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 As a monk, I often find myself thinking about the desert, which is, of course, where Christian monasticism first developed. In fact, we monks are taught from our earliest days to see the monastery and, in particular, our cells, as a kind of desert--even if you live in the very green and rainy (at least this year) Hudson Valley of New York State!
This fascination with the desert is quite ancient. It goes back to the very earliest days of our Judeo-Christian heritage as that is where our faith was first revealed to us by God. The desert is that place where evil is fought, our own demons are overcome, and wisdom is eventually acquired. The solitude and aloneness one can find in the desert seem to lend themselves to this task. For the monk, the cell represents the desert and is meant to be the place where we confront that which is evil or sinful both within and from outside ourselves; and to encounter that which is holy and good both within and from outside ourselves.
The wisdom of the Desert Fathers and Mothers, those men and women who first ventured into the (literal) desert to begin planting the seeds of monasticism 1,800 years ago, is the first fruit of these journeys into "no man's land." These monks were known for short stories, pithy little bits of wisdom that were meant to communicate great truths. A younger monk would ask an older monk to "give them a word" and one of these short stories would follow. This one, from Abba Macarius, seems appropriate to our subject.
One day, Abba Sisoes was speaking quite openly. He said: "Courage! After thirty years I no longer pray to God about my faults, but I make this prayer: 'Lord Jesus, save me from my tongue!' And yet even until now I fall every day because of my tongue and I sin."
How often do we cause violence because of our tongues? Violence can occur in many forms: spiritual, emotional and physical, and I am amazed at my own ability to cause such violence. I am a man who has dedicated his life to the seeking of God and the pursuit of peace, and yet...I regularly find myself mouthing off at one thing or another around the monastery. This is one of the reasons that St. Benedict, our monastic father, recommended in no uncertain terms that we monks should be silent as often as possible. In Chapter 7 of the Rule he states that one of the steps of humility is:
...when a monk holds back his tongue from speaking, and out of love for silence does not speak until someone asks him a question. Scripture shows that in much talk, one does not escape sin.
Now my little grumbling around the monastery is not causing World War III, but I do believe that peace is created one person at a time, one community at a time, one nation at a time. So as a child of God seeking peace for my own life, and for the life of all God's children, it seems to me that I ought to be working a little harder on the cultivation of silence. For tearing down another with words, or not knowing when enough has been said, or speaking prematurely or indelicately only leads to a kind of violence that tends to build up steam until one day it blows off its own pressure. And that is no way to create peace. Admittedly, this is one side of the coin. The other side of the peace coin is learning to speak our truth. But I will save that for next month. This month, learning when not to speak seems to be the order of the day.
So next time I am just positive that I have something to say, I am going to work harder on just keeping silent. Remembering what the great monastics of old have taught us, and praying that "the Lord Jesus will save me from my tongue!" Perhaps achieving peace before the sun goes down can be achieved by simply observing silence. Perhaps this is something for all of us to reflect on. Shhhhh...Pax.
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