Of Nuns and Monks

 March 31, 1990

Of Nuns and Monks

Sad, but just about the only time the cloistered variety make the news these days, it sems, is when they get involved in a scandal. For instance:

Eight Poor Clares in Bruges, Belgium landed in the April 2 edition of Newsweek by providing handsomely for their retirement. They sold their convent for $1.4 million, bought a $110,000 Mercedes limo, a farm, and a string of race horses, and relocated to a chateau in the south of France. Agence France Presse, on the other hand, reported the other day that “A mother superior and an abbott in charge of neighboring religious establishments in Normandy, Northwestern France, have resigned after falling in love. It quoted the local bishops as saying the two had given up their posts “for sentimental and emotional reasons>”

Now such stuff may give some of our born-again brethren a rise, but those of us less given to passing judgment on other people’s faith should find therein an opportunity to reflect on the meaning of the monastic vocation, on the joys and hardships of living the gospels in common.

Nuns and monks turn their backs on the world and embrace poverty, chastity and obedience on the Lord’s assurance that between Martha and Mary, the sisters of Lazarus, it is the latter who has chosen the better part. While Martha busied herself with running the household, Mary merely sat and listened at Jesus’ feet. She was the first contemplative.

To those who follow her example, leaving mother, father, brother and sister behind, Christ has promised a hundredfold in this life and everlasting happiness in the next. So why are the Poor Clares feathering their nest, and why are these superiors abandoning their respective communities, the religious families of which they are both father and mother, to take solace in worldly love? The answer, of course, is human frailty.

We seculars who live in an over-stimulated environment normally equate human frailty with lust, the weakness of the flesh. Contrary to lore, however, not all problems inside the cloister are reducible to sex or the lack of it. The young and hot of blood doubtless find celibacy a major stumbling block, but the more advanced in religious life frequently find the other two vows even more problematic.

The nuns in Bruges, for instance. The eldest, who is 93, can neither see, hear nor walk. The others can’t be that much younger or better off health-wise. What you have here is eight retirees living by themselves in a convent probably built for 50, with no one to take care of them or help out with the housekeeping chores.

Being Poor Clares, they presumably have no regular source of income. Mostly they must rely on donations to subsist, but in most places the days of generous benefactors is long gone. It should be struggle enough for these sisters to feed themselves regularly and pay for the heating on time. Where will they get the funds to repair buildings more ancient than themselves? And what happens if one of them gets hospitalized or requires major surgery?

With the old, it is insecurities, rather than urges, that are a problem, but what about those in between like the two superiors in Normandy? We do not know about the lady but the gentleman is a Benedictine abbot of 49. Normally abbots are not appointed, but elected by the members of the community themselves. Presumably, therefore, we are dealing with a person of considerable maturity, talent, and leadership abilities. What happened?

The simplest explanation would seem to be that the fellow fell madly in love. But in most instances, we know that love is only the symptom, rather than the malady itself. In this case, perhaps we’re looking at a classic case of what students of human behaviour call a mid-life crisis, from which not even men and women of the cloth are spared.

Quite simply, a person wakes up one fine morning feeling empty and unhappy, troubled that his or her existence is meaningless, and that everything is for naught. Accedie, ennui is what the old monks used to call it, to cure which spiritual demon they took cold showers early in the morning, fasted on  bread and water, and spent many hours on their knees.

For many that harsh penance worked, but now that we enjoy, post Vatican II, the so-called liberty of the children of God, we are inclined to be more gentle on ourselves, and therefore also less rigorous in our observance of monastic discipline.

All right for our nuns and monks to be human, I guess, but isn’t the Lord and Master they serve a jealous one? Then and now, I’m afraid he doesn’t look too kindly on half-measures.