SOURCE: "A Psychological Approach to Humility in the Rule of St. Benedict," American Benedictine Review, Vol. 39, No. 4, December, 1988, pp. 404-29.

[In the following essay, originally delivered as a lecture in 1976, Vergote offers an interpretation of humility in the Rule of St. Benedict, tracing the ideals of obedience and self-knowledge expressed in Benedict's text and in the Christian scriptures.]

I humbly beg you to listen, for you have given me a stiff challenge: I must speak to you about a text which is so familiar to you and about which I know so little. And I must do this before exegetes, historians, philologists and I don't know what.

I must confess the shock I felt on reading a text I had not picked up in thirty years: it really seemed very strange to me. I also gave it to friends of mine, Christian laypeople, and they reacted the same way. We are at a great cultural distance from this text—but doubtless it is not the same for you. We will ask: How has this come about? In this way we may find some indication as to how young people today could accept it and feel about it.

I will divide the conference into four parts:

• First I will try to give an interpretation of the text
• Then I will clarify what I think is the underlying anthropology
• I will add some critical remarks and questions
• And finally I will present some suggestions for a presentation of humility which might be more up-to-date.

I. A Hermeneutic

First I will tell you how I understand this chapter of Benedict on humility. I must begin thus, for I am not part of your monastic tradition. I have tried to understand the text on its own terms, considered as a whole capable of providing some insight.

1. A first question: What is humility (humilitas) for St. Benedict? To me, this is clearly explained in the introduction, in the first degree and in the last. Certainly, anyone who is used to working with clear concepts will experience the great complexity of a text such as this. And I think it is rather evident that in this passage—at least as I perceive things—Benedict presents a new perspective on the monastic life. I say "new," for it seems to me that the vision of Benedict is in opposition to the tendencies of earlier monasticism. (But this would demand a precise historical study, and I can only fall back on some ideas I once gained in a course on religious history.)

   Humility is formulated in the paradox of St. Luke: "Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, but he who humbles himself will be exalted." This is a paradox which was also dear to St. Francis and which is stated very forcefully in the antithesis of the "Magnificat." This means that humility is a fundamental Christian attitude: pride rules out all possibility of salvation; salvation is received in faith. Humility is the Christian attitude par excellence: it is the attitude of faith. Such seems to me to be the fundamental notion that Benedict is going to push so far in concrete application. One might suggest that the Dutch term deemoed (humility-submission) would be better for this central notion. In Dutch I think that nederigheid (humility) has a moral and psychological content, while deemoed has a more religious meaning. This fundamental religious attitude was already known by the Greeks. You know the saying of the Oracle of Delphi: gnôthi seauton ("Know yourself"), which is so frequently interpreted as an invitation to self-knowledge. According to a specialist in the mystery cults, the meaning should rather be: "Know that you are a human being and not a god." In this sense, the word deemoed brings us back to our true human position vis-à-vis God. "Know yourself": for the Greeks, the word forms a contrast with hubris, that presumption in which a human being poses as God and by that fact breaks the bond with divinity. In Christian revelation, deemoed is not only the religious attitude pure and simple; it receives its specific content of faith, of a readiness to listen, of obedience. Gehoor-zaamheid, obedience is willing attention to God who reveals himself. This basic notion is still, of course, a general concept open to multiple interpretations, and it is important to see just how Benedict has concretely worked out this fundamental Christian notion.

   A second point flows from the first and is to be joined to our notion about the meaning of humility: humility brings about a satisfaction of the desire for God. It is the condition of peace, of appeasement: one reaches peace, since one is pacified. This reveals a profound desire. Peace is found in the pacification of the heart of the person who seeks God. In my opinion, we find here a mystical content. Compared to the task of "humbling oneself," peace and humility are for Benedict the positive phase. This is nicely put in RB 7.4 where Benedict uses the classic mystical image of the infant sleeping on its mother's breast. We have here a universal symbol of the desire for God.

   In the third place it seems to me that Benedict joins to his fundamental idea a warning against that presumption which is typically religious. One does not find in Benedict's Rule the legalistic religious presumption of the Pharisees which is roundly condemned in the Gospel. The presumption which Benedict opposes is rather that mystical effort which relies on its own strength. I think that this is clearly expressed in RB 7.3. At least that is the way I understand this verse: "Lord, my heart is not exalted, my eyes are not lifted up"—and especially, "I have not walked in the ways of the great nor gone after marvels beyond me.'" In my view, Benedict is here alluding to that which represents for him the preponderant tendency of the monastic movement before his time: the search for extraordinary mystical experiences which characterized many eremitic and cenobitic movements.

   In the fourth place, we come to a more concretely developed form of the fundamental concept: Christian humility is understood in a very precise way as being an awareness of sin. This is the point of departure for the ladder of humility given at the first degree and it is also its culmination in degree twelve, where there is an allusion to the Publican in the Gospel. This is why Benedict comes down so hard on the basic Christian attitude: the fear of God. It produces vigilance and wards off forgetfulness. It consists for Benedict in placing oneself under the watchful gaze of the Divine Judge. These texts are saturated with the theme of the fear of divine chastisement. To me this is striking. To be vigilant means to keep oneself from sin, to live under the eyes of God the Judge. Benedict carries this so far—and this is worth noting—that he interprets the words of the Our Father, "may your will be done," in this sense. It is remarkable to see in verses 20-21 how the citation "There are ways which men call right which in the end plunge into the depths of hell" is presented as an interpretation of "may your will be done," which is the text immediately preceding. Likewise, in the twelfth degree (RB 7.64-65), the theme of the fear of judgment returns in force: "He should consider that he is already at the fearful judgment; and constantly repeat in his heart what the Publican in the Gospel said with downcast eyes: 'Lord, I am a sinner, not worthy to look up to heaven."'

   To sum up: to me, the meaning of humility seems to lie in a general religious attitude, specified as an attitude of faith, characterized in Christianity by that receptivity which pays heed to God. The corollary of this is the vigorous warnings against the presumption of a mystical effort which tries to be sufficient unto itself. Taken concretely, this willing listening is also changed into a making present of the Divine Judge. The theme of judgment is connected with that of chastisement.

2. A second point: The goal of humility. I use this word purposely, since for Benedict, humility is an attitude that one exercises systematically, something that one pursues. There is here then a goal, an intention. Three elements emerge clearly in the last part of the text. I will compare them rapidly with the perspective of Cassian.

   The goal of humility really involves going beyond the constitutive, fundamental attitude, without, however, abandoning the Christian attitude. In other words, the goal is the transformation of motivation. One aims at no longer acting on the basis of the motives that inspire humility. RB 7.69 is very clear on this point: "no more out of fear of hell but for love of Christ." Under Platonic influence, ancient texts often speak of acting for love of the Good. Benedict corrects this to read: "for the love of Christ."

   Second goal: The systematic exercise of humility leads to a psychological transformation; a vitally Christian attitude becomes second nature. "Through this love, all that he once performed with dread, he will now begin to observe without effort, as though naturally, from habit" (RB 7.68). Ascetical effort, then, cannot be a permanent attitude; it leads to a psychological transformation of the individual.

   In the third place, one can point to the mystical goal such as it is expressed in RB 7.67: "Now, therefore, after ascending all these steps of humility, the monk will quickly arrive at the perfect love of God which casts out fear." I call this the mystical element, the element of covenant with God, mystical unity, love of God.

   If now we compare this with Cassian, we note that he sets down three stages in the progress of the monk. The first degree of ascesis is the practical life (bios praktikos,) which consists essentially in the struggle against the eight capital vices, the renunciation of possessions, even of one's own past. The second degree is that of contemplation, understood in a sense clearly inspired by Platonism. By this, one is raised beyond the creation to the contemplation of Christ, Word of God.

   The third degree is that of pure contemplation, which not only surpasses the created realm, but everything that is conceivable; this is an immaterial contemplation without images of any kind ("Jubilatio sine verbis" of Augustine). We have here the two characteristic phases of Platonism: action which is in some sense inferior, but which prepares for that which alone has value in itself: namely, contemplation which raises us beyond the visible.

   By means of the accent which he puts on the double command of charity, Basil, who is himself also a source for Benedict, corrects this perspective and gives more importance to action. Benedict, in my view, remains ambivalent. I was struck by reading in the Epilogue (RB 73) that he proposes his Rule as something written for beginners, as if he still had nostalgia for the heroes of contemplation. In RB 7, however, it seems that for him perfection clearly lies in the love of Christ. This is precisely the end of the road of practice and ascesis. One sees no more trace of nostalgia for the old monastic ideal of pure contemplation. Likewise, in other passages of the Rule, charity receives such a fullness of meaning that it has become Christian perfection. In this way the opposition between action and contemplation inspired by Plato is removed.

3. Third, after discussing the meaning and purpose of humility, I would like now to consider its object. Where is the seat of humility? Essentially in the will. This is very clearly stated in RB 5, "On Obedience," as it is in the Prologue, where Benedict says explicitly in verses 2 and 3 that the essence of the monastic life lies in obedience: it is a matter of renouncing one's own will, of entering into the service of Christ the Lord, the true king, to accomplish the will of God to which the will of Christ is equated. In RB 7, humility is very concretely set out as obedience, even if other themes also come into play.

   In the first degree of humility, Benedict enumerates different elements. He speaks of the will, but also of concupiscence, of delight, in such a way that one has the impression that the will is only one of the various domains where obedience resides. Desire or pleasure also seem to be its domains. But on the other hand, Benedict also seems to subsume everything under the single concept of the will, which he always relates to the will of God. This is clearly affirmed in RB 7.19-20: "Truly, we are forbidden to do our own will, for Scripture tells us: 'Turn away from your desires.' And in the Prayer too we ask God that his will be done in us." It is, in my opinion, precisely by the emphasis placed on the will and on detachment that humility in Benedict seems to have an ascetic character. And I would add: a character that is singularly religious, moral, and—without necessarily seeing in the word a pejorative connotation—legalistic. Let me explain. RB 7.11 reads as follows: "He must constantly remember everything God has commanded—(the commandments are the expression of the will of God in opposition to our own will: whence the 'legalistic' character)—keeping in mind always that all who despise God will burn in hell for their sins, and all who fear God have everlasting life awaiting them." It is obvious that if one considers the matter from the psychological point of view alone, one would say that the object of humility is the will. But this would be to restrict humility totally to obedience to the superior. The means of such an ascesis would be obedience to the abbot, the Rule, to regulations. These are surely an important element, but it is evident that this ascesis is not simply a moral, psychological and personal ascesis, for self-will is continually set over against the will of God. It is precisely by the juncture of all the human dimensions: desire, pleasure, passion, willing, gathered under the single term "the will set before the will of God," that humility becomes all-encompassing for Benedict. Obviously this seems rather strange when one reads the text for the first time: we are not accustomed to such a large vision of humility.

   This description of the object of humility as "self-will set before the will of God" enables us to establish a certain coherence of thought which is not present as such in Benedict. If humility is detachment from self-will, which is also the source of personal initiative, then humility becomes synonymous with obedience in the strict sense. But this meaning is enlarged to include the same dimensions as the word "will." Benedict speaks of detachment in regard to patience, mutual support and finally desire. This is to make humility into a universal virtue identical with detachment from self in all domains.

   Because desire is here also placed continually in the presence of the will of God, self-will is only indirectly the object of humility. I can state this in psychological terms: Just as that will is in the strictest sense the energy with which one pursues desire, so too humility resides in desire. But in the last analysis, the will is for Benedict a general manner of situating oneself in regard to the other, in regard to God. Humility is then at the same time a specific virtue and a general disposition. Is that still true in our current way of speaking? In any case, this extension of the term explains the central place it occupies in Benedict's scheme.

4. Why is humility a field for systematic ascetical labor? It is such because it includes the whole complement of human activities under the single aspect of "the (human) will placed before the will of God." Humility is, for Benedict, a task, a labor. It is even the primary task, because human beings, with all that lives in them, are not humble. We must state this very clearly: A person has to work at humility very systematically. On their own, people do not obey God; they are sinners. We can say with Paul: The wrath of God has fallen upon him insofar as he is not converted. And this conversion takes place by the labor of humility. I am struck by the comparisons Benedict makes: the monastery is like a workshop, the monastic life is a craft, a spiritual labor. Nor should we forget the instruments of the spiritual art, which the monks must employ without stint and return on Judgment Day in order to receive their reward, once the work is accomplished. And the workshop where one works with diligence and care is the cloister of the monastery and stability in the community. The practical way, so misunderstood by the Platonic tradition, is here restored to full honor: the work of humility is set side by side with the fields. Characteristically, it is not a question of devoting oneself to it for a determined time, but throughout life. This is a new sign of the importance that Benedict attaches to it.

   In other words, we could say that the monastic craft ought to lead to liberation, to that liberty which renders one receptive to the love of Christ. Humility is then the craft of metanoia, of conversion, of the systematic reversal of self-will centered on itself. It is a matter of effecting this reversal by systematic effort and of turning the will toward service.

5. Now we can approach the degrees of humility. This will be my last hermeneutical point. I will develop it at some length, since it will furnish us with elements necessary to our discussion.

When one considers for the first time the series of the degrees of humility, and when one attempts to discover some progression, one is a bit surprised. It seems like we have here a literary figure typical for that period: everything is put on a ladder! This continues the Platonic tradition of the climb, with the important difference that here one rises by descending. We can also see this literary figure at work when we are told that the soul and the body are the two sides of this ladder (see RB 7.9)!

Why twelve degrees? After several readings, I discovered beneath the literary figure the intention of an orderly temperament.

To one who begins the ascetical labor, the first degree gives a general principle, a fundamental notion: one must open oneself humbly to God and prepare oneself to do his will. The second degree isolates (this) as a reflexive moment touching the object of this labor of humility: self-will, considered as the source of the personality set before God. Benedict immediately adds to this the matter of desire (RB 7.31). One could transpose and render the two terms by the couplet: the voluntary and the involuntary. One retreats into oneself and says: I will renounce my will.

The third degree is the concretization of this decision, the first application of this renunciation of self-will: obedience to the superior.

The fourth degree is more personal, consisting of an interiorization of humility through patience and endurance. Thus there is a certain graduation from the third to the fourth degree. The object of humility is now seen as the will placed in situations where one spontaneously recoils and revolts. In the obedience of the third degree, ascetic labor was applied to the will as an operative power enabling one to perform a given personal action; here (in the fourth degree), detachment applies to the spontaneous movements of the heart. The target becomes that which Plato calls thumos or what psychology calls the irascible. This is a violent, aggressive thrust of opposition to injustice, to suffering. This is moreover a normal human reaction; this flight from suffering is inscribed in our very nature. Thumos is not desire, but the spontaneous rebellion against all that represents a danger to the subject. With the fourth degree, then, we come to a degree of interior detachment from this spontaneous impulse. At first glance, this might seem like the Stoic ideal of apatheia, in the line of an Evagrius or a Cassian. But to arrive at detachment of heart is not necessarily to come to unfeelingness, as the word impassibility might suggest. It is rather to move toward liberty in place of spontaneous passion, to achieve a balance of disposition in one's sentiments—and that is far from unfeelingness.

A balanced disposition, peace of heart, liberty in regard to spontaneous impulse: this ideal proposed by Benedict is evidently not Stoic but very specifically Christian. The whole program of transformation is seen in the light of a direct personal relationship with God. This relationship has two poles, which are presented as a double testing by God: on the one hand, God tries us by suffering, injustice and other kinds of things which detach us from ourselves; on the other hand, we are tested by him in view of the future recompense, as metal is tested by fire. The strength to meet the test is then to be found in obedience to God and in confidence that he will reward, and not, for example, in what we might call mutual toleration. Humanly speaking, we bear with one another so as to arrive at peace, to make peace. We show ourselves tolerant and patient because we know well that if others show themselves unjust, it is because they are reacting with passion without knowing very well what they are doing. When we are tested, we think spontaneously of that mutual tolerance which makes for peace, instead of saying, as Benedict invites us: "God is personally testing me now in order to make me worthy of the reward he has in store for me."

The fifth degree is confession. (This makes one think of confession to laypersons, but I leave that point to historians.) Here one can truly speak of a new step upward: one takes the initiative to enter into "compunction of heart." It seems to me that there is a continual progression in steps three, four and five.

The sixth degree of humility does not offer a new step. It only amounts to a concrete example of the obedience of the third degree and the interior detachment of the fourth degree. It is thus that "A monk is content with the lowest and most menial treatment, and regards himself as a poor and worthless workman in whatever task he is given, saying to himself with the Prophet: 'I am insignificant and ignorant, no better than a beast before you, yet I am with you always."'

From the psychological point of view, it is interesting to note that one here sees humility in the context of an inborn impulse to make something of oneself and the desire to find satisfaction in one's work. This represents a fundamental human tendency and one which is healthy and normal, and yet Benedict demands precisely that one also separate oneself from this tendency which promotes the establishment of a positive self-concept!

What is striking once more is the motive given: the conviction of personal unworthiness, an awareness of being a sinner before God. Benedict does not appeal, for example, to a sense of being a link in the chain of service. He means to push us to a conviction of personal unworthiness by means of an explicit detachment from this legitimate tendency to self-esteem. If I had to address myself to young people, I myself would appeal to their sense of solidarity. Each of us is but a small part, a small function, of the whole. We cannot exist except in relation to a group, and each of us ought to be detached from that fundamental aspiration to find for ourselves just that work which gives full personal satisfaction. We must do much work that is not interesting, for, to tell the truth, what is interesting must be the fruit of the collaboration of all. This human realism, this type of "human" humility, is not part of Benedict's way of thinking.

The seventh degree, to my way of thinking, is an extension of the preceding: it sets down in broader terms the mentality recommended by the sixth degree: "A man not only admits with his tongue but is also convinced in his heart that he is inferior to all and of less value."

The eighth degree is very short, and yet… perfection consists in following the common rule of the monastery and in doing nothing to contradict it. This is perfect detachment from self-will and from every egotistic tendency.

As for degrees nine, ten and eleven, it is very interesting to note all that can be included under the rubric of humility. Since he has taken as his point of departure and foundation for humility all that comes under the term "will," he can include here considerations about that which one might call the discipline of the word. In place of taciturnity, it would no doubt be better to speak of reserve in speech. All social contact that can be made by means of words also involves detachment from self. Here again the theme is very clear: to avoid sin and not, to indulge in heedless behavior.

And so we arrive at the twelfth degree. The last area where humility is applied is the body and the "gaze," which is so important for Benedict: our attitude toward Go who sees us and our attitude toward others. A general evangelical posture of humility is well expressed here, in my opinion: "Do not judge, do not regard your brother with a haughty eye." The theme is specified even more precisely: awareness of being a sinner. "(Let the monk) constantly say in his heart what the Publican in the Gospel said with downcast eyes: 'Lord I am a sinner, not worthy to look up to heaven.'" (RB 7.65)

To sum up, this short analysis uncovers some elements of a progression. Degrees one through five lead to a certain interiorization; degrees six and seven seem to be the application to different tasks imposed by life, the twelfth pertains to one's carriage and manner of looking on others; nine, ten and eleven are on the demands of detachment in word and laughter.

II. Anthropology

It is evident that I will have to deduce an implicit anthropology from all this, one which underlies the text and one which Benedict himself did not consciously construct. But it is nevertheless possible to imagine the notion of humanity that he has, by studying how he conceives his candidate for the monastic life, the goal which he proposes to him, and the means which he recommends to him.

I would make two preliminary remarks. First, there are in Benedict, as it were, two different points of view concerning the spiritual journey: one which looks to the ideal and one which takes into consideration concrete possibilities. Secondly, it is good to recall the historical perspective: each epoch, each cultural period produces a particular human type. We should not overlook this historical relativity: even if there is something eternal in humanity, that eternal is always incarnated in a very definite human type.

What is so striking about Benedict is that his anthropology is clearly turned toward the supernatural. His anthropology is Christian, not psychological or philosophical. Benedict sees humanity from the point of view where he invites the monk to place himself: under the gaze of God, and of a God who is the final judge. In reading and rereading this chapter on humility, I can not help but think each time of that beautiful Byzantine church near Athens (Daphni) in which you always find yourself under the gaze of Christ the Pantocrator, no matter where you stand. This very definite, indeed towering, perspective naturally gives to life a seriousness which goes along with the ever-present alternative: eternal life or damnation. Under the eye of the Pantocrator, the fear of God takes on the heavy flavor of the fear of reprobation. Thus humility is a tool which serves to keep us in this perspective, but also to surpass it so as to arrive at an attitude of perfect liberty which drives out fear. This gives to monastic life, as Benedict sees it, a permanent seriousness.

The second point to be noted is the conviction of being a sinner. Benedict constantly sets before us this alternative: my will or God's will, my will being synonymous with sin and the will of God being the grace which delivers me from sin and judgment. If one pushes this to its extreme limits—which Benedict surely never does, but which it is good to do, so as to understand the impression this text can have for certain people—one arrives at a kind of Lutheranism. I have asked myself whether the Wisdom Literature, which is so pessimistic and which is so willingly cited by Benedict, has not had some influence here. One often feels closer to John the Baptist than to the Gospel: the axe is at the root of the tree! This initial impression, however, will be moderated and surpassed through the systematic exercise of humility.

A third point about this anthropology: Benedict considers humanity from a strictly objective point of view, based on the demands made on us by the will of God. In this sense, the text is not psychological. The human person is presented very objectively as free to choose between God's will and self-will; one is in possession of that freedom of choice which ought, through personal labor and through the craft of the monastic life, to render one free for the will of God which is salvation. Taken literally and without commentary, the text sounds very voluntaristic. It is certainly as voluntaristic as the (system) of Ignatius which was, moreover, very probably inspired by Benedict at Montserrat. But Benedict will moderate this voluntaristic perspective by his recognition of human weakness (that entire domain which does not depend on the "will"). No doubt he is forced into the voluntarist perspective by the context of conversion. Just like Ignatius, the monk is at the beginning of his conversion. Also, Benedict is speaking for a kind of hippie, or semi-barbarian, or at least for people who are making a great step. A line of demarcation is clearly traced: as with Ignatius, one must choose between two allegiances. We have something of this kind in the Prologue: one enters into the service of God, into the army of Christ the Lord, the true king.

When I compare him with earlier ascetic and mystical movements, two more points strike me in Benedict. First, the monk is considered as an eternal beginner. He converts and surely arrives at a kind of perfection, but he is always beginning over. The realistic view that Benedict has toward the candidate prevents him from thinking that the high ideal of former years is realizable for the common run of monks.

In the second place, the true Christian disposition consists very precisely in the concrete disposition of the will detached from itself and rendered totally receptive to God. It is in renouncing a height which no longer appears possible that Benedict arrives at the heart of the Christian attitude: at detachment from the will closed in on itself, a detachment which renders it free for the salvation of God. Even if Benedict reduces the meaning of the term "will of God" to a moral or legal sense, it still seems that for him the heart of Christianity is located in obedience to the will of God, which is the will of salvation. To be converted is in the concrete to let oneself be commandeered, here and now, by the will of God mediated through the abbot, into work, into the rear lines. "You are not attaining to the mystic heights. That is not important. You are weak; we are not up to the standard of the heroes of old; that is of no importance whatsoever, for it is the acceptance of this weakness that leads in the end to truth." The circumstances, then, occasion the limits posed on the ideal and they lead to the essential.

I have asked myself whether the personal spiritual evolution of Benedict might not have been decisive in this matter. This son of a nobleman renounced everything to become a contemplative hermit; he departed for Subiaco where disciples soon came to join him in leading a semi-anchoretic life. After an unfortunate experience of reform in a nearby community and after various other trials, he left to found the cenobium of Monte Cassino. He had learned what is at the heart of the monk. In sum, Benedict travelled the road of Cassian backwards: from contemplation, he returned to ascetic life, in the sense explained above. To be a Christian is to enter into the call of God. His spirituality will be an eminently biblical spirituality, a spirituality of the covenant. The monk perceives the call of God: he must be ready to respond. God is here, he need not be sought. Ascesis is the work of faith. And then there is humility: it is not the means to contemplation, but the labor of faith. The Rule is not, then, as is often said, a kind of Christian form of a universal, religious human ideal. Also, it is often said that monasticism is a kind of archetype of culture and religion which one finds in all religions and which Christianity has simply lived out in a Christian fashion. That is not the vision of Benedict. He keeps nothing from this cultural and religious archetype. On the other hand, I do find this ideal in the spirituality of Carmel. Benedict has, so to speak, immediately descended from this ideal to arrive at a very different kind of behavior. To characterize it, I would speak rather of a spirituality of the covenant. One is called by God, one enters into his service, one listens, one hears. It is not necessary to search for God; he is here. That is what gives the Rule its extremely concrete character and which doubtless opens it to so many possible implementations.

A final point of anthropology: the realism of the "charity" of Benedict, who takes into consideration human subjectivity with so much wisdom and moderation. In this regard, it is quite instructive to see that the abbot must not load his monks down too heavily with work, and he must see to it that they do not lapse into a depressed sadness. People are weak and they are sinners; the abbot must recognize this in all humility; hence the care in regard to persons that Benedict demands of him, the attention to subjective dispositions, this realism that flowers throughout the Rule. Here again we recognize something fundamentally Christian. It is by basing himself on this very realistic consideration of humanity that Benedict arrives at the essential, at the primacy of charity. Yet, the different motivations do not seem to be perfectly integrated, and it is surprising to see how RB 7 hardly mentions charity at all—in contrast to our spirituality today. In this key chapter on the spiritual art, which is the masterpiece of Benedictine spirituality, charity as such remains in the background.

To sum up in one word: Benedict interiorizes Christian values and does so in the context of a certain pessimistic realism—or better, of a realism which is a bit pessimistic.

III. Some Critical Notes

We are separated from this text by a great psychological and cultural distance. Two points catch our attention: first and foremost, the emphasis placed on sin and judgment; then second, the related interest in subjectivity with the emphasis again on judgment and the inclination to sin. This point of view is the product of a Christian pessimism which proceeds not so much from an awareness of sin as from a whole theological perspective which is expressed in a series of antinomies where everything has its meaning: sin/pardon of God—self will/will of God—fear of judgment of God/love of God, the fruit of humility.

Many influences have worked in the same direction. Certainly the anti-Pelagian influence of Augustine can be felt here: "that which is my will cannot come from God." One conceived of an alternative or opposition: nature/God, my will/will of God. Obviously, this Augustinian influence could combine with Platonic dualism. (I have also been struck by this in John of the Cross, who constantly emphasizes the place of human desire as something sinful in itself, since it is self-will that steals from God that which belongs to him. In him, too, we see what is almost a dualist antinomy: that which is from me cannot be from God.) Probably a certain climate of pessimism inherited from the cultural situation entered into play here: it was an epoch of war, of barbarity, of decadence in monastic morals.

In any case, we find ourselves faced here with an extreme polarization and a theology of liberation which is very specific. In the Johannine opposition of God/world, the world, in the theological sense, is mostly the world judged by God, and liberation clearly means deliverance from sin—so this theology merits its name as a theology of liberation in the strictly limited ancient sense of the word. Ascesis, which is the work of faith, becomes at the same time the work of liberation from sin. To the liberation from sin offered by God there corresponds, in the relationship of faith, the human contribution, which is the task of liberation from self-will, from sin. To put it bluntly, we have here a lack of attention to the creation. That is why I call this theological vision, which is polarized to the extreme on the matter of liberation, a theology of liberation. Protestant as well as Catholic exegetes stress the importance of the first covenant sealed with God with the whole human race as a fundamental covenant, a covenant of creation. Benedict's theological perspective, which is consonant with the entire anthropology of that period, is completely different. For him, the whole weight is placed on redemption, on the intervention of God in history to liberate humanity from sin.

Let us consider for a moment the contribution of "secularization." It has promoted the harmonization of the two poles of creation-theology with liberation-theology. Secularization is bound up with a culture which leads to seeing human beings and the human community, human ethics and history, in non-religious terms. The world is the domain of humanity and it has its own importance. In the concrete, one grants humanity its autonomy, without any intention of denying its relation to God. The use of the same word "autonomy" in the Benedictine perspective would have a completely different connotation: it could only mean opposition over against God, since Benedict always operates within the alternative: "self-will/will of God." It seems to me that today this sharp antinomy has been superseded or at least corrected by the principle of secularization. Not that one could secularize (in a banal sense of the word) Christianity; but we have to take into account a fundamental affirmation of secularization, namely, the recognition of the autonomy, the independent worth of ethics, of social politics, of the great domain of culture. Think of Kant and his ethic. There is a place today for a sexual morality and a morality of justice which, without being religious, pertain to the nature of man and which permit agreement with non-believers. And this principle of secularization can be integrated with a theology of creation, but, on the contrary, it is difficult to assimilate it to a theology of liberation in the restrictive sense in which we have defined that word.

But if, recalling an ancient patristic theme, we recognize the logoi spermatikoi at work in creation and the divine Word actively permeating culture, the formation of human conscience, and ethical movements toward human liberty and dignity, we will welcome a theology which is founded on the covenant of creation and which can integrate in its religious perspective the best contribution of secularization. Now the horizon of liberation is enlarged, for it is no longer limited to liberation from sin, but is open to the historical dimension of the manifestation of God as a dynamic element in the history of humanity. One insists less, then, on the fallenness of human nature than on the historical perspective of humanity as being-in-becoming, which, through research and the development of culture and science, pursues its path toward fulfillment. The goal remains shrouded in mystery, if it remains in a purely worldly perspective. For Christianity as well, the meaning of this immense cultural, social, ethical activity remains wrapped in mystery. We can say that everything leads finally to the Kingdom of God—by what routes remains an enigma. We can, of course, affirm the existence of a goal, but we cannot be sure that this goal coincides exactly with our earthly labors. We can only hope and believe that it does.

Today one also prefers to present the human person in a dynamic perspective as a being-in-becoming, a creator of history, and not only as an individual but also as a member of collective humanity. Human beings create history; they grow throughout the whole development of the cultural history of humanity. Thus, the recognition of human rights mark an important step in human ethical progress. And it is quite evident that Christianity has played an active role in this maturation. Merleau-Ponty affirms this very clearly, at a time when he is otherwise rather critical toward Christianity. Many of the most precious ideas of our thought and of our western philosophy have come from Christianity, he says, and they have become today the common possession of our humanism. The ideas of liberty, of responsibility, of history, of subjectivity have become liberating ideas for all of humanity.

After all this, you see that "liberation" can no longer mean only the my liberation from sin, and from yours and others' as well; liberation through Christ extends to the whole contribution of the manifestation of God and Christians to the development of mankind and to the humanity of human beings. Naturally, this grants Christianity a great deal of significance. It influences and frees people well beyond the frontiers of the Church.

This dimension is obviously absent from Benedict, and it has resulted in a certain shrinkage of perspective which irks me—and many others with me: liberation from sin and the fear of God have stamped humility with a very specific meaning. Later, I believe, monastic spirituality evolved, thanks to study (among other things), and especially when monks entered by their humanistic studies into contact with certain forms of secularization. The horizon was enlarged.

Very recently I have reread certain texts of St. Francis; it appears to me that he has a kind of qualitative bond with the created order. One has the impression of a new interiorization, of a new kind of person at the heart of Christianity: the created order as such has been integrated. Once more this reminds us how our texts, no matter how spiritual they are, are limited by their own proper historical context.

A second point of critical reflection concerns the interest focused on the subject. I perceive in this text—and I am not alone—a strong preoccupation with the self. One struggles to be humble in the eyes of God so as to assure one's personal salvation and in the hope of finding it in God's love already in this world. A great interest in individual ascetic effort corresponds to the strict theology of liberation of which we have spoken and to the whole classic theology of substitutionary satisfaction; this is very much centered on the individual and not on the historic dimension of human life. One systematically humiliates oneself, one strives to see oneself as an unworthy servant, one lowers one's eyes so that others can see one's humility. All this might make us smile if it were not considered in its historic context. It must have had a different meaning for the people whom Benedict addressed, who were a rougher, more violent sort than we. (I think of the violence which Huizinga has described in the late Middle Ages; it is also shown by an episode in which an abbot is stabbed by one of his monks on the stairs leading to the church at the hour of Matins.) The mentality is ruder, more refractory, more "popular." But there is an even more essential difference. Compared to our culture, the disposition of people at that time was of a much more objective sort, and texts such as Benedict's may not have seemed to them as centered on the subject as they seem to us.

We might say the same thing about everything that touches on the mystical. When young people today think of the mystical, they think mostly of their own experience, of a kind of awareness of their own experience. What amazing stuff is written nowadays about religious experience! The expression is also indicative of the orientation of a culture saturated with "subjectivism." The ancients spoke quite otherwise. They are more attentive to objective criteria. In the development of the spiritual life, they hold to objective steps which are described in the symbols and concepts inherited from Platonism. One adapts oneself to the objective model which they represent.

The same holds true in the area of ethics. When the Congregation of the Faith speaks of sexuality, its language is still connected with a terminology drawn from a culture turned toward objective norms. And this is what gives those documents a legalistic character which is so disconcerting to modem people.

After Descartes, philosophy is reflexive. Objectivity takes refuge among the natural sciences, whereas for the ancients, it provided a symbolic system for any subject one discussed. For them the laws of the development of the spiritual life were as objective as the laws of nature are for us. We can never overestimate the cultural and psychological break brought about by "subjectivism." Much more than previously, people today are turned toward themselves, preoccupied with the self, conscious of their own feelings, their ideals. Romantic literature is typical of this modern culture just as epic literature was characteristic of the other. When we compare the drama of Shakespeare with that of Sophocles we find that the former is already moving toward psychological analysis and self-consciousness. Ancient people were more extroverted in their entire orientation toward the objective order of symbols. We must be alert to this typically modern situation when we present ancient texts such as this chapter on humility. To gaze in the mirror so as to be continually present to myself as "me," this a phenomenon of modern culture. This implies a spontaneous care for the self which is reflected in the language and in the surrounding culture. There is a splitting of the self: one is attentive to oneself in a mirror relation, with all that implies of the anxiety of losing the self and of the desire of being recognized.

This phenomenon is so powerful that we can say, using the fine expression of Max Scheler, that the person who pursues humility invariably misses it. That is obviously in total contradiction to Benedict, for whom humility is precisely the labor of faith. Scheler's formula becomes clear in a culture where to pursue humility can only mean to pursue an ideal of the self, "to decide" to be humble. In a culture so preoccupied with the self, one cannot attain to humility in this fashion; methodical application to humility becomes a technique which invariably leads to self-satisfaction.

We have here what Kierkegaard calls the Catholic type of hypocrisy. For him, hypocrisy is a particular occupational hazard of Catholicism. One must confess that what so often strikes laypeople when they enter into contact with a religious community—and this has posed quite a few problems in teaching and is something that deserves to be discussed frankly—is the lack of spontaneity, the difficulty in contact, the impression that there exists a sort of screen between the partners. Without knowing it, even in an unconscious manner which escapes self-awareness, one is always careful of the impression given. The pursuit of humility can really become the pursuit of a personally fabricated self-image. That also explains why the person who pursues humility in this way can only miss it, according to the saying of Scheler. Like Narcissus, and even unknowingly, one is in love with the ideal self-image. Precisely here lies the hazard to Catholicism underscored by Kierkegaard. I do not wish to tone down his claim by reducing it to a warning against possible deviations. Quite the contrary, this is a fundamental trait of a culture which still runs strong in Catholicism. It is a kind of psychological climate which we must overcome. It comes from our culture. All breathe it, religious and laity, but perhaps it is reinforced by asceticism and in particular by the asceticism of humility. Often religious give the impression that their humility is more narcissistic than that of the laity! I am telling you what I often hear and I think that it is good to know how we are perceived by the laity. I have often noticed that the act of quitting of the habit has revealed narcissistic immaturity clearly enough. Evidently the habit is one of the elements of this image that one is creating for oneself and for others. It is a symbolic way of presenting the self, one that makes the person constantly alert, at least when one is in the midst of brothers and sisters with the same habit.

All this is simply to suggest that a text which, in its own era, was not in the last analysis "subjective" in the sense that we have said, can still become such in our time and be vulnerable to a very "narcissistic" interpretation.

Another characteristic of our culture is that it experiences a sense of guilt more than bygone ages did. I am not talking about awareness of sin but of the feeling of guilt. (It would take too long to go into this question). According to Freud, this is the price we pay for the progress of culture. This feeling of guilt is not morbid, but rather takes the form of a psychological disposition of continual anguish, of an uneasy fear of losing love which is found in all kinds of relationships: husband-wife; subordinate-superior; parent-child; humanity-God.

A first consequence: The text of Benedict on humility, taken literally, without a relativizing interpretation, can easily reinforce the tendency to psychological self-accusation. If today we wish to foster the process of religious conversion desired by Benedict, we surely ought to take the opposite route: not to start with guilt feelings, which still do not mean that one is conscious of being a sinner—that takes a deepening of faith—but to learn first to accept oneself and to trust in God. That is for me the first step on the ladder of humility. You may say that this implies an awareness of one's sin; no doubt, but we should not give that the first place. There is much more need to keep in sight "the goodness of God our Savior and his love for humanity" as St. Paul invites us (Titus 3:4). For many this would be a first liberation from self, a distancing from the preoccupation with one's own innocence, an acceptance of the self in humility. For this is humility: as in married love, to accept being called to be loved by God such as one is. This can help us escape from our excessive preoccupation with ourselves.

A second consequence: The text can also give rise to a false interpretation which suggests that the "little child" is ideal, and thus contributes to infantilism. Think of the spirituality of St. Therese of Lísíeux; it is a bit ambiguous and psychologically marked by its time and its circumstances. The analysis of self-will, such as we have presented it above, in a dualistic optic of opposition such as presented in the text of Benedict (my will/the will of God), can lead to this conclusion: I must get rid of my self-will, I must be emptied of myself. In a dualistic climate, that can be equivalent to infantile resignation, a flight from all responsibility, since all self-affirmation is thought to be a seeking of self. If, on the contrary, one sets oneself from the outset in a triangular relation: God—me—community, the reference to the social dimension opens perspectives. I must take the initiative, I must bear my responsibility, I must have the courage to carry through, even at the expense of my reputation. In these conditions, humility takes on an objective dimension which is oriented toward the task of the group and the progress of the community. One is at the service of humanity. The will of God is the will which builds the Kingdom; not the will defined by the prescription of the law, but the dynamic will which comes to establish the Kingdom with and for humanity. To be detached from self-will is to be engaged in this creative dynamism. Is it not a form of humility to disappear into the function that one carries out, with all the willingness required for this task?

This approach is different from that of Benedict. It is all the more important to see that many candidates for the monastic life are young people who have still not arrived at a real self-affirmation nor at a normal development of their identity. As you know, psychological adolescence is greatly prolonged in our day. Young people mature too quickly and too slowly at the same time. This is a complex situation. It is not because they know too much that the young people mature quicker. On the contrary, the amount of knowledge makes the art of becoming oneself more complex. It is because they are exposed to so many contradictory systems of thought, to multiple influences and models of life, that the modern youth have difficulty acquiring self-identity. They are certainly not psychologically adults at 18 or 20 years, even though they have often had much experience.

That can also help us understand how—and this is very surprising to some people—some monks, more than laypeople, can have a sort of delayed adolescence. For them, problems may make their appearance later than for someone who has a home and children and who must struggle to feed and clothe them; such a person comes to a sense of reality and commitment sooner. I have the impression that to the extent that one takes on a kind of premature ascesis of detachment—before self-will and the sense of responsibility have had a chance to develop—one simply risks retarding the crisis of maturity.

IV. A Positive Statement on Humility

My conclusion will be brief.

A first point. The word "humility" rubs us the wrong way and irritates us a bit today. Not because in fact one is not humble, but because of the pejorative connotation attached to the word. Today we prefer the word "authenticity." Without having made a systematic study of the question, I think that today the term connotes a preoccupation with the self which is too narcissistic. It suggests concern about one's virtue, preoccupation with a personal ideal of perfection.²

A second connotation of humility is that a person is seeking in religion some consolation for weakness. Nietzsche is the byword for this critical tendency in our culture. He is probably an author most read by those interested in philosophical works, but he is expressing a sentiment which is very much alive and widespread. The charge against our culture, which, as everyone knows, is formed by Christianity, is that we pursue a kind of unconscious cult of weakness along with a compensating search for consolation in religious emotion, a kind of comforting experience. It seems to me that this is the idea which the word "humility" suggests to many, especially when one stresses the search for voluntary humiliation. One gives the impression of cultivating weakness so as to experience an artificial paradise sought in religious intimacy. It is a kind of religious illusion which has its roots in the cult of personal weakness.

On the other hand, I note a clear preference for the word "authenticity," which fits very well with what the ancients called humility. At first sight, the word "authenticity" seems to have a purely humanistic meaning, but it also has ethical value and can serve as a foundation for Christian humility. "Authenticity" is the word which perfectly expresses the intolerance young people today feel toward pride, smugness, pretension. If the young reject humility, it is not because they support pretence. Quite the contrary: in their eyes, one ought to be able to approach a professor man to man, and—at least if one does not seek counsel—in a certain sense equal to equal. A judge ought to be able to "take a glass," but he remains a judge. I call him by his first name, but he remains my boss and I am under his orders. He exercises a function. I believe that this "democratic attitude" which is so dear to the young lies in a rejection of the pretension whereby someone esteems himself more than someone else solely by reason of the function which he exercises.

To be authentic is to be true to oneself, and that means, for the young, not to think oneself better than another and, as a consequence, to have respect and patience for others. This is a humanistic and ethical value, and it could also become a true "face of God." To keep to one's true place, neither more nor less, before God. We find ourselves back at an ancient saying "Know thou thyself": know that you are a responsible person; you are not God. Authenticity bases itself on a totally human simplicity in order to become religious humility.

A second point seems important to me for a contemporary presentation of humility. I will call it a "sense of celebration." What can this expression mean when it is applied to a text? This is what happens when a text frees me from myself, when it removes me from worry about moral application—without making me therefore immoral!—but evokes in me sentiments of wonder and admiration such as happens with many of the psalms. These are texts which teach us to look with joy on the magnificence and splendor of God and the creation. This quality is often lacking in modern texts and melodies which turn people back too much on themselves and come across as too moralizing.

Such a perspective goes along naturally with a theology of creation and one can also develop it on the foundation of an enlarged theology of redemption. We are free from ourselves, for the person who has heard and seen Christ looks on the world differently. This person sees future possibilities, open-ended growth, manifest splendor. Such a person is clothed with a kind of innocence which sometimes bursts forth in a look of knowing admiration.

In my opinion, admiring attention is an attitude of humility, even though the word is not uttered. It breaks open the narcissistic turning back on the self. Such an attitude may seem too emotional at times, but it may also be simply realistic. This is the Gospel ideal: to be an infant, without trying to be—for to seek it would be infantilism. This form of humility is forgetful of self. In this sense, I could be rejoining St. Benedict when he says that one should not seek the mystic heights. Don't seek systematically to be humble; be objective; learn to discover God; learn also to recognize him in others. Get out of yourself and without knowing it humility will be given to you besides.

A final remark: I would like to give a slightly different meaning to the term "the will of God." I would not see it to be primarily an order, a commandment that God addresses to me. I would see it in a more objective way by distancing it from a dualist perspective. That would make it more a will for the salvation of all humanity and also a will for salvation integrated into the created order. To learn to see God as he reveals himself in human work, guiding the development of the Kingdom, this is to plug into the will of God and to become detached from self-will.

I think I can conclude thus: I have then connected humility to obedience (ob-audire), to obedience especially as a way of learning to listen to that which speaks of God and appears in humanity and in Christ. This attention oriented toward its object seems to me to be the fundamental obedience of humility. Naturally, it admits of different degrees which extend the readiness to listen to various domains and to the concrete here and now of life. This places it at the extreme opposite pole from any of those utopian dreams which break and sour so many people, and not only in the political and social world but also in religious houses. The dream of a heavenly Jerusalem reminds me of the text of Matthew about the violent who wish to take heaven by force: the dream of a utopian church, of a heavenly Jerusalem that one wants to establish by violence, a dream always aimed toward the future, toward a future to be lived here on earth.

What is fundamental in St. Benedict is that he teaches us to discern here and now, concretely, the actual possibilities of a situation. I find that this is precisely the realism which demands the greatest detachment from self. Here is where I find true humility. Its fundamental meaning lies in being alert to discern the traces of God and in an attentive listening in order to respond to the divine invitation which is offered to me in the reality of each day.

Notes

¹ All English translations of the Latin text of RB used in this article are taken from RB 1980, ed. Timothy Fry et al (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press 1981).

² The author has indicated in a verbal communication that on the basis of a little poll he took on the meaning people attach to "humility," he found that the word carries a positive sense as well as a negative. For some it conjures up a feeling of respect, as something opposed to pride; for others it has the negative connotations analyzed in the text; for still others, it can bear various meanings.