Before the Fire: Stability

Once again, I apologize for an unintended hiatus in postings. The responsibility lies with that familiar villain, "circumstances beyond my control".

Benedictines make an odd commitment: we promise "stability". What's intended is stability of place. Those of us who live in monasteries promise to stay put there as the central locus of our monastic life. Of course we may come and go, depending on the monastery's lifestyle, but we always remain members of this particular house.

We might, on equally odd terms, consider Moses a primary figure of stability. Think about his first encounter with God at Horeb. Upon catching sight of a bush that is burning but doesn't turn to cinder, Moses ambles over to take a look. God calls out to him from the heart of the bush and orders him: "Take off your shoes! The place where you're standing is holy ground!" (cf. Exodus 3:5) What a strange command! Are bare feet really a better sign of reverence than feed shod in sandals? Most of our finer restaurants don't seem to think so: "No shirt, no shoes, no service". Islamic custom dictates taking off one's shoes to enter the mosque, but Christian churches are traditionally more concerned about covering up body parts than uncovering them. Why bare feet?

Whatever the original reason for the custom, bare feet may be interpreted as signs of honesty and commitment. To allow anything to be seen uncovered is to allow a part of ourselves to be seen as we are, minus the masks and makeup. To take off our shoes, especially in a stony wilderness replete with nasty things like scorpions, is to make it impossible for ourselves to run away. We accept a position of truthfulness, powerlessness, and stability on this holy ground, which we can feel as it is through the soles of our bare feet.

Moses remained faithful to the commitment he made in taking off his shoes. Certainly, he put them back on again after a while. Certainly, he became a powerful leader. Certainly he lived a nomadic life from that moment to the very end. However, he lived all his life in unveiled truth before the Holy One in whose footsteps he traveled always. He carried the center of his stability with him. Or rather, the center of his stability carried him. God accompanied and led the people always, in the same form of fire, whether as fiery cloud by day or as column of fire by night. When God stopped, the people stopped and encamped near God's own tent, which God sometimes filled with fiery Presence.

Geography is not the point, then. Stability of presence is. Wherever God goes, we go; wherever God stops, we stop. Wherever God is, the surrounding ground is holy--even if the place where God stops is in the midst of our very imperfect monastic communities or families or whatever place we make our home.

This is as true of our inner lives as it is of our outward lives. All of our monastic commitments concern our inner world as well as our outer surroundings. In prayer, for example, wherever God goes, we go; wherever God stops, we stop; wherever God is, the surrounding ground is holy, whether it looks that way to us or not. Perhaps we don't care for a particular style of liturgy, a particular section of scripture, a particular form of prayer. If God is there for us, we had better be there for God--and take off our shoes, and settle down, and feel the reality of the holiness that pervades this "place" through the soles of our naked and defenseless feet. The Sinai wilderness was not, in Moses' day, the Sinai Hilton: it was wild, threatening, low on human comforts--and holy, once the bush began to burn there.

©2008, Abbey of St. Walburga