How to Live: What the rule of St. Benedict Teaches Us About Happiness, Meaning, and Community. Judith Valente

I wish to express gratitude to Lisa Breger and Annie Parker for being early readers of the manuscript; Mary Lou Kownacki, OSB, Mary Ellen Plumb, OSB, and Anne McCarthy, OSB for reviewing the manuscript for accuracy; Joan Chittister, OSB for her insightful introduction; Kathleen Norris, Macrina Wiederkehr, OSB, and Mary Margaret Funk, OSB for their inspirational work on The Rule; Jane Hagaman of Red Wheel/Weiser and Addie Talbott for their careful editing; Greg Brandenburgh of Hampton Roads Publishing, without whose vision the book would not be possible; my agent, Amanda Annis of Trident Literary Agency, for her unwavering belief in this project; Ray Clem of Atchison for his cheerful support of me and all things Benedictine; the Benedictine sisters of Mount St. Scholastica for modeling The Rule for me; and my beautiful husband, Charles Reynard, for being my best editor and best friend.

Editor’s Note: The epigraphs in this book are all taken from The Rule of St. Benedict. The chapter titles are noted in each one.

Translations of The Rule are adapted from A Reader’s Version of The Rule of St. Benedict in Inclusive Language. Edited by Marilyn Schauble, OSB and Barbara Wojciak, OSB. Benetvision. 1989.

FOREWORD

The United States, young and bustling, new to the world, and racing to become something fresh and meaningful, is impatient with age. We are a living experiment in innovation and uniqueness. Europe and other older civilizations, on the other hand, are studies in transformation and tradition. They don’t bulldoze the past to put up something new; they build on it from within and in the process make way for the new even as they preserve the old. Clearly, the underlying difference between the character of American cities and the cast and quality of European cities is obvious: it is the way each of these cultures deals with time.

The distinction is worth contemplating on more levels than one. The lesson to be considered here has as much to do with spiritual awareness as it does with architecture. It has something to tell us about the way we all view time.

Time is a continuum of empty ages filled only by the substance we bring to it ourselves. The temptation of every age is to discount the old, to worship at the shrine of the new. But the value of time lies as much in what we ourselves bring to the understanding of time as it does in what time brings to us. It is our awareness and interpretations of time that determine our own place in the development of the human spirit, of the spiritual impact of yesterday on tomorrow.

The deep down spiritual truth is that time is always and forever an invitation to growth. Whether the wisdom of the ages shapes us, or not, determines the nature of our civilization, the depth of our culture, the spiritual filter through which we ourselves, in our own time, mold the character of the world around us. If, as individuals, we understand time as the storehouse of our souls, explore it for answers to perennial questions, and test it for its value, then we stand to become the bearers of the wisdom of the ages. If not, we simply join the ranks of societies before us that walked through life untouched by time. We become one more excursion through epochs we failed to fathom, and so end devoid of the substance they were meant to bring us.

And yet, if we make the effort to trace the chain of life and thought and ideals that have brought us as a people from one moment in history to another, we make ourselves part of the passage to a healthy tomorrow. We are prepared, then, to go in our own times—where there is no road—and leave a path.

This book helps us see what we are losing; to make us taste what we’re in danger of dismissing as unimportant. It reminds us of what we’ve missed but is still at hand, waiting to enliven the age in which we live as well as to be remembered for its contribution to the past.

This book, written in a period of political turmoil and personal angst, of national division and individual uncertainty, recalls us to the best of ourselves. It details for us the basis of good society. It brings us beyond the roiling headlines of the day to a consciousness of the little things that make for human community, healthy families, moral maturity, and personal peace and happiness.

But to do that, it takes us back to the thinking of the 6th century. It translates a moment of social upheaval for us and identifies a point of spiritual eruption, the impact of which still marks the world. Most importantly of all, it asks whether or not the ideas that lifted eras before us out of darkness might be exactly what we need now to restore our own best selves in the here and now.

The document this book expounds as a guide for modern living is Benedict of Nusia’s Rule for monastics. Written in the 6th century, it is still one of the preeminent spiritual treatises, a veritable guarantee of the good life. But why?

Because of its glorious, even extreme, asceticism? No, though it certainly models self-control.

Because of its rigorous prayer life? No, despite its commitment to regular and profound immersion in the mind of God.

Because of its demanding solitude and silence? Hardly, given all its concern for the upbuilding of the human community.

Then why? In a word: simplicity. Because of its attention to our undying desire to be truly happy. It describes for us what it takes to create genuine human community. It challenges us to find balance in the face of destructive competition. It encourages us to sharpen our commitment to cultivate the meaningful in life. It enables us to renew in ourselves the appreciation of humility in a world of narcissistic excess.

Or, to put it another way, it deals now, as then, with the likelihood of daily life to fray our nerves and wear down our early commitment to make everything in life a spiritual experience. Indeed, who among us does not need a spiritual path to lead

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