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The Cistercian Way
Andre Louf (Cistercian Publications, 1983)

157 pp.  First reading.
Posted 10 May 2006.

Andre Louf is the abbot of the Cistercian monastery of St Marie du Mont in northern France. Here he has written a concise introduction to Cistercian monasticism, a branch of the Benedictine tradition that has now endured for more than 900 years. It is a beautiful book, written with the patient tone and thoughtful economy of means fitting to a contemplative.

It gives an admirably well-rounded view of Cistercians and their way of life, including a brief history of the order and an overview of the shape of a typical monastic day. But the heart of the book is its unfolding of the character of Cistercian spirituality, central elements of which are ascetic practice, life in community, contemplative prayer, and a devotion to the Virgin Mary.

It would be hard to imagine a way of life more at odds with the prevailing spirit of our times.  Vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, after all, neatly line up to confound the pursuit of wealth, sex, and power.  Monks practice renunciation instead of consumption, live by tradition rather than novelty, pursue prayerful recollection in silence rather than 'distraction from distraction by distraction'.  The monastic life is one in which all that is superfluous has been stripped away, and lives have been dedicated to the cultivation of what, in the fourth century, John Cassian called 'purity of heart'.

One of the enduring glories of monastic life is that it is useless -- useless, at least, to a certain kind of mind which measures value only in terms of productivity or political involvement. A monk is materially unproductive and politically disengaged precisely in order that he may be interiorly engaged and spiritually fruitful. Thomas Mann once wrote something that seems relevant in this connection:

...without the fixation of the self and its salvation in the very center of all things, there is no piety.  Piety, in short, is the name we give to that great virtue.  Its opposite is the low esteem of the self and its relegation to the unimportant periphery, out of which nothing good can come.  He who does not take himself seriously is soon lost, but he who thinks of himself as Abram did when he resolved that he, and in him man, might serve only the highest, does, of course, behave presumptuously.  But this presumption will be a blessing to many.  For here is manifest the connection between the dignity of the self and the dignity of humanity.  The claim of the human ego to central importance was the precondition for the discovery of God; and only together, with the consequence of the utter destruction of a humanity which does not take itself seriously, can both discoveries by lost sight of again.( Joseph the Provider, Ch. VII)

There is a delicious paradox here, of course, for while monastic life is, in one sense, a pursuit of humility, Mann is right in saying that it is also a life lived in confidence that humanity can and should touch the highest things.  These men, though poor, are nevertheless conscious of being only a little lower than the angels.  This magnanimity and hope of spiritual grandeur is today a rare thing in our culture, and the simple fact that the monasteries are there, silently but steadily teaching this good news, never fails to revive my flagging spirits -- and disturb my complacency. 

One of the finest aspects of this book is its thoughtful discussion of asceticism.  Asceticism is another of those elements of monastic spirituality that so profoundly contradicts the spirit of our times that a particularly theatrical tradition -- in which the allegedly Catholic hatred of the body and of individual autonomy manifest themselves in maladjusted sexual repressives (formerly called 'chaste') and Pope-piloted zombies (formerly called 'the faithful') -- has arisen to discredit it. Louf ignores all of that, of course; he knows from experience the spirit of truly Christian asceticism. This spirit has been admirably stated by David Bentley Hart in a memorable essay:

Christian asceticism is not, after all, a cruel disfigurement of the will, contaminated by the world-weariness or malice towards creation that one can justly ascribe to many other varieties of religious detachment. It is, rather, the cultivation of the pure heart and pure eye, which allows one to receive the world, and rejoice in it, not as a possession of the will or an occasion for the exercise of power, but as the good gift of God. It is, so to speak, a kind of “Marian” waiting upon the Word of God and its fruitfulness. This is why it has the power to heal us of our modern derangements: because, paradoxical as it may seem to modern temperaments, Christian asceticism is the practice of love, what Maximus the Confessor calls learning to see the logos of each thing within the Logos of God, and it eventuates most properly in the grateful reverence of a Bonaventure or the lyrical ecstasy of a Thomas Traherne.

Louf discusses a number of the central ascetic disciplines -- poverty, celibacy, obedience, fasting, vigils -- starting from the observation that each of them was practiced by Christ, and that therefore each should be seen as a means of growing into further conformity with the spirit of Christ. Thus the practice of poverty "is the first and radical break in that wall of personal desires which separates us from God and from each other"; celibacy creates in the monk an "affective void" which challenges him to seek ever more fervently the love of God and neighbour; obedience seeks to restrain the will, for, as was said by the Desert Fathers, "The will of man is a wall of brass between him and God"; fasting proclaims that man does not live by bread alone; and the silence which is perpetually preserved in the monastery is at the service of one of the central disciples of monastic life: interior vigilance.  Louf writes:

Within his heart the monk is always on guard.  He does not sleep.  He watches.  He is attentive to the thoughts and temptations which prowl about his heart inclining it to evil.  He is attentive also to the least movement of grace which can signal God’s approach.  Is it not in the beautiful silence of the night that according to the gospel we will hear the cry announcing that the bridegroom is nigh?  ‘Here is the bridegroom.  Come out to meet him.’ (Matthew 25:6)

It is a very fine book, and would serve as an admirable introduction to both the form and content, the inward spirit and the outward expression, of Western monasticism.

[Thoughtful words about silence]
Silence imposes itself on us inwardly in two ways.  It issues from our poverty and it springs from our plenitude.  Silence may sometimes be an expression of our poverty.  This happens when we realize that we are not yet capable of speaking the word as we should.  Jesus was very severe about the useless words a believer might speak thoughtlessly (Matthew 12:36)…
But there is another kind of silence which springs from a fullness within us… A moment comes when silence alone can express the extraordinary richness of our heart.  Such a silence unfolds a person gently and powerfully and always comes from within.  Prayer governs it and teaches us when we should be silent and when we should speak.  It is very pure praise and at the same time it radiates outward to others.  Such silence never hurts anyone.  It establishes a zone of peace and quiet around the one who is silent, where God can be irresistibly felt as present.  ‘Keep your heart in peace’ says St. Seraphim of Sarov ‘and a multitude around you will be saved’.


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