“Do not grumble or think ill of others.” (Rule of St. Benedict Ch. 4:39)
What is the key to practicing gratitude rather than grumbling? How can we live a grateful life in the midst of pain and suffering, our own, that of others, and that of the world around us? Is it possible to be thankful for challenging experiences?
We use the Rule of St. Benedict and Scripture to address these questions at our November oblate meeting. We opened our meeting with the Welcome Prayer written by Fr. Thomas Keating).
If we truly practice this prayer to welcome all of the above, we find that the benefit of grumbling is minimal. In fact, grumbling is self-sabotage. The benefit of welcoming everything is that through the moments of distress, unease, discomfort, or suffering, we learn that another way could be a blessing. What can be difficult about the Welcome Prayer is the “letting go” of our control—and oh my, how much we prefer when things go our way.
St. Benedict has a few things to say about grumbling, a form of letting go of our own gripes, opinions, and negativity for the greater good of the community and ultimately our own selves. He encourages his monks to cultivate humility, patience, and a joyful acceptance of their station in life. It requires a surrender of pride to be content even when it is challenging to be.
We read the following excerpts and practice Lectio Divina as a group, sharing the insights we gained.
I carefully consider everything that I write and share here, especially the more personal or contentious reflections. I rarely write and post on the same day. Not so with my speech. I find myself saying often enough, “Did I just say that out loud?” Words fly out of my mouth much faster than they flow from my pen or keyboard.
Perhaps this is why I enjoy journaling and writing so much. It slows my mind down. In silence, I can be more deliberate, careful, and organized in what I share. A healthy respect for silence could save me some angst in times when my mouth works faster than my mind.
At our annual oblate retreat, with the theme “Building Community Through Our Oblate Promises,” the importance of silence was the topic of the opening session led by Fr. Thomas Leitner, the administrator of St. Benedict Center and a monk who lives at the monastery across the road. Throughout the weekend, we would learn about and practice silence.
Why is silence so fundamental to Benedictine spirituality?
Silence is the way to self-knowledge. A discipline of silence confronts us with ourselves. “Silence is a way for us to put up with ourselves the way we are. Not everything that comes to mind at times of silence is pleasant. Repressed needs and wishes may come up, repressed anger, and perhaps missed opportunities,” Fr. Thomas shared. Silence gives our wounds space to surface, allowing us time to wrestle with and soothe our pain in healthy ways. Silence allows us to see ourselves unfiltered without the influence of others.
In The Interior Castle, St. Teresa of Avila uses imagery of a castle for our soul, emphasizing “how necessary this room (of self-knowledge) is…we shall never completely know ourselves if we don’t strive to know God.” She writes that God dwells within us, and to know God, we must first know ourselves. Hard, but necessary, work to “know thyself,” as the ancient Greek maxim suggests.
Silence connects us to the Divine. Seventh-century bishop and theologian, St. Isaac of Syria, writes:
Try to enter into your treasure house and you will see the treasure of heaven. For both the one and the other are the same, and the one and the same entrance reveals them both. The ladder leading to the kingdom is within you, that is, in your soul.
We enter this “treasure house,” our very soul, through the practice of prayer. Some of us may be conditioned to think of prayer as a transactional bubble-gum-machine approach to asking God for what we want. We put in a coin; God supplies the big gumball. Our prayers are “answered.” Yet this is not the kind of prayer that leads to self-knowledge or to a connection with God. Consider a poem by the 19th-century Danish theologian Søren Kierkegaard that points to a different kind of prayer.
As my prayer became more and more devout and interior, there was less and less I had to say. Finally I became completely still.
I became— this is perhaps an even greater contrast to talking— I became a listener.
First I thought praying is talking. I learned, however, that praying is not only silence, but listening.
That’s the way it is: Praying does not mean hearing oneself speak, praying means becoming still and being still and waiting until I hear God.
-Søren Kierkegaard
Silence builds confidence and leads to self-respect.
“As my prayer became more and more devout and interior,” I come to know myself with greater depth. This knowing builds my confidence: I have been created just as I am, in the image of God. I forgive myself for weaknesses and celebrate my gifts. I seek less approval from others. I have “less and less” to say to justify, convince, or plead my case of worthiness to myself or others.
Teacher, writer, and friend, Parker Palmer, writes, “One of our most debilitating illusions (is) that the answer to our problems is always ‘out there’ somewhere, never ‘in here.’ It’s an illusion that’s constantly reinforced by educational and religious institutions that make us dependent on “experts” and “authorities.” We need not look for knowledge in others; we can trust our own interiority, the Divine Expert Within. I can grow in self-respect, knowing God is within me, intimately speaking to me when I am silent long enough.
“In a delightful letter on the contemplative life called The Ladder of Monks, Guigo II (a 12th-century Carthusian monk) divides the experience of Lectio into four phases or degrees: reading, meditation, prayer, contemplation. Reading, he says, puts food whole into the mouth. Meditation chews it, digs for treasure. Prayer extracts the flavor and helps us to get to know the treasure. Contemplation embraces and welcomes the thirsty soul.” (A Tree Full of Angels: Seeing the Holy in the Ordinary, Macrina Weiderkehr)
Lectio Divina: Matthew 9:1-13; 35-36
He entered a boat, made the crossing, and came into his own town. And there people brought to him a paralytic lying on a stretcher. When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, “Courage, child, your sins are forgiven.” At that, some of the scribes said to themselves, “This man is blaspheming.” Jesus knew what they were thinking, and said, “Why do you harbor evil thoughts? Which is easier, to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Rise and walk’? But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins”—he then said to the paralytic, “Rise, pick up your stretcher, and go home.” He rose and went home. When the crowds saw this they were struck with awe and glorified God who had given such authority to human beings.
As Jesus passed on from there, he saw a man named Matthew sitting at the customs post. He said to him, “Follow me.” And he got up and followed him. While he was at table in his house, many tax collectors and sinners came and sat with Jesus and his disciples. The Pharisees saw this and said to his disciples, “Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?”
He heard this and said, “Those who are well do not need a physician, but the sick do. Go and learn the meaning of the words, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ I did not come to call the righteous but sinners.” Jesus went around to all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom, and curing every disease and illness. At the sight of the crowds, his heart was moved with pity for them because they were troubled and abandoned, like sheep without a shepherd.
In our oblate group, we read, reflect, respond, and rest in sacred scripture. There is a synergy that results from sharing a word or phrase that resonates within, as well as the wisdom or insight each has received. I leave with a greater understanding of other perspectives and of how I am called to follow Christ.
Some reflections from our reading:
Courage, child, your sins are forgiven…Rise, pick up your stretcher, and go home. Jesus’ first instruction is to have courage and to know that sins are forgiven. Many aspects in our life require our courage—difficult conversations, facing our own limitations, expressing love, making or adapting to changes, dealing with physical or emotional suffering, feeling despair, and understanding our next steps in each season of life, to name a few. Life requires courage. Some questions we might consider in taking Jesus’ advice: What is our stretcher or our crutch? Where might we be trapped or paralyzed? We are not to harbor evil thoughts about others or ourselves, knowing that nothing can separate anyone from the love of God. Jesus asks us to rise—right where we are, no matter who we are, and go home. Our home is much more than a brick-and-mortar dwelling. Home is a place of peace, where we can be seen and heard, loved and believed, held and yet free. Home accepts all the parts of our self, our truest self.
Home is where you belong. It is your shelter and place of rest, the place where you can be yourself. –John O’ Donohue, Eternal Echoes: Celtic Reflections on Our Yearning to Belong
They were struck with awe and glorified God whohad given such authority to human beings. We are to become like Christ. We can rise up, go home, follow, listen, have our hearts moved, give mercy, have courage, doubt, choose, forgive and be forgiven, be filled with awe, mix and mingle with the “tax collectors and sinners” of our day (the poor, oppressed, and marginalized), and be compassionate. In a very short story, Jesus asks much and gives much. He is an example of who we can be to others. The crowds were struck with awe by what Jesus did. We, too, can stand in awe of the kindness of others, a spectacular sunrise, or a day of feeling healthy. In each day, there are countless ways to choose awe and gratitude, glorifying God in all.
I did not come to call the righteous but sinners. Accepting both the righteous and the sinner within ourselves is a sort of homecoming. Accepting with humility that we are not one or the other—saint or sinner—is the way to integration and accepting others. Jesus tells the crowd that he desires mercy. We can be merciful, too, slow to judge ourselves and others.
His heart was moved. This line resonated with me the most. Jesus, in his humanity, felt pity for the “troubled and abandoned.” Beyond our bodies, Jesus sees our inner wounds, our fears and anxieties, our feelings. He sees beyond the physical to our spiritual and emotional needs. This, too, we must ask—who might the troubled and abandoned be today? We can only know who they are by deep listening, extending hospitality, and having compassion as Jesus did. And then we must ask, how are we responding to them? With judgment or with a moved heart?
I realized this most profoundly when I was the one who felt unheard. Perhaps you, too, have had a moment like this when you felt no one was listening—a meaningful, traumatic, challenging, or gratifying experience that needed to be shared fell on deaf ears.
I have written about the Benedictine promises of obedience and the importance of listening to God and others as part of one’s spiritual growth. “Listening requires us to pause, to have silence, and to be open to seeing in a new way. Listening can lead to a shift in perspective, a flash of insight, a new understanding. When you listen closely to another, it is an expression of love,” I shared in a recent reflection.
It is just as crucial to examine the impact it has on others when we are forgetful about listening—understandably, we get busy, or miss clues that others need our ear. Indeed, there are times when others may not realize how important it is (these slights may be easily forgiven), but there may be other times when you or another is summarily dismissed. The message is loud and clear—either you or what you have to say is not valued. It feels hurtful, as if you don’t matter, as if you are insignificant. Being intentionally rejected for your thoughts, ideas, feelings, and experiences leaves a wound, a hole in one’s heart, a sense of being rejected or abandoned.
For me, the experience of not being heard came during a traumatic time for women who had been sexually harassed, abused, or assaulted. I felt my trauma, but also the suffering of so many beyond me. It was a profound compassion, sharing the wound. It came to me then, weeping, that this is what it might feel like for those who have spent their entire lives not feeling listened to, of all those who have been unheard throughout our history, from the enslaved, defeated, oppressed, and marginalized—those who have no one to listen to or validate their pain. They had a story in their heart that needed to be heard, then and now.
“Compassion asks us to go where it hurts, to enter places of pain, to share in brokenness, fear, confusion, and anguish. Compassion challenges us to cry out with those in misery, to mourn with those who are lonely, to weep with those in tears… Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human.” –Donald McNeill, Douglas Morrison, and Henri Nouwen (quoted in Boundless Compassion by Joyce Rupp)
My heart felt broken—not just for me, but for the lack of compassion I may have shown others. Simultaneously wounded and regretful, a part of me died while something else was taking root—a desire to listen to those who feel unheard, to offer acceptance where there might not be, to advocate for those marginalized. I felt pierced entirely with compassion. Tears flow often now for the suffering that, perhaps, I had not noticed before, the pain that I may have caused others, and the pain that continues to go unnoticed or even flatly denied.
I created a SoulCollage® card shortly after this eye-opening, traumatic experience. Consider the image and the following questions.
“The eyes of the Lord are toward the righteous and his ears toward their cry”. -Psalm 34:15
Questions for reflection:
Do you have a story you would like to share with someone? Have you been able to share it with another or write about it? If so, how did it make you feel to be heard? Does it inspire you to listen to the pain and suffering of the world?
Can there be some healing for your wound by expressing it to God if there is no one to share it with? Are you available for others to share their story with you? What is the consequence for a loved one if their story isn’t shared? Is there a person or marginalized group of people that you may listen to more closely than you have?
May our prayers be heard for all those suffering, and for those who have shared their stories but not been heard. May we listen with “the ear of our hearts,” as Benedict instructs. May we be moved to tears. Amen.
But now faith, hope, and love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love. –1 Corinthians 13:13
This scripture verse is one of the most frequently read at wedding ceremonies, but it is meant for more than those getting married. We are created to love and be loved—all of us, no matter who we are or our chosen paths in life, whether monk or married.
Our deepest longing is to be loved. Love is the thread that runs through all the world’s religions. In Christianity, the Great Commandment is to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind” and to “love your neighbor as yourself.”
Several years ago, during spiritual direction with Benedictine monk, Fr. Mauritius Wilde, we discussed, despite our different vocations, how much we have in common. We each have a holy longing—to love God, to have a healthy love for ourselves, and to give and receive love. Practically speaking, we are the same age, we are both teachers and retreat leaders, have one brother, have the same middle name (Marie—seriously, what are the odds on that?), we share similar Enneagram personality traits, and each of us professed our marriage or monastic vows 40 years ago, a day apart. I was married on August 17, 1985, and Fr. Mauritius entered the monastery as a novice on August 18, 1985.
After one of many conversations where one of us would say, “That is exactly how it is for me!” or “Me, too!”, I half-seriously, half-jokingly suggested that we write a book about how, setting the whole monk vs. being married thing aside, we experience our love of God and others in many of the same ways. Nearly forgotten, this idea resurfaced a year or so ago, and we decided that leading a retreat together would be a good beginning. Our theme would be love, specifically how the Rule of St. Benedict can help us grow in love and to discover our “inner monk.”
“The monk, a universal archetype of the search for the divine, represents everything in you that leans toward the sacred, all that reaches for what is eternal. The monk represents everything within you that is drawn to seek with unwavering love; to wait for the Holy One with reverential awe; to praise, bow, and adore.” -Christine Valters Paintner
The Rule of St. Benedict shows us the path of love, of nurturing the monk within while living in community. During our retreat, held in July 2025, we shared how the monk’s promises—stability, obedience, and conversion of life—are the foundation for learning and growing in the “school for God’s service.” (RB Prologue 45) For the monk, this place of learning is the monastery. For me, it begins in my family as wife and mother. But each of us is more than our role as a monk or a married person. Each can be transformed by practicing love in our friendships, workplaces, community, and environment.
“We have God and we have each other. We have our island community, fragile, and yet a fortress.”
–Parable of the Sower, Octavia Butler
The past few months have presented some hard times in my circle of friends and family. Each week presents a new situation—diagnosis, dying, death—all of it; not to mention the growing instability in our country and world. It seems impossible not to feel sadness, loss, fear, even despair.
Over a recent campfire conversation with friends, my husband shared a sympathy card he received after his brother, Steve, passed away. Overcome with tears, he could not get through the words, so I finished reading it for him. I, too, was in tears by the time I reached the end. And that’s when it hit me–this is how we must walk through any darkness we face: KINDNESS.
My husband’s former co-worker was so thoughtful! His words are an example of how we can extend kindness to others. We are grateful for all the acts of kindness from so many during the last few weeks and throughout our lives. Kindness matters.Continue reading “Kindness Matters”→
Each of us in our Oblate community comes to a Lectio Divina discussion from our personal experience of the Divine. The beauty of Lectio is that the reading, insights, and discussion fall differently on each of our hearts. When we practice Lectio Divina, we learn from each other by sharing a word or phrase that resonates. We see a deeper meaning to the reading with each contribution as we “listen with the ear of the heart.” (RB Prologue) What resonated with our group:
“The crowd was pressing in…put out a short distance from the shore.” Sometimes what we bear seems so much. Perhaps we could break our feelings, responsibilities, or worries into smaller pieces. Jesus only asks us to go a short distance–taking on only what we need to while trusting that when we go into deeper waters, God will be with us. Even Jesus sat down for a bit to continue his teaching. We learn from his example: our work sometimes requires distance and healthy boundaries from others. We must listen and discern.
“We have worked hard all night.” In times of weariness, feeling overworked, defeated, or unsuccessful, we must carefully listen for the hopeful words of Jesus. The first word in the Rule of St. Benedict is “Listen”—he knew that we cannot go out into deep waters alone. We find encouragement in pausing, resting, and receiving help from others.
The soulful ritual of asking for a word of the year never fails to bring new ways of seeing. What I learn from pondering one word could fill a library of books; synchronicity is my teacher. Last year I wrote, “I trust that the word, as it settles in my heart, will be a guiding light for months to come—challenging, inspiring, and transforming me.”
This ancient spiritual practice invites attentive listening. Around the beginning of December, my word-of-the-year radar activates as I await a word that shimmers with possibility. I had considered peace or hope, as I long for both. While on retreat, images came together into a SoulCollage® card I titled Hope: Rest in the Light.
Perhaps LIGHT I wondered, but I was skeptical it could be the “guiding light” I wrote of, as cliché and overused it is. Light at the end of the tunnel. Light of my life. Out like a light. Come to the light. Go to the light. In light of. See the light. Shed a little light. Taken lightly. Shine your light. Light a fire under your… and so on.
I reflect on the card, listening for the wisdom it holds. It is our journey to carry the light. We are embodied with Christ-light. Rest in the light. Patiently wait. Holding the light is sharing the light. Words and phrases that resonate come together in the following poem.
Wisdom I received from the card: It is our journey to carry the light. We are embodied with Christ light. Rest in the light. Patiently wait. Holding the light is sharing the light.
Hope: Rest in the Light The Divine dwells within Safeguard the light Wait expectantly, keep watch Shimmer like silver and gold.
Safeguard the light Angel wings whisper hope Shimmer like silver and gold Light-bearer.
The circular rhythm of the pantoum poem provides a roadmap for hope. It begins and ends with the reminder that the Divine dwells within me; I am a light-bearer. Knowing there is more to unpack from the card and poem, LIGHT finds a resting place as my 2025 word of the year.
You are the Light In a recent study of The Interior Castle, written by Teresa of Avila, I was struck with awe by the commentary of the castle as the dwelling place for God. “We are structured in such a way that God lives in his own dwelling place with us, more so than he does in the whole cosmos….We are not merely sparks of God, but God actually lives in us and makes us beautiful by his light.” (The Interior Castle, Study Edition, Kieren Kavanaugh)
Joan Chittister writes, “…we are the stardust of the Creator and we are made to burn and light, to sparkle and shine, to be warmth and fearlessness as tonight fades into all the tomorrows of our lives.” We are made of stardust; we are meant to shine, to bring light, hope, love and courage to those we encounter.
Be the Light We are born for each other—to reflect the loving-kindness and compassion we have received in our moments of darkness. I will never forget the seemingly small gestures, the gentle wiping of a tear or the squeeze of a hand or encouraging words that helped me glimpse enough light to carry on. We can be the light for others.
Lectio Divina—Rule of St. Benedict, Chapter 72, The Good Zeal of Monks
In the 1500-year-old Rule of St. Benedict, monks who live in a monastic community are presented with a choice to guide their relationships—to embrace good zeal which monks should foster with fervent love rather than the zeal of bitterness. This choice is a call to holiness and contributes to an atmosphere of separation or togetherness in the community.
Benedict is clear—if monks choose to respond to their brothers with bitterness, they cultivate an environment of separateness. They become distant from God and the community. But if monks choose to foster enthusiasm for loving their brother, Benedict writes that it will “bring us all together to everlasting life.”
Love is the antidote to separation and bitterness. Benedict encourages enthusiasm and eagerness when expressing our fervent love to God, one’s abbot (or leader), and one’s brothers. He also provides an action plan to demonstrate love.
Chapter 72 begins and ends in love—what is hoped for (” a good zeal which separates from evil and leads to God and everlasting life) and what is the promised outcome ( to “bring us all together in everlasting life.”) The specific instructions to demonstrate “fervent love” are to show respect to others; be patient with other’s weaknesses; practice active listening; and to consider the best interest of others, not just our own.
God’s work and desire is to “bring us all together” through our acts of love. We must consciously choose between holding onto bitterness, which separates us from God and from others. We must be committed to this goal to keep a community, family, organization, or friendship from growing apart through conflict, misunderstandings, and the bitterness that might result. This can be hard, there is no denying it.
We demonstrate our preference for “nothing whatever but Christ” when we see and treat others as Christ. Christ dwells within us, defining who we are. Christ, then, is active in creating togetherness in the community.
In a community, each one matters. We cannot become holy without the other; we are responsible for co-creating and honoring connections with others. We live in context with everyone as a member of the body of Christ. God works in us as we work together. The whole thing falls apart when we do not consider the bigger picture.
The Rule is relevant today for Benedictine oblates, lay associates of a monastery, and those who find wisdom in the spiritual insights of St. Benedict to learn how to live in connectedness with family, friends, coworkers, team members, and in all our relationships. We have much to learn.
Being Benedictine 