Following the General Confession, the service of Evensong begins - always - with that request: O Lord, open thou our lips. More than a request, it is a petition. More even than a petition, it is a plea from the heart, a plea for connection with God. We are wandering lost in the desert of this world, thirsting for living water. And so we cry: O God, make speed to save us. O Lord, make haste to help us.
Evensong is one of the great glories of the Anglican Church. It is a beautifully constructed, finely balanced act of worship. And it is packed with spiritual nutrients from the pages of Holy Scripture: from the opening versicles and responses, through the psalms of the day, readings from Old and New Testaments, and the two evening canticles: the Magnificat and the Nunc Dimittis. The words alone can enrich, day by day, week by week. Often the words are accompanied by musical settings that, at their best, deepen and enhance the meaning of the words. From the relative simplicity of unaccompanied plainsong to the relative complexity of Mozart with string trio, as tonight.
It is very monastic. But before we go any further, perhaps we should deal with the related matters of disclaimer and credentials. First, despite the title given to this evening's sermon, 'Connecting distance through the monastic life', I am - self-evidently - not a monk; I do not reside in a monastic community. However, that said, I am part of a monastic community, part of the extended family of an Anglican Benedictine monastery in Berkshire: I am an oblate of Elmore Abbey, near Newbury.
The rule of life followed by an oblate, whether ordained or lay, whether male or female, is based upon the Rule of St Benedict, the document that has framed and shaped the lives of countless monks and nuns for more than 1500 years. Although Benedict did not write the first rule for monastic communities, nor indeed the last, his Rule has been more influential than any other. It is unsurprising that, as far as the Western Church is concerned, he is known as the 'Father of Monasticism.'
Written in the 6th century, the Rule of St Benedict is still very much alive in the 21st. Indeed, Benedict, the Rule, and Benedictine Spirituality have perhaps never been more popular. Over the last twenty years in particular, the number of books and articles about the Rule of St Benedict and its application to everyday life has grown from a modest foothill into a veritable mountain.
You might find some of the connections surprising. Ampleforth, the great Benedictine monastery and public school in North Yorkshire, for example, runs courses for those involved in the worlds of business and commerce. At least one book has come out of exploring the relevance of the Rule in this particular way. It is entitled: Doing Business with Benedict.
Television producers have caught on, too; witness the popularity of programmes such as 'The Monastery.' Even reality television (once famously described as 'the fifth horseman of the Apocalypse'), is not beyond redemption.
The truth of the matter is this: a great many people, men and women, from all kinds of backgrounds, living all kinds of lives in all kinds of places, are finding refreshment at this particular well.
And its not just Roman Catholics and Anglicans who have discovered something in the Rule of St Benedict. People from many of the reformed traditions have seen the value of Benedict's Rule for their lives. In the present climate of ecumenical relations, with its sunshine and its showers, Christians of all denominations have recognised in the Rule of St Benedict something of great value from the time before the schisms that divided the Church and that divide us still.
And from an inter-faith perspective, we might note in particular the fruitful dialogue with Buddhists who have found in the Rule echoes and affirmations of their own journey. There is, for example, a volume on my shelves at home entitled Benedict's Dharma, in which four Buddhists reflect on the Rule. In many different situations, the monastic way is connecting distance between people.
O Lord, open thou our lips. Speaking breaks down barriers. At Jacob's Well, Jesus speaks to the Samaritan woman, instantly breaking down barriers between his people and hers, between men and women, showing what is possible with just a few words. Not that everyone will understand: his disciples were astonished that he was speaking with a woman, never mind a Samaritan woman.
But if we never speak to the one from whom we are separated, we will never understand them. That goes for nations and political parties as much as for individuals. Though speaking, of course, is not enough; a monologue is not the thing. The necessary other side of speaking is listening. Real communication always involves listening as well as speaking: Jesus spoke; the woman listened; the woman spoke; Jesus listened. And the landscape of her life changed.
In the desert, the Israelites wanted water. But they didn't ask; they complained to Moses; they quarrelled with Moses. Moses, on the other hand, spoke to God and God told Moses what to do and Moses did what God told him to do and the water was provided. Simple.
If only it was always that simple. But notice what the Israelites didn't do, in the passage we heard read this evening: they didn't ask God. They were thirsty; they were fed up; they were angry; they'd had enough. All hardly surprising, given what they had been through. But they moaned to Moses. Perhaps they should have moaned to God.
But you can't speak to God like that... Can you? Listen to the beautifully crafted prayers at Evensong. That's the way to address God, isn't it? Respectfully, at the very least, even if you can't manage the Elizabethan syntax. Well, if you do think that, then I guess you've never really engaged with the Book of Psalms, which occupies such a central position in the daily worship of Anglican tradition.
Some of the psalms praise God; some of them rage at God. The people who wrote the psalms - often referred to as 'the prayer book of the Bible' - didn't hold back. They said what was on their minds, good or bad. They spoke to God. They told him everything that was on their minds.
Read the psalms that are set for Morning and Evening Prayer in the Book of Common Prayer each day and you'll go through the whole lot in a month. That's twelve times a year; thirty six times during a three-year undergraduate degree course. You get the idea. And it's exceedingly monastic.
At the heart of the monastic life is what Benedict called 'the work of God'; it is of central importance to monastic spirituality. By 'the work of God', Benedict meant stopping and speaking and listening to God at regular intervals throughout the day. In the monastery, he expected his monks to do this seven times a day; in most monasteries, they still do. Not all the services are of great length: some, the so-called Little Hours of Terce, Sext and None, for example, last little more than ten minutes. A short prayer, a short reading and, above all else, the psalms. If the Book of Common Prayer takes us through the Book of Psalms in a month, the Rule of St Benedict takes us through them in a week. You can do the arithmetic.
It doesn't take long and you don't need to be in a monastery to do it. Take this college for example. Morning Prayer takes place in chapel every day at 8.30: 'fifteen minutes,' it says on the chapel's term card. And you have the Eucharist on Sundays and Fridays and Holy Days. And Choral Evensong on Sundays and Thursdays. And Compline on Tuesdays. These things are done together, not alone; it creates and strengthens community. It is very monastic.
And hospitality: that's a very Benedictine thing. Connecting distance between people by service is a gospel imperative, fully endorsed by Benedict. Though Compline, as the last service of the day, is supposed to usher in the Greater Silence which lasts until after Morning Prayer the next day. Benedict might have raised an eyebrow at your chaplain offering hot chocolate and port after Compline on Tuesday nights.
But the Rule of St Benedict is nothing if not humane; and perhaps that accounts, at least in part, for its continued, and increasing, popularity. And since we have mentioned port, we might as well quote Benedict on the subject of wine. In chapter 40, he writes this: We read that monks should not drink wine at all, but since the monks of our day cannot be convinced of this, let us at least agree to drink moderately ...
Moderation: that's a very Benedictine word. Benedict's aim, above all, was to encourage. All around him, he saw thirsty wanderers; he also knew just what they most needed to assuage their thirst. His way is to point towards the well; to put a hand upon the shoulder and say, 'Look; it's over there. You can manage that'.
Like this service of Evensong, the Rule of St Benedict is packed with the spiritual nutrients of the Bible: it is utterly scriptural. For Benedict, this was the reality upon which his life was based; the reality upon which he wished his monks to base their lives; the reality upon which we too can base our lives. If we look in the Rule, we do find something of Benedict, but mostly what we find is a guide pointing beyond himself, pointing to the figure of Christ, pointing to God.
This is what Benedictine spirituality is about. Regular prayer balanced with study and work; careful, contemplative reading of scripture; making the psalms ones own. Over time, the interaction of these varied elements deepens: prayer feeds into study; study feeds into work; work feeds back into prayer. The constant repetition of the psalms moves them, in some mysterious way, from the head into the heart. The effects are cumulative, almost imperceptible, like water dripping onto limestone. But slowly, slowly, the landscape is changed.
Like this season of Lent, the monastic way is about change, about turning to God. It is about making a constant, daily plea for connection with God. It is about connecting distance between us; and it is about connecting distance between us and God:
Sermon by: Jonathan Mason