Tapestry of Love

It is often difficult to see—with our weak and limited human vision—how the love of God our Creator is interwoven into our lives, each connected to the other. We trust too much in our own faulty perception as we view the surrounding world—our family, friends, neighbors, and community; our jobs, our daily struggles and successes; our occasional sorrows and pain. More broadly speaking, we think we comprehend the world at large through how the media presents it to us.

But we really have no idea. These are only slim slivers of reality. Yet, from our narrow and incomplete vantage point, we think we not only see, but know and understand.

The Creator’s perspective—infused with love for his creation—is much different, complete and wider than we can possibly imagine (cf. Ephesians 3:20). Envision, if you will, a magnificently woven tapestry of intricate and colorful design. If we each imagine ourselves to be one single thread in this tapestry, then we are invited to widen our perspective: while each thread is integral to the whole, it is not complete without the others.

With its limited perspective, each thread is only able to consider itself in relation to those on either side of it. It can see no further, although there is much more to be seen. It has no genuine knowledge of how it or those closest to it fit together into something much bigger. Together, without their full knowledge, each thread is lovingly interwoven according to the plan and the vision that only the tapestry’s Creator can fully appreciate.

The Creator sees and delights in the work of his hands. He carefully chooses and places each thread in its proper order. Those that become crooked, he straightens (cf. Isaiah 45:2). And each, by his grace, fulfills his purpose.

Each of us, in a sense, is nothing more than a piece of thread in a divine work of art. This realization—the nothingness of our own vision, knowledge, and efforts—invites us via humility and love to relate to one another in glorifying our Creator within the tapestry of love to which we all belong.

One day, by his grace, we will all perceive what the Creator has known all along.

Monk or priest -- what's the difference?

What is the difference between a monk, a priest, a brother, and a father?

This is a sincere, frequently asked question reflecting a common misunderstanding of the monastic and priestly vocations, which are inherently two different things. The confusion is quite understandable.

Simply put, all of us living in the monastery at Saint Meinrad are monks. We all “look the same” in our identical black habits for a reason. There are no distinctions between us. Beyond the monastery’s leaders (Abbot, Prior, and Subprior), there is no hierarchy except date of profession – and even that provides little, if any “privilege.” It is more of an organizational tool. Benedictine monks are people who have discerned the divine call to seek God in community while living according to the Rule of St. Benedict and under the authority of an Abbot. They take vows of obedience, stability and conversion of life. Their lives are governed by a daily rhythm of public prayer (the Divine Office), personal prayer (lectio divina), work, and all that the common life entails. This is true for all of us.

Priests are people who have discerned the divine call to holy orders. This vocation principally involves (but is not limited to) celebrating the Eucharist and administering the sacraments. There are two types of priests – those belonging to a diocese under the authority of a bishop, and those belonging to a religious order under the authority of a religious superior. Benedictine monks who are also priests fall under the second category.

The only difference between an ordained monk (called a “father”) and a non-ordained monk (called a “brother”) is that the priest can administer the sacraments. That’s it. But we are all monks. Beyond the sacramental, the work of monks is varied and based solely on ability, interest, and need—not whether one is ordained. For example, some ordained monks are skilled laborers (such as carpenters), and some non-ordained monks are teachers and counselors.

Much of the confusion stems from the fact that many Catholics are typically only familiar with diocesan priests who serve in parishes – not those belonging to religious orders. Also, some ordained monks are assigned (temporarily or long-term) to parishes or schools as pastors or teachers. In addition, the primary work of many Benedictine monasteries (including Saint Meinrad Archabbey) is operating seminaries to educate and form young men for diocesan priesthood.

No wonder there is so much confusion! And some of this is our fault. Through much of the Church’s history, unfortunately, monasteries have emphasized the clerical state at the expense of the monastic vocation. Despite the explanation above, there have been distinctions between ordained and non-ordained monks in the past. There was a time when the two groups were kept separate in monasteries, and the non-ordained “brothers” were in many ways treated as inferior. Much of that was rectified in the years after the Second Vatican Council. But many of the misunderstandings persist.

Echoing what was stated above, perhaps the simplest way to address this question is as follows: Monks are people who seek God, praying and working together while living in community according to Benedict’s Rule and under the authority of an Abbot. All of us at Saint Meinrad are monks. Beyond that, some of us are ordained as priests to engage in the Church’s sacramental and pastoral ministry. So, all are monks, but some are “fathers” (ordained), and some are “brothers” (non-ordained).

Whoever you may be

The Rule of St. Benedict can seem strange and intimidating to many who read it for the first time. Even continual study can sometimes raise questions. Who’s it meant for? Who can possibly benefit from it these days?

The answer is in the first few lines. Verse 3 of the Prologue, in many English translations reads: “To you, therefore, my words are now addressed, whoever you may be …” (or something similar). Whoever you may be. In other words, anyone – which includes you! Benedict himself describes his work as a “little rule for beginners” (cf. Chapter 73). The way of life he outlines—not so much in its particulars, but in its underlying values—is accessible to anyone serious about the Christian spiritual life.

Although it has guided monks and nuns for hundreds of years, the Rule was not – and is not – exclusively for them. St. Benedict was not a priest (surprised?), and he wrote his “little rule” primarily for laymen in the mid-sixth century who desired to follow Christ in a more structured, intentional manner – living in community under an abbot. He never intended to establish a formal religious order (these did not exist at the time) and certainly did not envision one consisting mainly of clerics. Those historical developments occurred much later—some of them rather problematic, considering St. Benedict’s intentions and the origins of a lay movement that began in the late third century with groups of non-ordained desert hermits (men and women) in Egypt and Palestine.

So, despite present-day perceptions, the Rule is not the exclusive domain of “professional religious” or the “spiritual elite” (if such people exist!). It can—and does—benefit anyone who sincerely seeks God. This is evident in the growing interest in monastic spirituality among laypeople in the last 30-40 years. That appeal coincides with the steady and rapid growth of Saint Meinrad Archabbey’s Oblate community. Today, there are approximately 1,300 oblates associated with Saint Meinrad. In 1995, there were only a couple of hundred!

As Esther de Waal wrote in the 2001 preface to her popular book Seeking God: The Way of St. Benedict:

It is clear that great numbers of people—people busy with work and family commitments, many finding it stressful to hold together the demands of their busy and complicated lives—are today turning to the monastic tradition. … I believe the main reason, quite simply, is that here they find what they know they most need: practical help and guidance in imposing the order and structure on the circumstances of their ordinary and daily lives that will give them a way to find God. …

In St. Benedict himself we have a layman writing a guide for his household, his extended family of brothers with their busy shared life and all its inevitable demands: preparing food and washing up, looking after guests, maintaining buildings and property, educating children, caring for the sick, and also earning a living. …

[Prayer] was the one essential priority, the central focus of everything else. There was here no separation of prayer and life. Everything flowed from one center, that contemplative center which so many today recognize as what they themselves are looking for.

As a result, lay men and women for centuries—and especially in recent decades—have associated themselves with Benedictine monasteries. Today, oblates live in the secular world but seek God through the inspiration and guidance provided by St. Benedict’s Rule. They apply its values and principles to their individual, daily circumstances—within their families, homes, workplaces, places of worship, and wider communities.

Those expecting the Rule to be some kind of profound treatise on mystical prayer and the spiritual life will be sorely disappointed. Rather, it is a practical, down-to-earth guide outlining a structure and daily rhythm for life in a community whose members have one common goal: to love and serve the Lord.

This is all in line with the Church’s “universal call to holiness,” which includes all the faithful. As individual members of the Body of Christ, we the People of God constitute the Church, whose mission involves each member. Everyone is called to holiness; there are simply different ways to live out that call. (If you’ve never read the Second Vatican Council’s Lumen Gentium, which addresses this topic, I encourage you to study the document; it can be found free online.)

Incidentally, my patron saint, Francis de Sales, was a huge proponent of the universal call to holiness (400 years before Vatican II!). In his ministry and writings, he not only repeatedly emphasized that sanctity is for everyone, but that it is indistinct from daily life, and is experienced in the very midst of it.

That has profound implications for what most of us consider the “routine drudgeries” of daily existence. Our prayer may indeed occasionally include brief, uplifting periods of divine insight or elation, but like the apostles Peter, James and John, we too must “come back down the mountain” (cf. Matthew 17:1-9 and Mark 9:2-10), engage with the here and now, and become Christ to one another. However mundane, difficult, or pointless things may sometimes seem from day to day, that is precisely where God is to be sought, and virtue is to be practiced. Ours is an incarnate spirituality; we not only worship God but follow Christ, who came among us as a human being who walked this earth—the Word made Flesh.

This is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? How do we continue to seek God, believe in his omnipresence and omnipotence, and trust him amid our busy, overstimulated lives within an often indifferent or even hostile secular culture? Assuredly, it isn’t easy. Jesus never promised that it would be (quite the contrary!).

Navigating this journey and deepening one’s relationship with God amid such circumstances is not something that can be simply hoped for or left up to chance. A plan is needed. Like anything else worth pursuing (a military objective, a business goal, an athletic achievement, etc.), the Christian spiritual life requires strategy. And prayer must be at its center—not something employed merely to fill in the gaps around what we might term “priorities.”

That is precisely what St. Benedict is doing with his Rule. He offers a plan on how to respond to God’s universal call to holiness. It’s not the only way; there are many others. But I am convinced it’s one of the best (of course, I may be biased!). The fact that it’s been around for nearly 1,500 years and has guided so many souls – monks, nuns, oblates, and others – on their earthly journeys testifies to that. This ancient wisdom has modern relevance. Not everyone is called to be a monk or nun, but all are called to faithfully live out the Gospel, and the Rule of St. Benedict offers a time-honored way for anyone to do just that.

The strategy St. Benedict prescribes is simple, practical, and down-to-earth, establishing a daily sacred rhythm for seeking God. As former Archabbot Justin DuVall (d. 2021) once wrote of Benedict:

He believed that the search for God engaged the whole person—body, mind, spirit—and the human person comes to conversion without division and in communion with others…Much contemporary spirituality strives for balance in life, and the hectic pace of modern life makes it an attractive goal. St. Benedict, however, roots the practices of his Rule in a rhythm that ebbs and flows according to the demands of the time…He establishes a regular rhythm to each day through his careful arrangement of the times for prayer, work, eating, and sleeping.

Still, the Rule can present challenges to the modern-day reader. It can prompt objections, doubts, and confusion (just like Scripture!). That’s OK. But I propose that such challenges are signs to dig deeper, not pull away. A good question to keep in mind while reading the Rule is this: “What is this saying to me today—and how do I put it into practice?” 

For example, an oblate recently asked me what purpose or relevance Benedict’s chapters on such “boring” items as the order of the psalmody and footwear can possibly have for her. I suggested that she focus less on the literal application of such items, and more on their underlying values. What is Benedict conveying by including such pedestrian (even “boring”!) chapters in his Rule? Could it be that the “little things” matter? That structure is necessary in our pursuit of God? That there is really no distinction between the sacred and secular—that the world and everything in it is sacramental, and should be treated as such?

Those are the types of questions one should ask while striving to live out the Rule. With all that said, I leave you with a few tips for engaging with St. Benedict’s Rule:

n   Try to go beyond a mere literal reading. As noted with the example above, not all passages will have obvious relevance for you. Focus on the underlying values being conveyed. 

n    The Rule is very much a flexible, “living” document. It is adaptable to nearly any living situation. No one observes it exactly as written (though some have tried!). Like Scripture, not everything in the Rule is equally edifying or even useful. Consider context while reading and look for overall themes. Take to heart what is helpful and leave behind what is not. Even Benedict himself suggests that if what he spells out is unsatisfactory, then do “whatever one judges better” (cf. Chapter 18:22).

n    Don’t just read the Rule. Pray with it. It is suitable for lectio divina. Both God’s Word in Scripture and the Rule (which is heavily steeped in Scripture, especially the gospels), if approached via the Holy Spirit, is living and active. It has something to say to each of us today. Prayerfully engage the text. Consult commentaries on the Rule. Ask God in prayer what a passage means for you. And listen for an answer.

Like Jesus, St. Benedict doesn’t promise that all this will be easy, only that it will be eternally rewarding. And over time, the path should widen and level out: “Let us set out on this way, with the Gospel for our guide …,” he says. “Do not be daunted immediately by fear and run away from the road that leads to salvation. It is bound to be narrow at the outset. But as we progress in this way of life and in faith, we shall run on the path of God’s commandments, our hearts overflowing with the inexpressible delight of love” (Prologue 21, 48-49).

Whoever you may be.

(Originally published in Saint Meinrad Archabbey's The Oblate Voice, Winter 2026, Volume 5.)

Will you accept the gift?

NOTE: The following is the homily delivered by Fr. Nathaniel Szidik, OSB on Christmas morning. Here he comments on the Gospel reading for that day's Mass: John 1:1-18.

🕂

Brothers and sisters, this Christmas day we arrive at the fulfillment of our Advent waiting. The angels have sung their Gloria. The shepherds have left their fields in wonder. Certainly, today is a day of much rejoicing!  For four weeks we’ve watched and prayed. We’ve lit our candles, one by one, watching flame join flame. We’ve walked with John the Baptist, making straight the way of the Lord. We’ve contemplated Mary’s yes to God’s seemingly impossible plan. And now, the Word – that eternal Word spoken before the beginning of time – becomes flesh and makes his dwelling among us. Now all of our Advent attention culminates in the cradle, a trough with our tucked-in Savior.

This day is certainly one for rejoicing because God has given us a choice. A choice with many more consequences than deciding which cookie to take from the dessert table or which present to pick first from under the tree. A choice that we now must make with the help of our Advent attention. For the true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world came to be through him, but the world did not know him.

Consider with me for a moment Nicodemus in John’s Gospel, a few chapters after the prologue we just heard proclaimed. A ruler of the Jews. A teacher in Israel. A man of learning and position. His robes pulled close, sandals quiet against Jerusalem’s cobblestone streets, checking over his shoulder as he moves through the darkness. Slipping through the night hoping to remain unnoticed, but approaching Jesus and saying, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God.” He makes a choice to visit Jesus. He makes a choice to seek Him out. But when Jesus speaks to him of being born again, Nicodemus – like two puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together – can’t make sense of the picture: “How can a person be born again when he is old?”

Nicodemus makes a choice to come to Jesus. He emerges from the night to speak with the True Light, yet he can’t step fully into its illumination. He has a position to protect, a reputation to maintain.

But the world did not know him.

Remember Jesus’s teaching to the large crowd after he feeds them. Hungry they were. Hungry for healing. But Jesus feeds them with more bread and fish than they could eat, fragments filling 12 baskets. The taste of fresh bread still on their tongues, fish scales still on their fingers, having seen the sign Jesus has done, the crowd says, “This is truly the Prophet, the one who is to come into the world.” This large crowd makes a choice to seek out Jesus, but when they follow him across the sea, they hear something they can’t accept. Not something simply difficult to follow, but something harsh and scandalous to their ears. “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst.” Jesus reveals who He is. And the large crowd couldn’t stomach it.

But the world did not know him.

When Jesus stands before Pontius Pilate, the representative of Rome’s might and majesty, after Jesus reveals that he came into the world to testify to the truth, Pilate asks, “What is truth?” Here stands Jesus with wrists raw from chains, face bruised and swollen, blood dried at his hairline. Here stands the one who claimed, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” Here stands the Word made flesh, the one who said, “If you remain in my word, you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” Truth itself stands before Pilate in chains, in flesh and blood, and Pilate can’t see it. He has the power to release the Truth, but he chooses political expedience over right judgment. He can uncover the True Light, but he shields his eyes, walking back into the cover of darkness.

But the world did not know him.

How easy it is for us not to know him. How easy it is to stand in the presence of the True Light and yet choose darkness. How easy it is to hear the Truth and turn away. How easy it is to encounter God’s invitation and make our excuses.

We’re not so different from Nicodemus, are we? We come to Jesus, but sometimes only in the darkness, only when no one’s watching. We seek him out, but we hold back our full commitment, scrolling past suffering on social media, avoiding that difficult conversation with a friend or neighbor, staying silent when someone speaks unkindly about another human being. We hold back our commitment because we have our own reputation to maintain, our own position to protect. What will our confreres think? What will our family say? What will it cost us to truly follow this child in the manger who will grow to demand everything from us?

We’re not so different from that large crowd, either. We come to Jesus when we’re hungry – hungry for comfort, hungry for healing, hungry for blessings. We love Jesus when he’s giving us what we want. But what about when his teaching gets uncomfortable? That passage about giving to everyone who asks – we skip right over it. That command to love our enemies – we decide it must be metaphorical. Those people in our lives who drive us absolutely mad, whose voice we can hear before they even enter the room – Jesus says to love them, to serve them, to see Christ in them. And we think, “This teaching is too hard. Who can accept it?”

And are we not sometimes like Pilate as well? Truth stands before us every day – in the homeless man on the corner, cardboard sign in hand. In the inconvenient call to forgive a family member who sits across from us at the dinner table. In the challenge to love the neighbor whose opinions infuriate us, whose lawn sign makes our blood boil. Yet we question, “What is truth?” as if we’re being philosophical, as if it’s unclear, as if we have time to wait while Truth itself stands before us waiting for our response.

The world did not know him. And how often we don’t know him either.

But to those who did accept him he gave power to become children of God.

Brothers and sisters, this is the choice that Christmas presents to us. The choice is this: Will we accept him? Will we truly accept him?

And look at what happens when we do! Look at what the Gospel promises! He gave power to become children of God. Not power to become more successful. Not power to become more comfortable. Not power to become admired or wealthy or influential. Power to become children of God – a power far greater, far more profound, far more transformative than anything this world can offer.

But to those who did accept him he gave power to become children of God.

Think about what this means. We’re not born children of God by natural generation, John tells us, but by God himself. Wrapped in flesh. Secured in swaddling clothes like a bow. This is pure gift right before our eyes in the mystery of the Incarnation, the glory of Christmas – that the Word became flesh so that flesh might become like God Himself.

This child in the manger – fists clenched, lungs pulling in that first breath of Bethlehem air, lying in wood still rough with splinters – comes to give us power. Not the power of preservation. Not the power of Pilate. Not the power that the world persistently promises. But the power of transformation. The power to be born anew. The power to see with new eyes, to love with a new heart, to live with a new purpose. The power to become who we were always meant to be.

But to those who did accept him he gave power to become children of God.

 Will you accept him? Not just today, on this day of Christmas rejoicing. Not just this Christmas Octave or this Christmas season.

But will you accept him when he asks you to become small again, vulnerable again, new again – like Nicodemus was asked?

Will you accept him when he calls you to sacrifice your comfort and challenges everything you thought you wanted – like that large crowd by the sea was asked?

Will you accept him when his truth, like the Truth standing before Pilate in the praetorium, contradicts what our culture celebrates?

The Christ child lies in the manger this day – as vulnerable as any infant, wrapped in swaddling clothes against the crisp night air – yet he is the True Light that darkness cannot overcome. He comes not with force but with an invitation. An invitation of commitment from the closeness of the cradle to the cost of the Cross. He comes not to conquer but to be received. He comes offering power – the power to become children of God – to all who will accept him.

God has given us this choice today. He always has. The world did not know him. But we can. We can know him. We can receive him. We can believe in his name. And in doing so, we can become what we were created to be from the very beginning.

But to those who did accept him he gave power to become children of God.

Please pardon the dust!

Hello,

Welcome to my new blog, Monkly Musings -- whether you've come over from my old blog The Path of Life or just stumbled upon this one by chance. If the former is the case, you may have noticed that I had not been posting much of anything the last few years. So, a "refresh" was certainly in order!

The Path of Life blog began, really, in 2011 as an outgrowth of my work at Abbey Press' Path of Life Publications. I have not worked at Abbey Press since 2014 -- in fact, sadly, the entire operation ceased in 2017. These last 11 years have largely been dedicated to my work as secretary to the Archabbot, so I did not have as much time to devote to the blog. Having recently been relieved of those responsibilities, I hope (God willing) to devote more time to writing (including this blog) and my ministry of spiritual direction.

In the meantime, my old blogs, both Path of Life and before that The Yoke of Christ (2008-11) will each remain accessible, but nothing new will be posted on those sites. Also, Monkly Musings remains a work in progress. There are still design and content elements I would like to add to the site, so I appreciate your patience until things are fully up and running!

PAX -- Br. Francis 

The Master's crib

While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. -- Luke 2:6-7

When I was a child visiting my grandparents in northwest Indiana, my brother, cousins and I looked forward to accompanying Grandpa when it was time to feed the cows out in the fields. He would drive the tractor, and we would ride atop the flatbed trailer filled with bales of hay. Once we arrived alongside the feeding trough, Grandpa would start cutting the bales of hay and tossing them in.

The cows never had to be called for dinner. They came galloping to meet us. They knew what the sight of the tractor meant, and what the trough was for. They knew who fed them.

Compare this image to these words from the prophet Isaiah, lamenting on God’s behalf: “The ox knows its owner and the donkey its master’s crib [or feeding trough]; but Israel does not know, my people do not understand” (Isaiah 1:3). That’s quite an indictment! In other words, stupid and stubborn beasts know who feeds them, but God’s own people, created in his image, do not.

Luke’s Gospel proclaims that, with the birth of Jesus, this woeful situation has been reversed for all who heed such good news. The symbolism of the manger is important for Luke. After giving birth, he writes, Mary laid the infant Jesus in a manger (2:7). Luke goes on to mention this detail two more times—when nearby shepherds hear from an angel the good news of the Messiah’s birth, and then go to Bethlehem to see for themselves the child in the manger (Luke 2:12, 16).

Beginning with those shepherds, God’s people now know their “master’s crib.” And it is God himself—in the Word Made Flesh who came among us, and who is with us always in his Holy Spirit—who closed the gap of understanding. In so doing, he began fulfilling Jeremiah’s prophecy of a new covenant: “I will be their God and they shall be my people … They shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more” (Jeremiah 31:33-34). This movement by God was finalized some 30 years later with Christ’s sacrifice on the cross, and continues today in the church’s faithful.

The manger, the ox and the ass in the Nativity scene serve as a reminder: It is God who feeds us, both spiritually and physically.