Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

Benedictine living

Blogging Benedict: Real-Time Obedience

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Funny how God works sometimes. As I read and write about St. Benedict’s vow of obedience this week, God is teaching me the lesson of obedience in real time.

Jane Tomaine notes that the Latin root for obedience is obaudire, “to listen thoroughly.” She points out that in his Rule, Benedict describes obedience as both listening and responding:

“Those who practice obedience set aside their own concerns, plans, and tasks, even going so far as to leave work unfinished  in order to respond quickly to the request. The requested action would be completed without hesitation, almost at the same moment the request was made.” (from St. Benedict’s Toolbox: The Nuts and Bolts of Benedictine Living)

When I check my phone on Monday, I see a message from an unfamiliar number. It’s Lelia. Turns out, one of the speakers on the agenda for her conference this weekend has a family emergency and can’t make it … might I be able to speak in her place?

I say yes.

Let me tell you, one of my greatest fears, second only to throwing up, is speaking in public. I would rather visit the gynecologist and get a mammogram and a root canal and my legs waxed all in the same day. I would rather stand in line at the DMV every day for a month straight. I would rather clean hard water deposits off my bathroom faucet and my neighbor’s bathroom faucet and her neighbor’s bathroom faucet with a toothbrush. I’d rather do just about any other dreaded task over speaking in front of an audience.

But I say yes. It’s so obvious I should say yes that I don’t even think about it. “No problem,” I tell Lelia. “It’ll be totally fine, I promise.”

Then I hang up the phone. And Freak. Out.

The funny part about this story is that only hours before, I’d griped to Brad about how I needed to line up some speaking engagements. Not that I want to line up speaking engagements, mind you, but I realize speaking is part of the territory: published writers are expected to speak. Some days I wish I lived in the 19th century so I could hole up in an attic like Emily Dickinson and just write without worrying about the platform-schmatform and social media and whether I should wear pants or a skirt when I speak in public.

“It seems like all these speaking opportunities seem to drop right into other people’s laps,” I told Brad that afternoon. “I don’t get it.” He’d shrugged. Clearly he didn’t get it either.

After I got off the phone with Lelia and was catatonic on the couch in primal freak-out mode, Brad reminded me of our conversation earlier in the day. “Hey, you just got a speaking engagement dropped into your lap.” Not to be an ingrate, but I’d been thinking more along the lines of “dropped-into-my-lap-with-four-months-notice,” rather than “dropped-into-my-lap-with-four-days-notice.”  God is clever like that sometimes, isn’t he?

Oddly, in between bouts of catatonia and feverish PowerPointing, I am also feeling an overwhelming sense of peace and calm. Part of me knows that everything will be fine, just like I told Lelia. There’s something liberating about being so hopelessly out of control and in over your head. There is serenity in knowing I can’t possibly do anything but hand it entirely over to God.

So that’s what I am doing. Being obedient. Handing it all over to God – the worry, the insecurity, the fear, the queasiness. Trusting that he will be right here with me, teaching me what to say (Exodus 4:12).

So tell me, when’s the last time you were hopelessly in over your head? How did God set your heart and mind at ease?

I would so deeply appreciate prayers for my friend, the one who was originally scheduled to speak, who is dealing with a family emergency right now. And also, while you’re at it, that I might keep my head on straight, not succumb to primal freak-out and, above all, convey God’s message to the ladies at the Refresh My Heart conference this Saturday. Amen. And thank you.

This post is part of my Friday Lenten series  called Blogging Benedict. I am using the text St. Benedict’s Toolbox: The Nuts and Bolts of Everyday Benedictine Living as my guide.

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Blogging Benedict: Because Conversion is Supposed to Take Forever

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A few years ago, when I felt the first inkling of belief, I assumed I was set. I figured once I’d experienced my official “conversion,” I’d be home free, transformed, smooth sailing for eternity.

As with most everything else in this journey so far, I thought wrong.

Believing in God, it turned out, was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. The real conversion, I’ve since learned, takes place continually, incrementally, from that first moment and in every moment forward. Come to find out, there are a lot of backwards steps in the process of conversion, too.

Benedict called this continual conversion conversatio morum – the conversion of life. Author Jane Tomaine explains the concept this way:

“While stability calls us to remain, conversion of life calls us to change and to grow, to be transformed by the Spirit. It has an outward dimension and an inward dimension. Outward behavior or attitudes change as well as the inner self. God works with both dimensions…Conversion of life is a process where, again and again, we recognize that we’ve turned from God, we listen to how God is calling us back, and we take action to return to living a gospel life.”

Conversion isn’t instantaneous. It doesn’t happen overnight or in a split second. It’s a lifelong process. A two-steps-forward, one-step-back kind of journey.

Case in point:

A few summers ago I got mad at my neighbor. For weeks he’d parked his pick-up truck in front of the flower garden that sidles along our picket fence, right next to the street. Day after day I couldn’t run the sprinklers, couldn’t weed or deadhead or prune, couldn’t even admire the blooming lilies and bee balm and phlox because his big ol’ truck was in the way. “This is ridiculous,” I fumed to Brad. “I can’t even see my own garden. All I see is his stupid, ugly, red truck. Why can’t he park in his own driveway?!”

I plotted revenge. I decided I would confront my neighbor about the parking issue, and when (of course I assumed when, not if) he refused to move, I planned to yank weeds, toss them into the back of his truck, flip on the sprinkler system and watch as the bed of his pick-up turned into a muddy, glumpy mess.

Of course you know what happened, right? When I marched over to confront my neighbor, he couldn’t have been more gracious.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he said immediately. “We are about to resurface the driveway, would you mind if I parked the truck there just a few more days?” Not only was he pleasant and apologetic, he also took the time to show Rowan how the fountain in his front yard pumped water. And he invited us inside for a tour of the remodeled kitchen. And he offered free three-day passes for Brad and me to use at his son’s new gym.

Needless to say, I was properly humbled. I’d forgotten one of Jesus’ most important commandments, second only to love God. I’d forgotten to love my neighbor. I needed a re-do, and now God was calling me back for yet another chance to live a gospel life.

True conversion requires that we continually prepare our hearts for transformation. We continually strive to make God, rather than ourselves, the center. But it’s not a day-long or month-long or even a year-long process. It’s lifelong. A true conversion of life.

What about you? Do you ever feel like you should be “done” with your transformation by now?

On Fridays during Lent I am re-visiting (read: rewriting) a series called Blogging Benedict that I wrote a couple of years ago. I am using the text St. Benedict’s Toolbox: The Nuts and Bolts of Everyday Benedictine Living as my guide.

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Blogging Benedict: How to Stop Speed-Reading the Bible

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I’m a speed reader. I skim and scan and tear through text, whether it’s a blog post, a magazine article or a novel. Blogging, tweeting, texting, Facebooking and Internet surfing have all exacerbated that tendency.

The problem, of course, is that my speed-reading has carried over to the Bible, too. I find myself skimming it, reading it just to get through it so I can move on to other items on my to-do list. Or, worse, reading whole paragraphs while simultaneously obsessing over the fact that the wet laundry sat in the washer all night. I’m not thinking about God. I’m thinking about mildewy underwear.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about Benedict’s advice to “listen with the ear of your heart” – a kind of deep, attentive listening for God’s presence in your daily life. One way to do that, says Benedict, is through a close reading of Scripture, called lectio divina – literally translated from Latin as “divine reading.”

I admit that I have to work at this, and I don’t always do it very well. I have Bible Attention Deficit Disorder. That said, lectio divina is a valuable practice, and I’d like to think I’m getting better at it.

Here are some tips for practicing lectio divina (there are a few different methods – this is one I’ve tweaked a bit here and there so that it works for me):

1. Choose a very short passage (just a few verses) in the Bible, and read them through several times. If you are just beginning lectio, you might start with the Psalms, the Gospels or Paul’s letters – don’t head straight for Revelation or Leviticus or you’ll throw in the towel after 30 seconds flat.

2. Read the verses aloud– usually I whisper, because I’m the self-conscious type, even when I’m the only one home. While I’m reading, I try to listen closely for words or phrases that jump off the page or seem to speak to where I am or the challenges I am facing at the moment.

3. Write it – If something resonates, I jot those particular words or phrases in my journal, as well as my reaction to them. This is not eloquent prose. Usually I don’t even write in complete sentences. It’s simply a stream-of-consciousness reaction from the heart.

4. Mull over it – I try to take a word or phrase from Scripture and carry it with me throughout the day, repeating it to myself like a mantra while I’m driving the kids to school or emptying the dishwasher. I like the way even a single, small piece of Scripture can inform my daily life.

Don’t fret if you don’t have a dramatic epiphany during lectio divina. It’s not perfect or foolproof, and there will be days when you simply can’t move beyond your obsession over the wet laundry. I’ve had a couple lectio lightning bolt moments, but they are few and far between. Mostly this practice simply helps to remind me that God is indeed present in my everyday life.

Do you practice lectio divina? If so, what are some tips that work for you?

On Fridays during Lent I am re-visiting (read: rewriting) a series called Blogging Benedict that I wrote a couple of years ago. I am using the text St. Benedict’s Toolbox: The Nuts and Bolts of Everyday Benedictine Living as my guide.

Click here to get posts in your email in-box. Click here to “like” my Facebook Writer page. Thank you!

Blogging Benedict: Learning the Practice of Humility the Hard Way

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This Lent I am reading and practicing some of the exercises in Jane Tomaine’s book St. Benedict’s Toolbox: The Nuts and Bolts of Everyday Benedictine Living. Benedict was a fifth-century monk who founded the Benedictines, a Roman Catholic order that still thrives today. He wrote what he called “the little rule,” a manual to help his fellow monks live a spiritual life in community.

I figured this week’s theme, obedience, would be a piece of cake. After all, I’m a rule-follower, always have been. As a teenager I never once broke my curfew. I always did my homework and got good grades. Even today, I write prompt thank you notes, visit the dentist twice annually and get my oil changed at 3,000 miles. I’m the quintessential annoying good girl, so I figured I could nail Benedictine obedience, if nothing else.

I should have known Benedict’s take on obedience would require more than simple rule following.

According to the Benedictines, humility is at the center of obedience. “The reason humility and obedience are linked,” explains Tomaine, “is that we cannot listen or respond if we believe that our way is the only way.”  Humility, in a nutshell, is placing God first, often by placing others before ourselves.

Because Benedict knew practicing humility would challenge his monks, he broke the concept down into twelve steps, one of which is this:

To believe in your heart that others are better than you.

Did Benedict mean we should believe everyone is better than ourselves, or just some people, I wondered. What about the people I don’t like very much, for instance? Or the person who’s spending a life sentence in prison? That person is better? Or the person whose lifestyle choices are markedly different than mine? Or the person I simply think is wrong.

This is what makes humility and obedience so tough. Benedict did mean everyone – not just the saints and the heroes. Not just the people who think like us and believe the same things we do. He meant even the annoying people. The people who have wronged us. The ones with whom we disagree.

I have a confession. While I was writing this column, I shot off a curt email to my dad. He had done something that had irritated me, and I wanted him to know that I disapproved. Frankly, I wanted him to know that he was wrong and I was right. Several hours after I’d hit “send,” in the midst of writing this column, I realized that I had demonstrated a distinct lack of humility with my dad. I could have said what needed to be said with grace rather than condemnation. I could have chosen humility over arrogance. I could have chosen my dad’s feelings over my own need to be right.

Benedict may intended his rules for his fellow fifth-century monks. But today, it seems his advice on obedience and humility was meant especially for me.

Have you ever learned a real-life lesson in humility?

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I’ve recently revisited a series I wrote three years ago called Blogging Benedict, and I’ve decided to run some of these posts on Fridays through Lent. They are based on the book by Jane Tomaine called  St. Benedict’s Toolbox: The Nuts and Bolts of Everyday Living, which I am re-reading this Lent.

This story ran last Saturday in the Lincoln Journal Star.

Blogging Benedict: Rooted

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Back when we were in graduate school umpteen million years ago, Brad entrusted me with his favorite plant, a lush fichus tree named Herman (in honor of Herman Melville), before he left town for a while.

I moved Herm into my house, positioned him in a sunny spot next to the sliding glass doors and then watched as he began to drop leaves at an alarming rate. I moved him to a South-facing window. More leaves littered the carpet. I watered Herman, fed him plant food, repositioned him yet again in a less chilly spot. Still he dropped leaves.

A week after Brad left, I called to report that I’d killed Herman in a record-setting seven days flat.

Turns out, fichus trees crave stability. Brad had left Herm next to the same sunny window for years, without sliding his pot so much as an inch. Then we had tossed the plant into the backseat of my Pontiac Grand Am and carted him to my house, where I’d moved him from spot to spot in a desperate attempt to quell the leaf-shedding.

There’s a Benedictine lesson to be learned from Herman the fichus, a lesson about stability.

When they first join the order, the Benedictines take a vow of stability. As Jane Tomaine explains in St. Benedict’s Toobox: The Nuts and Bolts of Everyday Benedictine Living, “Stability is saying ‘Yes’ to God’s will for me in the place where I believe God has placed me and with the task I believe God has given me to do.”

Our culture promotes the opposite of stability. Over time, we are conditioned to think that it’s okay to drop one thing and move onto the next. Marriage grown stale? Divorce. Bored on the job? Quit. Shoes scuffed? Buy a new pair. Acquaintance irritate us on Facebook? Unfriend. We abandon with ease, enticed by the fresh and new.

This relentless pursuit of the perfect place, the perfect situation, the perfect person, leads to the Herman phenomenon. Instead of finding contentment and peace, our searching results in greater dissatisfaction. We feel restless, uprooted and displaced. We wither rather than thrive.

The solution, Benedict tell us, is that we should aim for stability.

“The vow of Stability affirms sameness, a willingness to attend to the present moment, to the reality of this place, these people, as God’s gift to me and the setting where I live out my discipleship,” writes Elizabeth Canham. “We are discouraged from fantasizing some ideal situation in which we will finally be able to pray and live as we should.”

I get that inclination toward fantasy. I often find myself imagining a serene retreat at a monastery, in which I can relish the silence, the peace and the time and space to pray without interruption and distraction. But the reality is that I have a job, two young kids and a household to maintain. If I wait to find God in the ideal, I miss him in the here and now.

Stability means we hang on in the situation we are in and with the people who are there with us. As we stay put, as we quell the inclination to flee, we find God’s presence.

As it turned out, much the same was true for Herm the fichus. I finally stopped moving him around the house and let him simply be, and after a few weeks passed, I began to notice tiny buds sprouting on bare branches. Leaf by delicate leaf, Herm began to thrive, unfurling and blossoming into a lush, verdant canopy. In his stillness, he grew strong once again.

What’s your reaction to this notion of stability? Have you ever been grateful that you stayed the course?  [I want to note here, too, that I am in no way advocating staying in an abusive or unhealthy relationship. I’m talking about situations that are uncomfortable, not destructive.]

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I’ve recently revisited a series I wrote three years ago called Blogging Benedict, and I’ve decided to run some of these posts on Fridays through Lent. They are based on the book by Jane Tomaine called  St. Benedict’s Toolbox: The Nuts and Bolts of Everyday Living, which I am re-reading this Lent.