of the second language
cannot be cloaked through euphemism or paraphrase. Kardong
notes that in his translation of the Rule he has always “preferred
accuracy over elegance” (xii). In a moment I will probe this claim
in some detail. Here it should be noted that the translation there
fore reflects the fact that the original text was written for a male
community in sixth-century Italy. Kardong’s translation will
therefore remain for many, particularly for women, a scientific
tool rather than a text suitable for liturgical or devotional use.
200 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Its usefulness has been somewhat impaired by the omission of
biblical references for RB 4-54 and 70-72 and by the confused ty
pography of the biblical quotations in the translation. Sometimes
these appear in Roman type with quotation marks (RB Prol.-6,
55-63, 72), sometimes in italic type (RB 7-54, 64-70), and some
times without any distinction at all (RB 4). In the Latin text they
appear always in italic type. The alternating use in the running
titles atop each page of Roman numerals for the Latin text and
Arabic numerals for the English translation draws unnecessary
attention to the fact that the Latin and English texts are printed
serially rather than parallel.
Accuracy in translation has by no means produced slavish lit
eralism. Besides the customary transformation of Latin passive
constructions into English active ones, Kardong has felt free to
use idiomatic American English. For example, proprii sequatur
cordis voluntatem has become “pursue a personal agenda” (RB
3.8). A similar phrase, propriam . . . non amans voluntatem, be
comes “love for our own way” (RB 7.31). The traditional “self-will”
occurs a few verses earlier (RB 7.19). The variety is attractive but
the translation risks obscuring the repetition of similar phrases
(usually, however, noted in the commentary). In one verse deside
ria carnis are “urgings of the flesh” (RB 4.59), elsewhere “desires
of the flesh” (RB 7.12) and a few lines later “lower inclinations”
(RB 7.23).
On balance, however, I like Kardong’s freshness: the warning
against omnis qui se exaltat with which RB 7 opens becomes
aimed at “whoever is self-promoting” (RB 7.1). No one is to pre
sume to defend or to “take [another] under his protection, as it
were” (aut quasi tueri, RB 69.1). At times a surprisingly literal
translation sends the reader back to the Latin (as perhaps it
should): “let all follow the Rule as their mistress” (RB 3.7) is dis
covered to be omnes magistram sequantur regulaml I would quib
ble, but Kardong’s choice (although not explained in the commen
tary) made me re-engage with the text.
The reader need be aware that Kardong’s translation has been
shaped by his interpretation. For example, Benedict’s simple
propter taciturnitatem becomes “on account of the intrinsic value
of silence” (RB 6.2). This highlighting of a virtue Benedict treats
rather preemptorily is nice, but a step beyond translation. More
significant is a comparison of RB 5.1 to 7.10. The same phrase,
primus humilitatis gradus, occurs in both. Following the line of

his interpretation, however, Kardong translates the first as “the
basic road to progress for the humble person” and the later occur
rence more traditionally as “the first step of humility.” The deci
sion is explained, but the result is that an interpretative crux, the
apparent contradiction between chapter 5’s primus gradus (obe
dience) and chapter 7’s (fear of God), has been resolved through
translation. Such retrojection of commentary into translation,
though never completely unavoidable, may not have been the
most judicious decision in some cases. The commentary can sug
gest solutions to problems best left as obvious in the translation
as they are in the text. Similarly, Kardong’s acceptance of Anscari
Mundo’s interpretation of RB 48.15 means that accipiant omnes
singulos codices de bibliotheca becomes “they should each receive
a separate fascicle of the Bible” rather than a more typical ren
dering such as RB 1980’s “each one is to receive a book from the
library.” I think Mundo may well be at least partly correct, but
again Kardong’s translation preempts other possibilities. Might
the monks, for example, have received sections of the non-biblical
books recommended by Benedict in RB 73?
There are certain key texts and phrases that challenge any
translator of RB. I chose two to trace in Kardong’s translation:
lectio divina and conversatio. The first, lectio divina, Kardong
simply leaves in Latin, “as a symbol that we have yet to discover
the full implications of what it meant to ancient monks” (p. 384,
on RB 48.1). I think that was a prudent decision and respectful of
monastic practice, for Benedictines today continue to use the
term lectio rather than any English equivalent. Conversatio is a
thornier problem, and here Kardong’s decision to translate the
Latin variously was the way to go. Sometimes, therefore, it be
comes simply “life” or “monastic life” (RB Pr. 49, 21.1, 22.2, 58.1,
73.1). Elsewhere the context suggests something more expansive:
in RB 58.17 the familiar phrase conversatio morum suorum be
comes “fidelity to a monastic lifestyle,” while the description of
anchorites in RB 1.3 is that “their observance is no mere novice
fervor” (horum qui non conversationis fervore novicio). Similar
are RB 63.1 on rank, where Kardong translates conversationis
tempus as “time of entry,” and RB 73.1, where initium conversa
tionis becomes “rudiments of a monastic life.” The variety of
translations seems fitting, and each case is explained; conversatio
is also a theme chosen for inclusion in the index.
202 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Commentary. The remarks about the translation have already
pointed to the major portion of the book, the “Notes” and
“Overviews.” The latter should be read before the verse-by-verse
commentary in the Notes even though the Overviews are placed
after the Notes in the layout of the book. The Overviews are far
more than summaries of the Notes. In them Kardong introduces
textual problems, major themes, and scholarly debates; discusses
Benedict’s sources and his handling of them; addresses points of
interpretation. Each Overview is in effect an article on the chap
ter(s) at hand, and it is in them that one discovers most fully the
mind of the commentator. At the same time, however, the Notes
are not simply points of philology or dense bundles of references
to other texts; often they contain helpful bits of practical com
mentary (see, e.g., those on W. 19,35,49,55 of RB 7).
Kardong is undaunted by textual intricacies and challenges,
and more important, capable of explaining them to others (see,
e.g., the Overview on RB 4). We are reading his own clarifications
of both ancient texts and modern scholarship. A numerical refer
ence system allows him to cite modern authors without cluttering
the text or introducing footnotes. Kardong himself notes the “as
ceticism of brevity,” a discipline especially biting when doing this
kind of comprehensive work, but he practices it steadily and
avoids the equal dangers of prolix demonstrations of erudition or
cryptic brevity.
Kardong describes his commentarial method at the outset of
the book (pp. xv-xvi). He did his own preliminary analysis of the
texts before turning to the work of others. This is both sound
method and the way to avoid pitfalls. The first risk in any com
mentary is the idiosyncracy which comes from not attending suf
ficiently to other views. The second is the opposite danger of being
co-opted by others and losing one’s own voice. In this instance the
danger is being completely dominated by the work of Vogiié,
whether in imitation or opposition. Vogue’s investigations can at
first seem so thorough and definitive as to leave one unsure of
how to proceed and insecure about one’s ability to do so. I admire
the way Kardong fully acknowledges what he has learned from
others, including Vogiié, while retaining his own commentarial
voice. One has no sense that he is out to debunk anyone, demon
strate his own erudition or snipe at the achievements of others.
In effect, Kardong sets up a conversation between his reading of
the text and those of other scholars. Vogiié’s is necessarily the

most prominent of these, but Kardong clearly prizes the work es
pecially of the German Benedictine Aquinata Bockmann and the
French Benedictine André Borias. His own affinities with these
last two scholars is announced in the Preface and evident in the
commentary. While deferring to Vogiié’s mastery of so much, Kar
dong is able to take issue with his analysis and occasionally to
suggest that sheer mass of material does not always provide cer
tainty of conclusion (e.g., see p. 97 on RB 4).
Kardong’s is not an ideologically-driven commentary, though
the perspectives which shape it become evident as one reads
through it. Kardong is theologically well-grounded and this is a
Catholic commentary in the best sense, alert to doctrinal issues
and able to negotiate them with some facility (e.g., Pelagianism,
eschatology). There is an effort to highlight the distinctiveness of
Benedict’s contribution with respect to the ideas or texts he has
inherited from prior tradition, especially the Rule of the Master.
Kardong may be trying to rebalance the great emphasis placed on
the Master in Vogiié’s work. He follows the lead of Eugene Man
ning, Ambrose Wathen, Bockmann and Borias in suggesting that
the entire Rule must be read through the lens of RB 72 or, one
could say more generally, from within the milieu of the ensemble
of final chapters (RB 64-72) with their more pronounced empha
sis on charity in community. These are, not coincidentally, the
chapters independent of the tradition of the Rule of the Master
and most affected by what Vogiié has, perhaps revealingly,
termed the “Augustinian invasion” of Italian monasticism. Fol
lowing this methodology, to enter into the mind of Benedict him
self means reading the Rule retrospectively rather than prospec
tively. In other words, one interprets the individualistic emphasis
of the first chapters (largely borrowed from the Master) in light of
the communitarian emphasis of the final chapters (Benedict’s
own work).
The commentary is pronouncedly cenobitic, in the sense that
Kardong challenges the assumption (which he traces to Cassian)
that the anchoritic life is inherently superior to the cenobitic and
that the distinctiveness of the cenobium is more constitutional
than theological (pp. 43-44, 599-602). Again this is a different
perspective from commentators like Vogiié who emphasize the
more individual dimension of monastic asceticism and anchor
their interpretations firmly in the first section of the Rule. Kar
dong is also engaging in cultural critique, for in several places he
204 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

remarks on the individualistic orientation of the modern West.
Despite the goal of comprehensiveness and a tone of scholarly re- '
straint, Kardong does not exclude observations about modern

monastic life or occasional criticisms of present practice (see, e.g.,
his Notes on the following verses in the liturgical codeLRB 9.7,
16.3, 17.4, 20.1). Many readers will find these practical comments
of greater interest than the more historical and scientific study
which precedes them. I think Kardong was well-advised both to
include them and to exercise restraint. Nothing dates or
marginalizes any commentary as quickly as idiosyncratic asides
of the kind Kardong wisely avoids.
Kardong follows Benedictine scholarship of the centuries in
emphasizing the sources from which Benedict worked. This is ev
ident in both Notes and Overviews. Some of the latter, e.g. that
for RB 2, provide a short course in pre-Benedictine monastic his
tory and literature. The resumé of liturgical history in the
Overview of RB 8-20 is similarly cogent and helpful. Kardong’s
own training in Latin and Greek stands him in good stead here
for he negotiates the sources comfortably. He takes them seri
ously without losing sight of his primary focus on Benedict’s han
dling of them. The major issue with sources for RB will always be
the role of Rule of the Master. Kardong follows the great majority
of modern scholars in accepting that Benedict has relied heavily
on the Rule of the Master. However, it is one thing to borrow a
text, another to borrow the ideology which generated it. As noted
above, Kardong emphasizes Benedict’s own contribution and sees
him as far more than a slavish traditionalist enthralled by the
Master’s vision of cenobitic life.
When one moves behind the Master, however, to consider the
role of John Cassian in shaping the monastic thought of either
the Master or Benedict, things become more complicated. Be
cause Vogiié seems to read Benedict in light of the Master, and
the Master in light of Cassian, Cassian becomes the symbol for
anchoritic attitudes which some (e.g., Ambrose Wathen and Jean
Gribomont) have charged Vogiié with foisting upon Benedict’s
Rule. Kardong has studied, translated and written on Cassian ex
tensively and generally has a balanced view of this controversy as
it has played out in articles by Wathen and Gribomont and the
responses to them by Vogiié (see pp. 612-14). Nonetheless I may
perhaps be forgiven for noting that Kardong occasionally seems
to slip into a stereotypical view of Cassian as inevitably an

choritic and individualistic in focus (e.g., pp. 113, 164), aview
which I question in my own study of Cassian. I think the whole
debate needs recasting.
The test for any commentary claiming to be comprehensive is
its treatment of the portions of the Rule least obvously applicable
to modern monastic life, at least in their prescriptions. Because
Benedict is as much in the details of his Rule as in its grand
strokes, any effort to tap his wisdom must be willing to sit with
even the least promising lines from the Rule. Here Kardong
shows himself able to engage with and to highlight the commu
nal, pastoral and theological insights behind evidently outdated
chapters like RB 22 on the common dormitory and the series of
chapters on the penal code (RB 23-30 and 43-46). On the related
issues of personal possessions and the monastic habit, topics for
which Benedict’s principles are perennially relevant even if his
actual prescriptions are outmoded, Kardong shows himself espe
cially insightful, both as an interpreter of RB and as an arbiter
among modern monastic scholars.
We North American Benedictines find ourselves preoccupied
with work, and Kardong does not leave us bereft. He notes both
the high value Benedict places on humble service in the commu
nity (Notes and Overview to RB 35) and his utilitarian under
standing of work as described in RB 48 and 57. The absence in
RB of any reference to the aesthetic dimension of work, to “job
satisfaction" or self-fulfillment, makes Benedict’s perspective
seem prosaic and even unhelpful. Kardong points out, however,
that Benedict improves upon the primarily ascetical view of work
in the earlier tradition (work as antidote to idleness) while clearly
establishing the appropriate place of work in the overall monastic
scheme of things.
Kardong’s observation that modern western monasteries wres
tle the twinned demons of overwork and affluence (Note to RB
48.7) allows a glimpse of his own views and of the experience of
his community, which like many others has adjusted to major
changes in apostolates in recent years. Too often we work hard at
very demanding jobs, justifying it as service or institutional sup
port while in fact we are working to maintain a certain level of
material comfort. Commenting on Benedict’s use of the motto,
“And so God will be glorified in all things” (1 Pet. 4:11 as in RB
57.9), Kardong writes, “The monastery must have a sound eco
nomic basis in order to survive, but unlike a business corporation,
206 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

the purpose of a monastery is not to make money or even to sur
vive economically. The business of a monastery is to glorify God”
(p. 461). Kardong's reminders that Benedict still has something
to say to us even about temporalities give this commentary its
zest.
Kardong maintains an accessible style throughout the work,
writing gracefully and clearly. I do wonder how many readers
could immediately define “macarism” (p. 167) or “allocentric” (p.
602), but such leaps of lexical faith are few. As is perhaps in
evitable in a work of such length and detail there are errata.
Many of these seem to be along the lines of the inconsistent ty
pography noted above with respect to the text of the Rule. Others
are only mildly annoying: “Canon Law” does not appear in the in
dex despite the reference on p. 58; the reference to Cassian’s Inst.
16.2-3 on p. 252 should of course be Conf. 16.2-3; it is the New
Dictionary of Catholic Spirituality, not Christian Spirituality (p.
630), etc. These minor points can all be corrected in a next edi
tion.
Conclusion
'le0 final questions remain. First, how does Benedict’s Rule re
late to RB 1980? Simply put, Kardong’s book does not by any
means replace the earlier work. The weakest aspect of RB 1980 is
its actual commentary on the text of the Rule, so Kardong’s book
supplements at the most needed point. The scope of RB 1980 is
broader, with its historical introduction providing the back
ground, context, and development of the Rule that Kardong does
not directly address. Its Latin text is easier to use because it is
printed parallel to the translation. The topical articles permit
greater depth than Kardong’s Overviews allow. On the other
hand, RB 1980 reflects the state of monastic scholarship in the
late 1970s, before the burst of energy and publication prompted
in part by the Benedictine Sesquimillenium. Kardong’s book can
bring the interested reader up to date.
Second, what is left for anyone to do? The conversation about
Benedict and his Rule continues. Monastic life evolves, and the
next twenty-five years may see great changes. Many older com
munities are diminishing, many newer ones, especially in Africa
and Asia, are growing vigorously. Their voices must be heard. A
comprehensive commentary written out of the experience of fe

male Benedictine life would be welcome. It is hard LJW to imag
ine duplicating the kind of critical-historical work Terrence Kar
dong has done, but eventually it will be time for someone to do it
again. Meanwhile we can all be grateful for this major achieve
ment, the fruit of prayerful reading, serious study, and a lot of
hard work.
208 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

BLACK DEMONS IN THE DESERT
Two little black demons are familiar to all monastics from the
earliest days of their postulancy. One appears in the Life of
Antony by St. Athanasius; the second, in the Life of Benedict by
St. Gregory the Great. St. Antony’s black boy identifies himself as
the spirit of fornication and concedes with “pitiful cries” that he
has been vanquished by Antony, who has held firm against all his
lascivious suggestions. The saint replies unsympathetically, “You,
then, are much to be despised, for you are black of mind, and like
a powerless child.” 1 This commentary elucidates both elements
of the story’s imagery: black means bad, and boy means weak and
immature. The greater part of this article will be concerned with
the first and, to our minds, politically most incorrect equivalence
between blackness and badness, and, even more specifically, with
the portrayal of a demon as a black person. As a preliminary,
however, one might look briefly at the other aspect of the story’s
imagery, the representation of the demon, in this and other in
stances, as a boy.
BOY DEMONS
R.C. Gregg speculates that there might be implicit in this
episode from the Vita Antonii a “suggestion the the black youth
represents the practice of pederasty.”2 There is, however, little
preoccupation with pederasty in early monastic literature. To find
it in what is virtually the foundation chapter of Egyptian
eremitism is surely an anachronism. Besides, when ancient au
thors did choose to treat of sexual matters, they were usually
quite explicit, to the dismay of not a few modern translators. It
seems more reasonable to accept the text of the Vita Antonii at its
Andrew Nugent, O.S.B., is a monk of Glenstal Abbey in Ireland. He is cur

rently serving as novice-master at Ewu-Ishan Monastery, PCB. 150, Edo
State, Nigeria. He last appeared in our pages in June, 1997, with his article
“Towards a Pathology of community Life.”
1Vita Antonii, 6.
2R.C. Gregg, The Life of Antony (London: SPCK 1980).
209
face value. The demon of fornication is depicted as a boy, not as
an indication of anybody’s sexual preferences, but simply because
he is, as Antony remarks, “powerless and a child.”
A black boy appears as the demon of pride in the Historia
Monachorum in Aegypto.3 But, most typically, it is as mischievous
imps who distract monks from their prayers that these diminu
tive Ethiopians feature in the early monastic texts. This is pre
cisely the role of the niger puerulus who appears in the Life of
Benedict, and who every day at the time of prayer pulls a compli
ant monk out of the chapel by the hem of his garment.‘ He has
forerunners in monastic tradition, of which Gregory the Great
would certainly have been aware. Rufinus inserts into his trans
lation of the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto an account of how
during vigils Macarius of Alexandria saw the whole church filled
with small Ethiopian boys (parvulos puerulos aethiopes), running
hither and thither, distracting the monks from their devotions.
There are vivid descriptions of the ingenious methods employed
to achieve this objective, such as sticking fingers into the monks’
mouths to make them yawn.5
The black boy as agent provocateur in the matter of disrupted
prayers not only preceeds, but survives both Benedict and Gre
gory. John Moschos in The Spiritual Meadow describes how a
very black boy floats in the window of a saintly elder and begins
to dance. As the elder continues to sing psalms, the boy inter
rupts with a question: “Elder, do I dance well?” The elder persists
with his psalms. The boy continues to dance and to ask imperti
nent questions, “Do you like the way I dance, elder?” Eventually,
as the monk is not to be deflected from his devotions, the boy ex
claims mockingly: “Oh, wicked old man, why do you imagine you
are doing something important? I tell you, you made a mistake in
the sixty-fifth, the sixty-sixth and sixty-seventh psalms.” 6
The humor in these stories is surely intended. Its purpose per
haps is to help monks keep a sense of proportion even as they
struggle with their most obstinate distractions and lurid tempta
3Hist0ria Monachorum in Aegypto, trans. Norman Russell, The Lives of

the Desert Fathers (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian 1980) Apollo 8.4.
4St. Gregory the Great, Dialogues II. 4,2.
5Hist. Mon., Macarius of Alexandria (Latin text of Rufinus).
29
6John Moschos, The Spiritual Meadow, trans. John Wortley (Kalamazoo,
MI: Cistercian 1992) 160.
210 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

tions. Generally in the texts, the boy-demon is more a pest than a
plague. If we know from experience why boys are sometimes,
without too much rancor, called demons, we can understand why,
in monastic tradition, demons have on occasion been depicted as
boys.
LIGHT-GOOD: DARKNESS-EVIL
It is probable that the idea of light and darkness as a symbolic

of good and evil is no chance product of particular cultures. The
sentiment is so universally found in so many civilizations, one
feels that it is deeply rooted in the human psyche. This is not to
say that the articulation of the Light-Darkness antithesis in
terms of whiteness and blackness is equally fundamental. One
could imagine cultures, especially of black peoples, where this
symbolism would be absent or even reversed. There are, for in
stance, communities where white, not black, is the color of
mourning. For present purposes, it is sufficient to say that, as a
matter of fact, Christianity was born within a cultural nexus in
which the dialectic of Light-Good: Darkness-Evil was prevalent
in many forms.
The strands which make up the backcloth for nascent Egyp
tian Christianity are many and varied: “Greek, Egyptian, Ira
nian, Semitic (including Judaism), and Anatolian.” 7 More specif
ically in respect to monasticism, apart from biblical and inter-tes
tamentary sources, numerous non-Christian influences have
been suggested: Buddhism, the temple of Serapis, Stoicism, Neo
Pythagoreans, and Gnosticism.8 In terms of virtually any plausi
ble combination of even some of these sources, the Light-Dark
ness: Good-Evil motif is significant and even prominent. In the
present state of classical, biblical and patristic studies, to embark
upon a demonstration that this theme was important in the Early
Church and throughout the Mediterranean world would be su
perfluous, indeed pedantic.
When good and evil are personalized as angels or demons, as
virtuous or sinful humans, as God or Satan, they are imagined as
inhabiting respectively the realm of light or the domain of dark
7H.I. Bell, Cults and Creeds in Graeco-Roman Egypt (New York: Philo
sophical Library 1953) 70.
5D. Burton-Christie, The Word in the Desert (Oxford UP 1993) 36 ff.
ANDREW NUGENT, O.S.B. 211

ness. God, “whose home is in inaccessible light” (1 Tim 6:16), is
“the Father of light” (Js 1:17). Jesus is “the light of the world.”
Anyone who follows him “will not be walking in the dark but will
have the light of light” (J n 8:12). Christians are “children of light;
they do not live in darkness” (1 Thes 5:4-5). Two texts from the
Book of Enoch, reemployed in the Letter of Jude, express vividly
the contrary fate of reprobate spirits and humans. “The angels
who left their appointed sphere, the Lord now keeps them down
in darkness,” and, “The evil are like wandering stars bound for an
eternity of black darkness” (Jude 6:14).
BAD IS BLACK
It is small and perhaps inevitable step from picturing evil be

a
ings as living in darkness to imagining them as being dark them
selves. In more reflective discourse, this is not a matter of physi
cal perception but of spiritual insight, a sort of visual kardiogno
sis. Thus the following story is told of Paul the Simple:
Blessed Paul looked carefully at each of those who entered the church
observing the spiritual disposition with which they went to the
synaxis, for he had received the grace from the Lord of seeing the state
of each one’s soul, just as we see their faces. When all had entered
with sparkling eyes and shining faces, with each one’s angel rejoicing
over him, he said, “I see one who is black and his whole body is dark;
the demons are standing on each side of him, dominating him, he said,
“I see one who is black and his whole body is dark; the demons are
standing on each side of him, dominating him, drawing him to them,
and leading him by the nose, and his angel, filled with grief, with head
bowed, follows him at a distance.”
It is explained that this black man has lived in fornication for a

long time, indeed right up to that moment. Happily, he receives
the grace of conversion during the liturgy. The story continues:
Paul saw that man, previously black and gloomy, coming out of the
church with a shining face and white body, the demons accompanying
him only at a distance, while his holy angel was following close to him,
rejoicing greatly over him.9
A text in the Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt stresses the

purely metaphorical use of black person imagery to suggest evil.
9Apophthegmata, Paul the Simple: Alphabetical Collection, trans. Bene

dicta Ward, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian
1984) 205-06.
212 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

The monk Isaac, beset by demons for five days, found his spiritual
“
father, Abba Aaron, and complained, ‘The Nubians have been
tormenting me, and I’ve come to tell you.’ Abba Aaron smiled and
said, “I‘ruly, they are invisible Nubians, my son.”’10 A nice and
necessary distinction.
Not all were so careful. In the Greco-Roman world black
skinned people were sometimes regarded as ominous, symbols of
death, and underworld, evil. Ill-starred persons were often noted
to have seen an Ethiopian, in reality or in a dream, just before
misfortune befell them. Ethiopian, Aithiops, literally, burnt-face,
was the generic name in the Greco-Roman world for any black
person of whatever race.
Frank M. Snowden, in a fascinating study of Black in Antiq
uity,11 arrives at the conclusion that there was no color prejudice
or biological racism in the Greco-Roman world. He argues his
case with enormous panache, producing a great range of interest
ing texts, as well as some fine plates of beautiful black people in
terra cottas, bronzes, and marbles. Indeed, he points out that
Herodotus did not hesitate to call Ethiopians the most handsome
people on earth.12 They were also, according to Homer, the most
just, “and for that reason the gods leave their abode frequently to
visit them.” 13 Zeus himself was given the title Aithiops by the in
habitants of Chios.14
Against this cheerful background, Snowden is not too per
turbed that black people were sometimes looked upon as sinister
harbingers of disaster:
In spite of a superstition in the minds of some with respect to the
Ethiopian’s colour, the classical evidence as a whole supports Agath
archides’ observation that such a fear ceased at childhood and indi
cates that serious evaluations of dark or black-skinned persons were
not affected by beliefs that the Ethiopian’s skin was ominous or that
black was a symbol of death or evil.15
10Paphnutius, Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt, trans. Tim Vivian,

(Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian 1993) 93-94.
11F.M. Snowden, Blacks in Antiquity: Ethiopians in the Greco-Roman
Experience (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP 1970).
12Ibid., 178.
131bid., 148.
14Ibid., 149.
151bid., 180.

One is not perhaps wholly convinced. Classical evidence and
serious evaluations may indeed rise above prejudice and supersti
tion. But bigotry is rarely based on serious evaluation. It arises
from the interplay of ignorance, superstition, self-interest, and a
host of murky emotions. If one could have access to what ordi
nary, non-literary people in the Ancient World thought and said
about Blacks, and how they behaved towards them, one might
very well discover that prejudices which vanished with childhood
amongst the cultured elite persisted vigorously among the less
enlightened majority.
St. Paul’s words to the Corinthians may well be an accurate de
scription of the Early Church as a whole, “not many wise by hu
man standards, not many influential, not many from noble fami
lies” (1 Cor 1:26). Here indeed is an interesting milieu in which to
test popular attitudes. Snowden devotes an important chapter to
Early Christian Attitude to Ethiopians. His conclusion is that this
attitude was in strict continuity with the idyllic picture he has al
ready painted of Greco-Roman society. “The early Christians
made it clear that the Ethiopian’s blackness was to be no more
consequence to them than it had been to the Greeks and Ro
mans.” 16
Blackness, it is true, was taken as symbolic of sin. Baptism,
therefore was frequently described as washing Ethiopians white.
“Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard his spots?” (Jer
13:23). Jeremiah’s question, in respect of the Ethiopians anyhow,
received a positive answer in numerous homilies and tracts. St.
Jerome was careful to point out that all the baptized of whatever
race “are Ethiopians who have been transformed from blackness
into whiteness.” 17
Snowden demonstrates, if demonstration were necessary, that
baptism and equal Christian membership were available to black
people on exactly the same basis as anybody else. To the magnifi
cent patristic texts he quotes one might add this fine statement,
attributed to St. Athanasius in a monastic text:
Have you not heard the Apostle say, “Is God the God of the Jews only?
Is he not the God of the other nations also? Yes, he is the God of the
I
other nations, because God is one.” He said to Abraham, “Behold have
made you the father of many nations.” And again he spoke to Cornelius
16Ibid., 196.
17Homily 18, on Psalm 86 (87).
214 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

in the Acts (for he was gentile). Because God is one, God sent them Pe
ter, the great apostle. He baptized Cornelius, and God taught Peter in
a vision not to regard any person as impure or unclean.” 13
It is interesting that this enlightened response was elicited,

not by a question about the propriety of baptizing black pagans
but by a query about the correct attitude to adopt towards those
who remain unconverted. Mark the priest had explained the
problem: “To the east of us and to the southwest of our city there
are pagans called the Nubians. They are very poor and they regu
larly call to us, ‘Give us bread.’ I am moved to say ‘No’ to them be
cause they are pagans and do not worship God." This is not ex
plicitly a question about color, but it is about attitudes to a whole
black people regarded as pagan; Mark’s words reveal a clear prej
udice which, in effect, was to characterize popular Christian atti
tudes to Nubians, Blemmyes, and Ethiopians.
Treating of early Christian catechesis, J. Daniélou writes as
follows:
The theme that recurs most frequently is that of redemption as victory

over the demonic powers which hold humanity captive. It was present
in Justin and Irenaeus, and is common to Clement, Hippolytus, and
Origen; indeed it seems to be bound up with certain fundamental ex
pressions of faith in the early centuries; for it is connected first of all
with the struggle against paganism, which was regarded a worship of
fered to demons.19
If there are many accounts of kindnesses done to heathens by

monks, usually though not always leading to their conversion,
even more numerous are the stories of monastic warfare against
demons and against pagan worship of demons. Shenoute was per
haps the most famous monastic smasher of idols20 but he was
only one in a solid tradition which continued down to the time of
Benedict, whose arrival at Monte Cassino St. Gregory describes
in the following terms:
On the top there was a very old temple and there, according to ancient
customs among the heathens, Apollo was worshipped by the poor fool
18Paphnutius, Vivian 61-63.

19J. Daniélou, Gospel Message and Hellenistic Culture (Philadelphia:
Westminster P 1980) 2.183.
20Besa, The Life ofShenoute, trans. D.N. Bell (Kalamazoo MI: Cistercian
1983).

ish natives of the rustic population. Sacred groves dedicated to
demons grew all around the temple where a horde of pagans still took
great pains to offer their sacrilegious sacrifices. As soon as he ar
rived,the man of God smashed up the idol, overturned the altar and
felled the sacred trees.“
It is abundantly clear that the monk’s spiritual warfare,

though fought on the battleground of solitary asceticism and
prayer, was a fight to the finish against demons and demon-wor
ship. It is thus that a disciple of Macarius incautiously shouted
after a pagan priest “Oh, oh, devil, where are you off to?” 22
Macarius himself, it must be added, though presumably not less
opposed to paganism than his outspoken follower, showed a bet
ter way by speaking gently to the irate priest, who had mean
while almost murdered the over-zealous disciple.
The one monastic text that Snowden examines in any detail is
the Life of Moses the Ethiopian. It is related of this holy monk
that “his body was black but his soul was brighter than the
sun.” 23 Almost converse is the exchange between Moses and the
archbishop who had just conferred the ephod on him. Alluding to
his white vestments, the archbishop observed that Moses had
now become all white. To this the Ethiopian humbly replied, “It is
true of the outside, lord and father, but what about Him who sees
the inside?” 2‘
Snowden comments that this exchange suggests that Ethiopi
ans accepted the imagery of spiritual blackness and whiteness
and did not find it offensive to their physical blackness. Perhaps.
But there were other, less happy incidents. When Moses came to
Scetis to live as a monk, the Elders, to test his vocation, treated
him with contempt, exclaiming, “Why does this black man come
among us?” Afterwards they asked him, “Abba, did that not
grieve you at all?” He replied, “I was grieved, but I kept silence."
Snowden does not mention that little story, though he does record
an even worse one. The archbishop of Alexandria, wishing to test
21Gregory the Great, The Life of St. Benedict, A. de Vogiié, trans. H.

Costello and E. de Bhaldraithe (Petersham, MA: St. Bede’s Publications
1993) VIII.10-11.
22Apophthegmata, Macarius the Great: Ward, 137.
23Anonymous Byzantine Menologium, quoted by Snowden, op. cit., 211.
24This and the following two anecdotes: Apophthegmata, Moses: Ward,
139.
216 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Moses, instructed his clergy to drive him out of the sanctuary.
This they did with results and cries of “Outside, black man!”
Moses was heard saying to himself, “They have acted rightly con
cerning you, for your skin is as black as ashes. You are not' a man,
so why should you be allowed to meet men?”
It is remarkable that Snowden does not perceive in such inci
dents evidence of racial bigotry, simulated perhaps on occasion,
but patently all too familiar even amongst the clergy. It is in fact
clear from the texts that the very name Ethiopian is considered
derogatory. It is synonymous with pagan, demon-worshipper and
even, as we shall see, with demon itself.
St. Augustine, like Jerome, stresses that the name Ethiopian
in Scripture signifies all nations, as by a part the whole. The
Ethiopians, Augustine says, are extremos et teterrimos
hominum.25 Snowden translates mildly as “the remotest and
blackest of men.” He sees this text as just another example of
what he calls “the Ethiopian-Scythian formula of classical writ
ers,” whereby Greeks and Romans, without any perjorative nu
ance, indicated the two extremes of remoteness and climate by
reference to the temperate regions of Greece and Rome. Scrat
ton’s translation has Augustine describing the Ethiopians as “the
remotest and foulest of mankind.”26 Whichever translation one
prefers, the word teterrimos clearly adds an unpleasant nuance to
the ideas of remoteness and bad weather. For Augustine, who
makes no mention of Scythians, to name Ethiopians is particu
larly appropriate because it demonstrates the universality of sal
vation by a sort of a fortiori. Ethiopians are not only the remotest
of people; their very blackness evokes the most abandoned condi
tion of paganism. If they can be saved, no race is excluded.
The use of Ethiopian as synonymous with unbelief and impiety
has, of course, Jewish and biblical roots. Noah’s son Ham brought
down his father’s curse upon himself and his descendants (Gen
9:25). His sons are the progenitors of all the peoples to the south
and west whom the Jews liked least: Canaan, the Philistines,
25On Psalm 71 (72) 12, CCL 39.98026.

Scratton was the translator of the third volume in the Oxford trans
26'1‘.
lation of St. Augustine’s commentary on the psalms, which was reproduced
in The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers (New York: The Christian Literature
Company 1888) Vol. VIII. The editor remarks: “It must be borne in mind
that the Hindoos as well as the sons of Phut were so called” (i.e. the remotest
and foulest ofmankind) 331, note 3.

Cretans, Libya, Egypt, and Ethiopia. As Ethiopian dynasties
from time to time ruled Egypt, the names Ethiopian and Egyp
tian are sometimes interchangeable. For historical and political
reasons Egypt is repeatedly cursed, occasionally under the name
of Cush or Ethiopia (Is 18-19; Zeph 2:12).
In his eighth conference, on Principalities, meaning demons,
Cassian probably gives us a good insight into how the monks of
Egypt viewed their near and remoter neighbors. The descendants
of Seth, he relates, when they eventually married the wicked de
scendants of Cain, acquired all sorts of wicked arts of wizardry
and magical enchantments, perversions of wholesome natural
knowledge, at the instigation of devils. He adds that, “as ancient
tradition tells us,” Ham, knowing what he could not bring that
sort of material into the ark with his good father and holy broth
ers, hid it in good waterproof conditions, and collected it again af
ter the Flood. “He so transmitted to his descendants a seedbed of
profanity and perpetual sin.” 27
Against that background, it is hardly surprising that in no
fewer than three conferences Cassian designates a demon simply
as an “Ethiopian” or a “loathsome Ethiopian.” 28
BLACK DEMONS
By Cassian’s time, of course, the equivalence Ethiopian: demon
had already become a topos in hagiographical and monastic liter
ature. Unaccountably, Snowden completely ignores this copious
dossier.
F. J. Dolger’s foundational study?9 published in 1918, chroni
cled the emergence of the theme. The Letter of Barnabas (c. AD
100) is the first Christian document known to us where the Devil
is described as the Black One. Much read and quoted in Alexan
drian circles, this text may even be the source for the Wta Antonii
black boy. It is not possible to be sure. By the middle of the third
century, the Identikit “Black One” had already emerged in
sharper focus as an “ugly Egyptian,” 3° an “Ethiopian woman,”31
27Cassian, Conf., 8.21.

23Cassian, Conf., 1.21; 2.13; 9.6.
29F.J. Dolger, Die Sonne der Gerechtigkeit und der Schwarze (Munster:
Liturgiegeschichtliche Forsuchungen II 1918).
3°Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis 10.6,8,9,14.
31Acts of Peter, 22.
218 ABR 49:2-JUNE 1998

or an “Ethiopian king.” 32 By the time the monks were being writ
ten about, the racial, not to say racist, reference had become a fa
miliar cliché.
Several monastic texts have already been adduced where
demons are described as Ethiopians or Nubians. One could men
tion many others. There is the case of the disobedient brother
who is punished by finding an Ethiopian lying on his sleeping
mat and gnashing his teeth at him.33 There is the opposite story
of the “stinking Ethiopian woman who acknowledges herself de
feated by a monk’s obedience.” 34 Abbot Pachon mentions an
Ethiopian maiden who sat on his knee and behaved more improp
erly than the English translator was prepared to render.35 He
boxed her ears. Then for two years he could not bear the evil
smell of his hand. Melania the Younger was tormented by the
devil in the form of a “young black man.” He was furious at her
success in turning others from error.36 The little black Ethiopian
boys encountered earlier distracting the monks from their
prayers at vigils were replaced later in the story by something
much worse. When it came to time for Communion, Macarius saw
Ethiopians placing coals on the outstretched hands of some un
worthy monks, “and the host which the priest seemed to be bring
ing in his hands returned to the altar.” 37
In a few cases the Ethiopian is not a demon but an inveterate
sinner; Abba Arsenius saw one such,38 or a lost soul. The monk
Isidore, who had desecrated the Eucharist, saw an Ethiopian
dressed in rags who said to him, “You and I are alike condemned
to the same damnation.” When asked by the horrified Isidore
“Who are you?” the black-faced one replied, “I am he who struck
the cheek of the Creator of all things, Our Lord Jesus Christ, at
the time of his passion.” 39 In another text from the same author,
John Moschos, it is difficult to distinguish demons from lost souls.
Abba Theodosios saw a young man whose appearance was
32Acts of Xantippe and Polyzena 17 ff.

33Apophthegmata, Heraclides: Ward, 72.
34Verba Seniorum, 5.5,23. PL 73.879.
35Palladius, Lausiac History, 23.5.
36Life of Melania the I’bunger, 54.
37Historia Monachorum in Aegypto, Macarius, 29 (Latin).
38Apophthegmata, Arsenius: Ward, 15.
39The Spiritual Meadow, 30.

brighter than the sun. He led him to an amphitheatre where the
audience was divided between those dressed in white, on one
side, and massed Ethiopians on the other. Theodosios was told
that he must fight a gigantic, strong, and hideous Ethiopian. He
was terrified, but the young man told him not to worry, because
he was the umpire. They had scarcely begun to wrestle when the
young man came up and awarded him the crown. “The faction of
the black~faced ones disappeared with moaning and groaning.
The other faction, consisting of those who wore white, shouted
their approval of the umpire and of him who had awarded me an
auspicious victory.” 4°
It is worth noting that in this text the contrast is between
black faces and white clothes. In the rare cases where white or
lightsome skin or faces are mentioned, this is never a reference to
racial characteristics but always to the transforming action of
grace, the reflected light of God’s glory. Abba Palladios had seen
fire pour each night from the cell of the hermit David, without
ever damaging it. He said to himself, “If God so glorifies his ser
vants in this world, how much more so in the world to come when
he shines upon their face like the sun! This, my children, is why I
embraced the monastic life.“1
CONCLUSION
Having reviewed the sort of discourse which the monks of old
employed when speaking about women, Irenée Hausherr re
marks that it is difficult to “reform habits of language rooted in
the most remote prehistory.” In the same connection he refers to
an “ativistic prejudice”42 which conditioned (and no doubt still
conditions) much male feeling, thought and utterance about
women. Similar considerations are probably all too relevant in
the present discussion. One must hope that the unmistakably
white demon of racial prejudice has been finally and utterly exor
cized from monastic minds and hearts.
In a fine article some forty years ago, B. Steidle noted that lit
tle black boys and Ethiopian demons belong to a precise and lim
4°Ibid., 66.
411bid., 69.
42L Hauscherr, Spiritual Direction in the Early Christian East (Kalama
zoo, MI: Cistercian 1990) 290.
220 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

ited area of time and space—the Patristic Age, and the Mediter
ranean world. “It is no longer possible nowadays” he wrote, “to
make of a particular people and their appearance a symbol of the
Devil.”43 More robustly realist than we are in his reading of the
texts, Steidle is less interested in the appropriateness of a liter
ary genre than in the Devil’s decision to stop appearing as an
Ethiopian. It was a matter of tactics, as he sees it, of abandoning
outmoded imagery in favor of something more contemporary, and
dangerous.
Demons, too, have their aggiornamento. It is an unfamiliar
thought, and a salutary warning.
43B. Steidle, Der schwarze kleine Knabe in der Alten Mo'nchserza'hlung,

in Benediktinische Monastsschrift 34 (1958) 339-50.

COMMUNITY: THE BENEDICTINE
CON TRI B UTI ON TO E VANGELIZATI ON
At the beginning of October, a very interesting

1996, there was
international symposium held at the Hong Kong Baptist Univer.
sity co-sponsored by the Ricci Institute of the University of San
Francisco. The subject was “The History of Christianity in
China.” One of the outstanding presenters at that symposium
was Fr. Nicholas Standaert, S.J., of the Catholic University of
Leuven, Belgium. He studied in Taiwan and is the author of a re
markable little book entitled Inculturation: The Gospel and Cul
tures (Manila, no date).
In his book, Standaert claims that there are really two steps in
inculturation. First, foreigners bring a tradition new to the cul
ture and seek to adapt their presentation of it as much as they
can to the culture. Then those native to the culture who have
been able to receive the tradition through the adaptation, allow it
to come alive within them according to their own culture. Some of
the communities of East Asia are very much still at the adapta
tion stage; others are pressing forward with true inculturation.
Wherever we are is fine, as long as we know what we are about—
and are actually about it.
INCULTURATION
We can immediately see that there are many challenges in this
process of inculturation. Those who bring the Benedictine tradi
tion to another culture must themselves be fully steeped in it so
that they can hand it on integrally and make adaptations to the
culture that will not betray the heritage. There is room for trial
and error in the adaptations. We have seen this in the remark
able case of Mateo Ricci, who first adopted the guise of a Chinese
Fr. M. Basil Pennington, O.C.S.O., is a monk of Spencer, Massachusetts,

who is living in the Trappist monastery on Lantao Island (PO. Box 5 Peng
Chau) at Hong Kong, China. He is a very well-known author and proponent
of Centering Prayer. This talk was given to the Benedictine superiors of the
Far East at a conference in Taipei.
222 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Buddhist monk and only later realized that he could better and
more clearly bring the wisdom of the gospels to the Chinese as a
man of letters living according to the Confucian tradition.
In living out the process of inculturation there has to be much
humility on both sides. The foreigners have to push ahead even
though they are painfully aware of their limitations in regard to
language and understanding of the local culture. The recipients
have to be humble enough to receive a wisdom even though the
bearers speak poorly and are marked by the mannerisms of a cul
ture that is seemingly inferior. They have to be humble enough to
willingly remain learners until they have a solid grasp of the tra
dition that is being brought to them.
And there has to be a realization that no matter how lofty is
their native culture, the tradition that is being brought to them
has much to complement and complete and even correct their na
tive culture. “There is a greater than Solomon here” (Mt 12:42),
greater than Confucius, greater than Buddha—the Son of God
who has come from heaven. “No one knows the Father but the
Son” (Lk 10:22). Finally there is the challenge to give the proper
cultural expression to the heritage that has been well received.
It must be remembered that Christianity, and the Benedictine
way as an expression of Christianity, have their own proper cul
ture. It is not always easy to discern which of their cultural ele
ments are elements that are essential to them and must be re
tained no matter what secular culture they are taking expression
in, and what elements can be adapted to the other culture. For
example, is bread and wine so essential to the Christian cultural
expression of the eucharistic meal that they must be maintained
as the elements in all cultural contexts, or can the food and drink
be adapted to the local culture? Can we in China celebrate the
Eucharist with tea and rice cakes? How far can Benedictines go
in adapting the habit? In India can the cowl be replaced with the
kavi? Answers will be different in different cultures.
COMMUNITY
Christianity is a call to the human community to realize itself
in an even deeper oneness, in a oneness that is almost beyond
community. The inspired writer uses the image of the organic
unity ofa body (1 Cor 12:12ff.) Christ himself points to the abso
lute oneness of the Divine: “Father, that they may be one even as
M. BASIL PENNINGTON, O.C.S.O. 223

you and I are one, that they may be one in us” (J n 17:21). Ideally,
the local Christian parish is the immediate locus of this oneness
in Christ. But the parish community is not always well realized
and almost difficult to perceive in the great dispersion and diver
sity of the lives of the members, who belong very much to other
social, economic, political communities.
St. Benedict wrote his Rule precisely for community, for ceno
bites, the fortissimum genus monachorum (RB 1.13). He demands
that his disciples leave behind all other communities to have the
maximum freedom to enter wholeheartedly into this community.
They are even to take off the clothing of the community they are
coming from and put on the clothing of the monastic community
(RB 58.26), however distinctive it may or may not be. They are to
bring nothing with them from the former communities, and are in
the future to receive nothing from them (RB 54), save with per
mission. And there the complications begin. However much apart
this community might be in fact and spirit, it is yet in this world.
In many ways it is still dependent upon the communities around
it and, to be truly Christian, responsible for them in the overrid
ing oneness of our humanity and Christness. ,
Nevertheless, as problematic as drawing these lines will al

ways be, the Benedictine community is uniquely called to be com
munity and is geared to stand out as community: as a community
dedicated to Christ: “Let them prefer nothing whatever to Christ”
(RB 72.12); as a community of prayer: “Nothing is to be preferred
to the Work of God” (RB 43.3); as a hospitable community: “All
guests are to be welcomed as Christ” (RB 53.1); a community
whose members love one another with a chaste and caring love.
This is, indeed, a modeling of what Christianity is all about.
This Christian ideal to love others as oneself, an ideal not for
eign to some Asian religions, is far ahead of where most people
are in the world today. But it is the sole hope for the survival of
the planet. When we do unto others as we would have them do
unto us, the climate changes from one of competition and war to
one of peace and cooperation. Indeed, this cooperation is needed
to save our shared environment. Benedictine communities are
traditionally oases of peace, for all is rightly ordered therein; God
first, all together in mutual respect, love and obedience. This is
cooperation at its best, creating a truly humane environment.
224 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

THE WORK OF GOD
The community stands out most visibly as the Christ commu
nity when the monks or nuns stand together celebrating the
Work of God. We all know from experience how much the worthy
celebration of the Opus Dei demands that we do give ourselves to
community. There is not much room for solos in the daily celebra
tion. Dropping everything else, not once but several times a day,
assembling before the throne of Divine Mercy and singing praise
and thanksgiving to our God, this really brings out for ourselves,
and for all who see or hear of it, what are the primal attitudes of
Christian faith. God comes first and is to be worshipped before all
else. God is to be thanked as the source of all else. It is a powerful
witness and actions speak louder than words. If we talk a lot
about prayer, about giving expression to our relationship with
God, but are not seen to actually give it priority, our words are not
apt to make much difference to the lives of people.
When Our Lord speaks of the urgency of the apostolate: “Look,
the fields are ready for an abundant harvest”—and indeed they
are ready in much of East Asia today—what was his command?
“Pray that the Master send laborers” (Mt 9:37-38). This is all the
more pertinent where so many of the fields are inaccessible to us.
We hear of wonderful things being accomplished in China and
other places by lay catechists. Where, though, are Christians and
others to see this mandate of prayer being fulfilled? This should
be an important facet of our apostolic endeavor and evident in
what we pray and how we pray.
For the Opus Dei to be all that is should be for the peoples of
the culture to whom we are bringing our Benedictine heritage, it
is going to call for initial adaptation on the way to inculturation.
We cannot continue to recite the breviary in the way the monks
and nuns of Europe and the United States do. We see magnificent
examples of the inculturation of the Work of God in India at
Shantivanam and Kurisumala. We have to be equally courageous
and creative in pressing ahead in our East Asian cultures.
LECTIO DIVINA
For the Opus Dei to beall that it should be for any of us, it has
to be grounded on a solid practice of lectio. When Fr. Anthony
DeMello was writing about many different ways of prayer, he
identified lectio as “The Benedictine Method.” And quite rightly.

Benedict calls for his disciples to spend some hours every day in
lectio. We have to take care not to reduce lectio to study, a part of
our work for some of us, or to quite ordinary reading. It is a place
of encounter with God where our minds and hearts are formed
with those attitudes that make it possible to celebrate the Work
of God as it truly should be celebrated. It should prepare us to
welcome guests as they should be welcomed and treat each other
with the love and respect that is due.
In lectio we do not master the text; we let God in and through
the text “master” us, forming our whole outlook on reality, trans
forming our consciousness and giving us a divine consciousness:
“Let this mind be in you that is in Christ Jesus” (Phil 2:5). There
is, of course, a challenge here of encouraging this openness to re
ceiving the word of God and letting God form us through it in
ways that are truly adapted to the local culture. It is perhaps
more than providing good translations by native persons directly
from the original biblical languages. I can remember Fr. Oshida,
the Japanese Dominican, telling me that he became truly Chris
tian as a Japanese person only when he was able to read the word
of God in its original Hebrew and the Greek in the light of the He
brew. How important is it to provide opportunity for our juniors to
learn the biblical languages?
We need also to make the wisdom of the Rule readily available
as well as that of the Fathers and Mothers of the Church, and of
monasticism. I am struck at how consonant is the wisdom of the
Rule with that of the Confucian writings. Such consonance can be
a bridge for reaching out and a beginning on which to build, lead
ing to the completing wisdom of Christ.
MEDITATION
Whenever we speak of lectio or lectio divina, we imply the
whole of the relationship: lectio, meditatio, oratio, contemplatio.
The peoples of Asia need very much to see the contemplative face
of the Church. If it is only “contemplative communities” who can
show this forth, then we are in trouble. If Christian contempla
tion cannot be an evident and grounding part of the life of every
monk and nun, then how can it be of the life of the average lay
person? Our lay people will have to go to the Buddhists to find a
contemplative practice for the lay person—and that is what all
too many actually think. It is imperative that those actively en
226 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

gaged communities also give witness to the place of contempla
tion in the fulfillment and energizing of their lives.
We do have a semantic problem here. The word contemplation
is not too current for most of the peoples of our areas (in Asia).
They speak more of meditation, generally meaning a contempla
tive type of meditation (though the Buddhists do have an analyt
ical meditation as well) rather than the discursive type that has
been more prevalent in the Christian community in recent cen
turies. The earlier Christian understanding of meditation—al
lowing the word to be simply present until it forms the mind and
heart—would be closer to Asian understandings. In any case we
might do well to speak of “Christian meditation” rather than con
templation when we are speaking of our contemplative practice.
Every monastery should have a meditation space, in the
church or apart from it, for silent meditation. It would be a pow
erful witness as well as a great grace for the community if the
community could sit together each day at some time when it
would be possible for the people to join them. Christian monas
teries should be known as places where persons can go to learn
contemplative meditation (such as Centering Prayer) just as Bud
dhist monasteries and centers are.
APOSTOLATES
Our apostolates are, indeed, an expression of our hospitality.

That is why it is difficult to see an authentic Benedictine aposto
late apart from a community. It is certainly problematic when the
apostolate grows so large or so demanding that it overshadows
the community and its witness as a community of prayer. A com
munity with a large school or active parish may have to have the
courage to ask itself: Should we sacrifice our particular Benedic
tine apostolate, the witness of true Christian community with
prayer (lectio, Opus Dei, contemplation) given its due primacy, to
this endeavor, or is this endeavor so important to the apostolate
of the church here and now that it warrants the loss in part of our
proper Benedictine apostolate?
If the latter is the case, there still remains for the community
to explore how their apostolate can be successfully carried out in
a way that bears the Benedictine mark as effectively as possible.
The members of a Benedictine parish should be well aware that
the Opus Dei is being regularly celebrated in their parish church

and that there are regular times of meditation. Lectio groups and
meditation groups would be an important part of the parish life.
Parish hospitality, especially to the poor and needy, would be an
evident feature.
In a Benedictine school students would begin their day with
some form of Lauds. Lectio and meditation would be a part of the
curriculum so that every student would come to know this as part
of the Christian heritage. How sad it would be if students could
go through a Benedictine school and still think they had to go to
the Buddhists to learn to meditate!
These are just suggestive thoughts. There are many other
fuller, deeper, richer ways in which the true Benedictine spirit
can be brought in to inform our particular apostolates. Above all
it should be the nurturing presence of the community that leav
ens all and gives it a special sense of being of the Christian com
munity, an extension of the Benedictine community at the heart
of it, which is a visible realization of the community that we are
as the one Christ.
There is another aspect of Benedictine community life that
may have its importance in some East Asian countries, and that
is its autonomy. The Benedictine community is quite fully au
tonomous. It elects its own leadership, supports itself and re
cruits its own members. And yet, without infringing on that au
tonomy, the community does enjoy a certain strengthening from
belonging to a worldwide order or federation. Reflection on this
fact opens the way to some new modeling for church unity where
the more recent traditional structures are seen as problematic.
Obviously and ultimately it is the quality of the life of the com
munity, the kind of person it fosters, and their relationship with
the surrounding people that matters. If the community is not per
ceived as a community of love, its presence and its activities will
have little true apostolic effectiveness.
On September 23, 1996, our Holy Father Pope John Paul II ad
dressed a letter to the newly elected Abbot Primate Marcel
Rooney. In the course of the letter, the Holy Father sums up in a
paragraph much of whatI have been saying:
What does the Church expect from Benedictine monasteries? They
must be seen as privileged places of Christian life: places where au
thentic gospel values prevail. They are “schools of the service of the
Lord” (RB Prol 45) dedicated to a life of prayer. All Christians are the
light of the world (see Mt 5:14), called to show the values of faith by
228 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

the witness of their lives; but light is easily darkened or ignored in the
world. However, the monastery, the Christian community perma
nently dedicated to the evangelical life, radiates a more intense and
constant life. It is a light that illumines the whole Church and
strengthens its witness. The monastery is a school of prayer for those
Christians who wish to know the Lord better; it is a witness of con
stant fidelity, in order to confirm the faith of the People of God; it is a
proclamation of the values of the Spirit for those who do not yet know
the Lord.
M. BASIL PENNINGTON, O.C.S.O. - 229

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
IIIIIII
IIIIII
IIIIIIIIIII
390 50II 4
NOTICE
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years without one, we think that is time to change that.
it
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Buurzlcmv

23;; The American

49:2 June 1998

l23—Contemplation and the Life Cycle:

138—Benedjct’s ‘Military’ Vocabulary

148—Buddhism as Radical Religion

165—Hildegard’s Vision of the Eucharist

195—Review of Terrence Kardong’s

209—Black Demons in the Desert

222—Community: The Benedictine

ABR CONTRIBUTORS FOR 1998

St 1'0"“, MO Immaculate Heart oak Mesh 11‘ Santa Familia

Jerome, ID Big Sur, Belize, C.A.

G°°d She herd

Mosul") de 83° Bento Priorato de

Holy Angels Convent Pine City, NY ggfgéth-Ieaven

St. Benedict Warren,

Canon City, CO Erie, PA gimmfgiifyg‘ffry Canyon, TX

my M onas assess assesses?

But er, PA St Michael

Tr: Sacred Heart Monaste ry St- Gel‘tmde Monaste ry

St. Davld, Lisle, IL Cottonwood, ID

l23—Contemplation and the Life Cycle:

138—Benedict’s ‘Military’ Vocabulary

148—Buddhism as Radical Religion

165—Hildegard’s Vision of the Eucharist

209—Black Demons in the Desert

THE AMERICAN BENEDICTINE REVIEW

The American Benedictine Review (ISSN:0002-7650) is published

Address all correspondence to: The American Benedictine Review,

122 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Paul J. Philibert, O.P.

You search me, Lord, and know me.

LIFE CYCLE CHANGES AND SPIRITUALITY

124 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

PAUL J. PHILIBERT, OF. 125

6Paul J. Philibert, “Readiness for Ritual: Psychological Aspects of Matu

126 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

PAUL J. PHILIBERT, OF. 127

7See Paul J. Philibert, “Landscaping the Religious Imagination,” in E.

128 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

Now let me ask the question: How do all these gradually

PAUL J. PHILIBERT, OF. 129

I think Merton is right: God is not asking us to re-create in our

9Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation (New York: New Direc

130 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

10See W.H. Shannon, “Contemplation, Contemplative Prayer,” in

PAUL J. PHILIBERT, O.P. 131

Where can I hide from you?

132 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

CONTEMPORARY IMAGES OF THE CONTEMPLATIVE LIFE

11See Erik H. Erikson, Insight and Responsibility (New York; Norton

PAUL J. PHILIBERT, OR 133

No one can hear the loud voice of the city

Some moments of music are as imposing in their silence as Mer

12Selected Poems of Thomas Merton (New York: New Directions 1967)

134 ABR 49:2 - JUNE 1998

This process of gathering into a poem the juices of lifetime, to

PAUL J. PHILIBERT, OF. 135