The Continuum of Oneness

“If you become a Dominican Tertiary your chances of becoming a saint will go up by 75 percent!” a friend joked. “There are lots of Dominican Tertiary saints; nuns, not so much.”

I was corresponding with a Dominican nun friend not long ago, and I had quipped to her that, although I would soon celebrate 10 years as a fully professed Benedictine Oblate, I had lately been drawn toward Dominican spirituality, and that my attraction was very likely due to my fascination with St. Catherine of Siena and Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati, two particularly charismatic and lively Third Order, or “Lay,” Dominicans. 

Chances of my impending sainthood being slender to nonexistent (although, to paraphrase the glorious Flannery O’ Connor, I might be a martyr if you killed me fast enough), I have nevertheless known prayerful Third Order Carmelites, jolly Secular Franciscans and studious Dominican Tertiaries who answered the call to a particular spirituality and therein found assistance in their pursuit of “perfection in their own state,” as Eddie O’Neill relates in his piece in this issue (see Page 14). Any of them will tell you that their lay professions were gifts from a loving God who understood how deeply imperfect they were, and where they needed help.  

It is not holiness but the awareness of one’s own deep flaws that inspires the seeking out of a spiritual way that is ordered, disciplined and directed — one that finally imparts what Dorothy Day (herself a Benedictine Oblate) called “the duty of delight”; the simple answering of the call to bring all of oneself into conformity to God’s will, within the ordinariness of each day. 

“Perfection” in one’s state is not possible unless God wills it. As an Oblate, I differ from other lay-professed only in that I am attached to a particular monastic house, but Benedict meant to impart “nothing harsh or burdensome” on his monastic followers. A daily reading of the Rule delivers balance: a constant challenge to do better, but always with a reassurance that I am on the right path. My community is full of other faulty and flawed Benedictines walking it with me, listening with the ear of the heart to the master’s voice (“when evil thoughts come into one’s heart, dash them immediately against Christ”) and finding strength to press on. 

If I still struggle with the Benedictine exhortation to hospitality by finding Christ in everyone I meet, I know my evolution from neglected savage into something passably human is progressing. The charges of my oblation — to assist at Mass and devotions as much as my station will allow; to visit the sick and help the downtrodden where I can; to adapt my life to the Holy Rule, and most particularly to pray the Liturgy of the Hours — have wrought deep changes to my personality and understanding, but they’ve done it slowly — bead by bead, and psalm line by psalm line. 

It is in the psalmody that one begins to feel truly united with the whole Church; to light a candle in the gloaming, open a breviary and chant “God, come to my assistance/O Lord, make haste to help me” is to begin the prayers of vespers just ended in one time zone, not yet begun in the next; one gets a sense of the continuum, the sacredness of time and the oneness of eternity. The whole of the human condition is contained in the psalms; we meet our true selves there, in all of our weakness, folly, pride, hope, exasperation and sorrow; the Liturgy of the Hours daily ignites a truly humbling encounter, with God and with oneself. Last November, Pope Benedict XVI concluded a series of talks on the psalms — which he called “a school of prayer” — by urging all Christians, not just clergy and religious, “to pray the psalms, to become accustomed to using the Liturgy of the Hours, lauds, vespers and compline.” It is marvelous advice, especially during Lent; a prescription against all of our ills, administered by the Divine Physician. TCA