第 1 章
The Wisdom That Changed My Life
Have you ever found yourself racing through life, checking off accomplishments but feeling strangely empty? I certainly did. As a Wall Street Journal reporter, I'd look up to find darkness had fallen-I'd missed the entire day. My life was a sprint from one achievement to the next, each satisfying only briefly before I sped toward another prize. Then I discovered a 1,500-year-old text that transformed everything. Written by a monk named Benedict during the collapse of the Roman Empire, this slender volume has guided countless seekers through times remarkably similar to our own-political turmoil, economic inequality, and social upheaval. Celebrities from Oprah to Martin Sheen have praised its wisdom, while thousands of monasteries worldwide still follow its precepts. The Rule of St. Benedict offers something our frantic modern world desperately needs: a path to meaning through community, simplicity, and balance. Its quiet revolution begins with a simple invitation: "Listen with the ear of your heart."
第 2 章
The Revolutionary Power of Deep Listening
The first word of The Rule isn't pray, worship, or love-it's listen. This small, unobtrusive word speaks in a whisper, yet represents a revolutionary concept that challenges our modern instincts. Benedictine listening isn't passive but requires active attention and inclination - it demands a full engagement of mind, heart, and spirit. It's an act of will that goes beyond merely hearing words, requiring us to set aside our preconceptions and truly open ourselves to understanding.
When my husband and I disagree, a counselor suggested we each repeat what the other said with "Am I understanding you correctly?" This simple exercise revealed how often we listen through our own perceptual filters rather than truly hearing. We discovered that what we thought we heard was often colored by our assumptions, past experiences, and emotional reactions. Benedict calls us beyond mere listening to actual hearing, introducing the concept of obedience-from Latin "oboedire," meaning to give ear or listen. This isn't just top-down authority but "mutual obedience" where community members listen carefully to one another, creating a web of reciprocal understanding and respect.
While our culture celebrates antiheroes and trailblazers who defy convention, even these apparent rebels were listeners to different songs - whether to the voice of innovation, justice, or change. The key lies not in refusing to listen but in discerning what deserves our attention. Benedictine sisters like Joan Chittister and Irene Nowell share compelling stories of obedience redirecting their paths-Joan denied her cherished creative writing program to work as a third cook in the monastery kitchen, and Irene forced to study German instead of her beloved music. Both initially painful detours ultimately enriched their vocations in unexpected ways. Joan's kitchen experience gave her insights into community and service that later informed her writing, while Irene's German studies opened doors to theological scholarship she hadn't imagined possible.
I've discovered wisdom often comes from unlikely sources-my truck-driver father's seemingly simplistic advice "When you're hungry you eat, when you're tired, you sleep" proved profound when I landed in the hospital from self-inflicted exhaustion. This basic wisdom about listening to our bodies and respecting natural rhythms contained deeper truth than many scholarly treatises. Similarly, an elderly woman named Eva at a retreat I led in Alabama taught me more about wisdom and renewal than any prepared presentation. Through her stories of survival during the Civil Rights era and her quiet strength in facing personal losses, she embodied the deep listening that transforms mere experience into wisdom. The wisest voices aren't always the most credentialed or loudest-they're the ones who've learned to listen with the ear of the heart, who practice the art of presence, and who understand that true wisdom often speaks in whispers rather than shouts.
The practice of deep listening requires us to cultivate patience, humility, and openness - qualities that run counter to our culture's emphasis on quick responses and constant self-expression. It invites us to create spaces of silence in our lives where wisdom can take root and grow.
第 3 章
Awakening to the Sacred in Everyday Life
St. Benedict's Rule pulses with urgency to wake up and live fully. "Let us get up then, at long last," he writes, echoing Scripture's call that "It is high time to arise from sleep." Like Zorba in Zorba the Greek who lives "as if I was going to die any minute," Benedict uses action verbs throughout his early chapters: open our eyes, translate into action, set out, run, hasten. "Run while you have the light of life," he urges, "that the darkness of death may not overtake you."
Rising at 4 AM to retrieve my newspaper, I've discovered unexpected wonders-a polite skunk, statue-still rabbits, even a shooting star streaking across the predawn sky. At Kentucky's Abbey of Gethsemani, stepping outside before dawn revealed the Milky Way's doorway of starlight. The desert monks considered night's silence a valuable teacher, reminding us that time is finite. Antony advised, "Each day when we arise, let's assume we won't live until nightfall." This wasn't morbid but realistic-we have limited days to live, so we might as well wake up and act now.
For Benedict, awakening our physical senses naturally precedes awakening the heart. My high school English teacher challenged us to notice details like our bus driver's eye color, teaching that all writers begin as observers. This lesson stayed with me, though I still sometimes fail to truly see others. As a young reporter, I once interviewed a jovial Santa who seemed filled with joy, only to receive his tearful Christmas Eve call revealing he was homeless, divorced, estranged from his children, and suicidal. How had I missed his pain?
Bob Dylan's grandmother wisely noted, "Everyone you'll ever meet is fighting a hard battle." To truly see others, I had to break out of my self-absorption. The Benedictine way asks us to wake up to the sacred in daily life and truly see the people around us-perhaps the greatest gift we can offer is letting others know they are seen and heard.
第 4 章
Living Fully Before Death
I've always harbored a terrible fear of death, often waking in the night seized with anxiety that I'll one day no longer occupy my place at the table or my side of the bed. This fear began early, perhaps because my older parents resembled my friends' grandparents who had the unfortunate habit of dying. Even at four years old, hearing "Enjoy Yourself (It's Later Than You Think)" made me weep uncontrollably.
When I first read Benedict's instruction to "remind yourself daily that you are going to die," it resonated deeply. My mother's sudden death from a stroke reawakened my fear-how could someone joking and enjoying eggplant parmesan one Sunday simply not exist the next? Later, witnessing a young mother killed instantly by a falling window in Chicago, death seemed like a maniacal sharpshooter randomly selecting targets. As poet W.S. Merwin wrote, "Every year without knowing it, we pass the date of our death."
At Mount St. Scholastica Monastery, my eighty-nine-year-old friend Sister Lillian offered wisdom I've never forgotten: "I don't think about dying, I think about living." The sisters there confront death not begrudgingly but tenderly-keeping 24-hour vigils with the dying, processing purposefully to the cemetery. Their equanimity comes not just from belief in eternal life but from confidence that each has lived meaningfully.
As Joan Chittister writes, "The fundamental question for a Christian isn't whether there's life after death, but whether there's life before death." The philosopher Stephen Cave suggests seeing life as a book bounded by birth and death, where "the only thing that matters is that it's a good story." Like Steinbeck's carved box containing "pain and excitement... evil thoughts and good thoughts... the pleasure of design and some despair," we put everything we have into our lives, and atop it all, gratitude and love for one another. May our boxes never empty.
第 5 章
Tools for Peaceful Living
We live in a world awash in fear, where anxiety seems woven into the fabric of daily life. My Parisian friends avoid the Metro fearing terrorist attacks, planning alternate routes that add hours to their commutes. Those with undocumented relatives worry about detention centers, living with packed bags just in case. Muslim women scan their surroundings carefully when wearing headscarves in public, some choosing to remove them despite their beliefs. In crowded places - theaters, shopping malls, schools - I find myself wondering if someone with a semiautomatic weapon might open fire. Fear's toxic fumes seem to pollute the very air we breathe, affecting our choices, relationships, and ability to trust others.
Yet Brooklyn offers hope-a mini-United Nations where diverse people coexist peacefully in close quarters. Hasidic Jews shop at halal markets run by Egyptian immigrants. Chinese families celebrate Lunar New Year alongside Italian-Americans who've lived there for generations. Children of different backgrounds play together in community parks while their parents chat on nearby benches. This peaceful coexistence stands in stark contrast to the daily conflicts in Jerusalem, where similar groups remain bitterly divided. This is the America I love - not perfect, but striving toward understanding.
Benedict's "Tools for Good Works" serves as a Magna Carta for ethical living, showing us how to break free from emotional slavery and fear-based thinking. The chapter begins with the Ten Commandments-or "Ten Words of God"-and emphasizes the golden rule: "Never do to another what you do not want done to yourself." These aren't mere recommendations but practical tools requiring lifelong practice, much like a carpenter must constantly maintain and sharpen their implements.
My fractured relationship with my brother demonstrates how difficult these tools are to master. After our mother's death, when she'd asked me to handle finances, his accusations of mismanagement and my defensive responses created a rift that remains unhealed decades later. Each holiday season reopens old wounds, and attempts at reconciliation have faltered on both sides. I failed to follow Benedict's wisdom: "If you have a dispute with anyone, make peace before the sun goes down." This teaching recognizes how resentment hardens over time, like cement setting in our hearts.
Like our families and world, we crack into competing interests, tribal loyalties, and conflicting narratives. Yet Benedict reminds us that healing is possible through courage, kindness, and forgiveness-tools we must not let rust in a drawer. These implements for peace require daily use: speaking gently to those who anger us, listening deeply to those we disagree with, and extending mercy even when it feels undeserved. In practicing these tools, we build not just personal peace but contribute to the larger work of mending our fractured world.
第 6 章
The Power of Sacred Silence
When you arrive at the Abbey of Gethsemani, you're greeted by profound silence-only insects humming, distant cars, and wind rustling through ginkgo leaves. This quiet deeply impressed Thomas Merton when he arrived in 1941, fleeing from war and the intellectual swirl of academia. He later wrote that silence serves as "an echo chamber for truth found only in the heart."
While talk is the world's currency, in Benedictine life silence is the pearl of great price. Benedict warns that even for mature disciples, permission to speak should rarely be granted, quoting Proverbs: "In a flood of words you will not avoid sin" and "The tongue holds the key to life and death."
Today, silence is vanishing. Even Trappist monks observe only a few hours of "Grand Silence" daily. Research shows it now takes 2,000 hours of recording to capture one hour of undisturbed nature sounds, compared to just 15 hours in 1968.
For early monastics like Antony the Great, silence and solitude fortified interior life. As a journalist who talks constantly, I crave silence both as balm for my busy mind and safeguard for relationships. The sisters at Mount St. Scholastica offer three questions before speaking: Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary? The last question is the true test.
We waste countless words grumbling about weather, work, and others. Benedict condemns "vulgarity and gossip," reminding us that our first words each day should be "Lord, open my lips, and I shall proclaim your praise"-not complaints or criticism.
Profound silence reveals what normally escapes our notice-a budding rosebush, a cardinal's flash of red, wind whispering through pines. Even in our busy lives, we can create mental globes of silence-stepping away for walks, finding empty rooms, or retreating to inner sanctuaries of imagination. Social media and digital distractions have become "hungry wolves devouring our time," requiring deliberate sabbaths for personal sanity.
As Thomas Merton reminded himself, "Solitude is not something you hope for in the future. Rather it is a deepening of the present." In silence, everything connects.
第 7 章
The Challenging Path of Humility
Of all The Rule's chapters, none are as extensive as Chapter 7 on humility. While bookstores overflow with self-help titles on becoming more assertive or successful, humility seems counter to American identity. Yet humility isn't humiliation-it derives from humus, meaning "of the earth." We are all part of the great human experiment.
Benedict's teaching draws from Desert Fathers and Mothers who valued humility as living from inside out. At Mount St. Scholastica, monks bow to one another before prayers, acknowledging both the divine and human in each person. They begin with "Oh God, come to my assistance," recognizing common weaknesses and need for mutual help.
Benedict constructs a twelve-step ladder of humility, inspired by Jacob's vision of angels ascending and descending. The steps include keeping "reverence of God always before our eyes," putting aside our own wills, embracing suffering, admitting character flaws, accepting menial work, and maintaining humble demeanor.
Three of the twelve steps concern speech-what we say, how we say it, and whether we speak at all. Benedict warns against excessive talking, ready laughter, and raised voices, quoting Scripture that "the wise are known by few words."
The desert fathers were particularly wary of anger, calling it the greatest obstacle to both humility and prayer. Monastic communities consist of strong personalities from diverse backgrounds, yet they resolve conflicts through talking things out rather than screaming. They redirect anger's raw power by diverting attention toward positive thoughts and simple good actions.
There are two types of anger: ego-driven anger that imprisons us emotionally, and righteous anger aimed at injustices. Humility helps recognize the damage our rages do. Benedict opposes not laughter itself but ridicule and sarcasm that wounds others. In the end, humility is about love-doing our part to treat others with the decency we desire for ourselves.
第 8 章
Finding Balance in a Workaholic World
I've long suffered from two diseases: workaholism and over-achieverism. Working at the Wall Street Journal's London bureau, I'd look up to find darkness had fallen-I'd missed the entire day. Like the narrator in A.R. Ammons' poem who realizes "It was May before my attention turned to spring," I'd let life slip by while pursuing professional achievements.
In college, I embraced the Greek definition of success: using all one's talents in pursuit of excellence. I became a sprinter constantly racing toward the next prize, each accomplishment satisfying briefly before I sped toward the next award. My work consumed me-I'd forget to make weekend plans, neglect holiday time-off requests, and once was hospitalized for malnutrition while at the Washington Post. I had a job that included my life, not a life that included my job.
The Rule of St. Benedict offers a plea for balance. While monasteries must be self-supporting through hard work-making everything from caskets to bourbon-soaked fruitcake to gluten-free communion hosts-Benedict refused to let work overwhelm. Americans now work more hours than forty years ago despite increased automation, with only 19% taking their full vacation time.
Benedict's famous line "Idleness is the enemy of the soul" is often misunderstood. Idleness isn't leisure-mindless piddling differs from necessary, even holy, rest. Benedict carefully outlines hours for both work and rest, allowing kitchen servers to request help "so that they may serve without distress" and permitting workers to explain when tasks exceed their strength.
How different from modern workplaces! The New York Times described Amazon.com's "Purposeful Darwinism" where employees received calls on holidays and felt like "the CEO is in bed with you at 3 AM breathing down your neck." Workers called themselves "Amabots"-human machines as resilient as the mythological Amazon warriors.
The Rule emphasizes that people aren't interchangeable parts. Monasteries offer two kinds of food so everyone can eat something, give kitchen servers extra portions before work, and provide special accommodations for children, the elderly and the sick. The doctrine is "each according to need"-not favoritism but consideration for weaknesses.
Benedict's motto "Ora et Labora" (Pray and Work) calls for neither constant activity (Martha) nor constant contemplation (Mary), but a synthesis of both. As Sister Lillian Harrington said, "If we are all Marys, we will never build the kingdom of God, and if we are all Marthas, we will never understand it."
第 9 章
The Healing Power of Community
Much of my life I've struggled to belong. As the youngest child born many years after my siblings, I often felt like an outsider in my own family. I chose writing and journalism-professions that position one as an observer at the margins. Even living in a Chicago high-rise where I could see into neighbors' apartments, I felt utterly alone.
I found comfort in community: international friends at a French YWCA during my junior year abroad, a Lithuanian-American family who welcomed me in Washington DC, and my Italian-American professional club in Chicago. These surrogate families taught me that while we may not have the marriage partner or family we desire, we can all have community.
Sister Thomasita Homan describes a monastic community as "a place where people agree to link arms, support one another, and help each other grow." I witnessed this firsthand when sisters quickly volunteered to help with holiday cookie preparation-reflecting William James' insight that "We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface, but connected in the deep."
The energy people expend out of family obligation, monastics show to one another out of a shared commitment to love. Community is something you construct "small decency by small decency," though it's not always easy. Sister Molly Brockwell explains that monastic community isn't about always liking each other but maintaining deeper relationships: "We can disagree with one another and not see that as a total betrayal or as a chance to hack the other person to pieces."
Benedict initially fled society for solitude but ultimately realized the importance of constructing a new society based on shared values. He criticized monks who "lived without shared values or agreed-upon rules" and particularly denounced "gyrovagues" who drifted without making contributions. When asked why he chose community over solitude, the desert monk Basil replied that while he could seek holiness alone, "But then whose feet would I wash?"
Unlike our mobile culture, Benedictines take a vow of stability, promising to remain in the same monastery for life. This stability transcends physical location-it's about "staying at the table" and being faithful to our daily responsibility to care for one another. In monastic communities, rank comes only from seniority, not wealth or education-our worth lies in accumulated acts of service and how often we extend our hands to others.
第 10 章
The Freedom of Living Simply
Material possessions can bind us emotionally, as I've discovered with my parents' 1992 Oldsmobile. Despite recurring dreams about losing it and questions about my attachment, I've kept this champagne-colored Royale running years after their deaths. The glove compartment still holds Dad's rubber bands and Styrofoam cups; Mom's lipstick remains in the passenger door. I lie to interested buyers, claiming it's still my father's car. Yet Buddhist wisdom reminds me that attachment causes suffering, and I'm beginning to recognize that the car isn't my parents-I carry them within me.
The Rule is emphatic about possessions: community members must share even personal gifts from family or friends. This isn't early communism but an alternative system where the monastery provides for everyone's needs according to their requirements.
Our culture's obsession with ownership was illustrated when I witnessed a teenager's meltdown in a Verizon store over not getting the latest iPhone. Contrast this with Sister Phyllis from Mount St. Scholastica, who taught reading to schoolchildren and later tended gardens and canned vegetables. When visiting family, she gave away her new coat to their housekeeper, saying simply, "I can get another one."
The week Sister Phyllis died, I read about Wall Street financier Bruce Wasserstein's death and the Simmons Mattress Company's dismantling by private investors who enriched themselves while laying off longtime workers. Sister Phyllis-who never had a personal bank account-and wealthy Wasserstein reached the same end in the same week. Yet it was Sister Phyllis who felt secure enough to give away her only coat.
I struggle with this generosity. I once nearly donated a plaid ski jacket from my youth, only to snatch it back repeatedly for its sentimental value. When I accidentally donated it, I felt oddly liberated, imagining it keeping another young woman warm.
Some possessions I treasure for their symbolic value: a "Storyteller" statue from Sister Lillian, an Atchison street brick from Sister Thomasita, and a Brazilian wooden crucifix from Sister Bettina-all gifts that had been gifts to them first. The poor of rural Brazil often give away things that were given to them, offering from the heart rather than from abundance.
Thomas Merton, despite writing nearly fifty books that would have made him wealthy, owned just four personal items at his death: a monk's cowl, eyeglasses, work boots, and his laundry pin. The elderly often begin giving away possessions as they approach death, having learned the meaning of "enough." Sister Judith Sutera offered me a practical question before making purchases: "Do I need this item, and do I need it now?"
