A Perfect Place to Live: Benedictine monasteries.

Byline: Clair McPherson

The genius of Benedictine monasteries is that they can awaken us to contemplation.

At some point in the first half of the sixth century, a middle-aged former hermit organized his many admirers into 12 groups of 12 who would live a common life, praying, working, and meditating throughout the day, according to a simple, balanced schedule. To guide them, he drew up a Regula, or Rule, which mixed down-to-earth practical guidelines with profound spiritual wisdom. At mid-century, this former hermit retired to Monte Cassino, located on the road to Rome. His name was Benedict of Nursia, and this is practically all that is known about him.

But his Rule, and the gentle, balanced style of communal life it defined, as well as the style of building that was developed to house those communities and support their life, proved deeply influential. Benedictine houses carried the culture of the West for the next five centuries and set one of the best templates for communal living - religious or otherwise - that has stood the test of 15 centuries.

Benedictinism was initially successful because it offered a safe, well-ordered, nurturing environment that proved a countercultural alternative to the late Roman Empire, which was in its death throes, and the Germanic Barbarians, who were roughly assuming political power. It has lasted into the twenty-first century because it offers a centered, spiritual life that is strict but never oppressive, theological but never dogmatic, and contemplative but not detached from the world.

A Virtual Tour

Visit any Benedictine-style monastery in the world and you will notice something a little strange: the other visitors will seem to be making themselves at home, without any prompting from the monks (or the guards, in the case of the Cloisters museum in New York City). People who have never been in the place will stroll the grounds as though they are in their own backyards. Or curl up in a nook somewhere. Or even help themselves to a plot of ground and recline in the sunshine. Nobody acts as though they are entering a church or a museum, and just about everyone experiences a sense of peace and calm.

Why? Because the Benedictine-style monastic compound is deliberately designed not to be a "house of prayer" but a haven for meditation. The monks are Western Catholic Christians, but their spirituality is non-faith-specific. You do not even have to believe in God to meditate; the capacity is part of being human.

The Centering Arch

Look around the monastery grounds. You'll notice one architectural unit is absolutely everywhere: the Roman arch. The early Benedictine houses appropriated that arch and made it so dominant that the cathedral style that followed is called Romanesque. It is the signature shape of the Benedictine monastery.

Now, the Romans were superior engineers, who used the arch in pragmatic ways - to support the sheer mass of the Colosseum in Rome or to channel water from distant mountain lakes to the cities below. Roman architects knew that an arch could support many, many times the weight of the simple post and lintel structure, and they used it accordingly.

The Benedictine buildings were modest in height and simple in design. In most monasteries, there is not a single arch that is strictly necessary for its supportive strength, but neither is the Benedictine arch merely decorative. Art, as the medieval mind understood it, must have function as well as beauty. So although the rounded arch certainly is among the loveliest of architectural elements, it was psychologically, mentally, and spiritually functional - as a catalyst for meditation.

The Calm of the Cloister 

The arch is most conspicuous in that curious space at the center of the monastic plan, the cloister. To the casual visitor, it looks like a pleasant area - an airy, simple space with a walkway and a garden and a fountain. To the student of architecture, it is a classic example of an arcade: a long walkway framed by a series of arches arranged side by side.

But for the resident - and for many visitors, once they relax into the space - the cloister is the pre-eminent meditative space. That series of arches, unnecessary for the support of the light roof that protects the walkway from rain, is absolutely necessary for the feeling of welcoming, contemplative calm.

The Rule of Benedict divided the day, roughly, into thirds: several hours of simple manual labor; several hours in chapel, chanting the monastic Prayer Office; and several hours for individual meditation, sacred reading, silence, and contemplative prayer. The cloister was the space for this last third. I have seen cloisters where every brother in the community - and visitors, too - have found their physical niches so well that they look like part of the architecture, happily absorbed in reading who-knows-what. (In a way, it hardly matters. The meditative effect is the same whether we are reading Gregory of Nyssa or John Grisham.)

Back to Paradise: the Garden

The cloister usually would encircle a floral garden, replete with showy domestic plants. This was not merely to make the place look pretty; rather, the flowers and plants provided very specific kinds of meditation. First, the residents could watch, enjoy, and ponder the yearly cycle of growth, flower, decline, decay, and springtime renewal. The brothers or sisters could feel the rhythm of nature and reflect on the many ways they participated in the cycle. Second, every flower had its very specific meaning. What we call "nature" medieval Christianity regarded as one of the books God had written - another Bible, with flowers as the Book of Psalms. The lily stood for purity; the violet stood for royalty and humble penitence; and the rose suggested beauty. Legend has it that the rose was the one flower left over from the Garden of Eden and was given its thorn to protect itself in a fallen world.

And third, the garden is good for the soul. Benedictines have long understood intuitively what science now confirms: human beings exhibit biophilia; we actually need the green world to be psychologically fit, to be sane.

A World within Reach

Benedict asked that the monastery be self-sufficient, and this Plan of St. Gall would be just that. Here is the medieval world - plants, medicines, domestic animals, crafts, school, clinic, brewery, kitchen, baths, and latrines. It is a genuine microcosm, the whole world within reach of the residents. But for all that, the impression is of absolute order and calm.

There is a reason for that psychological effect. To understand it, begin with the cloister and the chapel, the left and right ventricles of the heart of the monastery.

This cloister is exactly 100 (Carolingian) feet in circumference. That means each side is 25 feet. And each of the four quadrants that make up the garden is 12.5 feet on a side. That basic unit, a 12.5 foot square, is used throughout the plan. Every space is based upon it: the sections of the nave of the chapel, the storerooms, the cattle sheds, the garden plots. The beds in the dormitory, the rows in the vegetable garden, and the graves in the cemetery are all 6 feet 3 inches in length - half the unit.

So despite its striking variety, the monastery is visibly well-ordered. It was quite an attractive haven in the early medieval West. And again, its effect is deliberate. Benedict created here a plan of absolute symmetry, of orderly calm - the Platonic ideal monastery and a perfect place to live.

The Rev. Clair McPherson, Ph.D., is a priest, author, and teacher who gives wonderful tours of the Cloisters Museum in New York City.

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A Blueprint for the Monastic Character

Benedict's wisdom is subtle. The words are simple, although a little thought reveals that these are not boring proverbial saws but insightful suggestions for an integrated life.

Do not seek after pleasure.

Benedict does not say "do not experience pleasure," nor does he say "avoid pleasure." He says, do not seek after it - and that is eminently sane as a rule of life, because pleasure is a wonderful and necessary part of human life, but it makes a decidedly feeble goal. It should be found, not sought.

Love thy neighbor as oneself.

Here, Benedict is quoting the Hebrew Scriptures (and the New Testament, which also quotes them). Its genius is in its second phrase, "as oneself." Self-love, far from being forbidden, is assumed here. The self-loathing person cannot follow the Rule.

Enjoy fasting.

Medical science is beginning to appreciate the positive value of the occasional, or regular, fast. It really does cleanse the body; it really does give the system a rest; it really is, as the Eastern sages have always known, good for you. It may have to do with evolution. Our bodies are programmed by nature or conditioned by eons of hunter-gatherer subsistence to do without food for substantial periods of time. Benedict's wisdom is to love fasting; do not go at it with grim resolve but as if it is a treat and a gift.

Restore the poor,

Clothe those in want of clothing,

Visit the sick,

Bury the dead,

Come to the aid of those in trouble,

Console anyone in pain.

In the medieval tradition, these were the "Corporal Acts of Mercy" - bodily ways of being good to others. Benedict gives these a characteristic twist; for example, "give" to the poor becomes "restore" them - or more literally, "re-create the poor."

Make yourself a stranger to the business of this world.

Benedict does not say "be otherworldly" or "flee this world." It is not the world but its business that is to be shunned. And "world" can also mean "age," so it is not the material world he is talking about but the world of values, priorities, and basic assumptions.

Do not complete your anger,

and waste no time on it.

Anger happens. Benedict acknowledges that implicitly here but then tells us what to do about it.

Speak the truth from the heart andwith the lips.

"Do not tell malicious lies" is a God rule, but this statement goes much deeper. It means, above all, do not lie to yourself.

And do not offer any peace that is not genuine.

The greeting "peace be with you" is prescribed everywhere for the brothers/sisters. This Rule makes every greeting an occasion for mindfulness and truth. Say it and mean it; do not make it mere noise.

Do not fool yourself: you are not

above others, so:

Do not rely on wine,

Do not eat too much,

Do not sleep too much,

Don't be lazy,

Don't whine,

and don't gossip.

This list may look obvious and elementary,

but "you are not above others" - whoever you are - and so you, like everybody else, are going to need these from time to time.

Keep death in focus before your eyes every day.

This is a practice in Vipassana meditation and also of the Capuchin Brothers. They are not morbid; they are happy people. This may serve as a counterbalance to how our culture handles death - by denial and avoidance and cosmeticizing.

Be mindful of your actions every hour of the day.

Again, a precept shared with Buddhism. It is a counterweight to our tendency to divide awareness between past and future so that we are seldom awake to the present.

Hold your tongue from evil or vile

eloquence, and

Do not love the sound of your

own voice.

Do not speak empty or derisive 

words.

Words are, in Benedict's tradition, sacred things, meant to be used as such.

Hate not at all.

An impossible precept - if we think of "hate" as an emotion. Here, it is not that; it is a stance of the will.

Do not nurse envy.

It's not "do not be envious," which would be another impossible Rule. This is what to do with your envy - the vice that hurts even when we are doing it.

Do not love arguing.

Again, it's not "do not argue" - we have to do that sometimes - but this one really is a "necessary evil." So do not love it, but argue when it is truly important.

Venerate the seniors, Love the young.

Our culture patronizes the elders and caters to the young.