Today July 11

Today is the feast of St. Benedict, (480 - 547), patron of all those who struggle against the devil. Why? Because he did battle with Satan and/or demons. The devil appeared to him once in the form of a beautiful woman. It was a real crisis of faith for him; he was even tempted to throw off the whole monastic world and re-enter the world. But summoning all his courage, he decided to do something drastic: he took off his clothes and rolled in some thorn bushes until the pain -- and his humble prayers -- chased the demon away.

Benedict's contribution to Western civilization just cannot be overstated. He and his monks kept alive Greek and Roman literature when no one else would. He and his monks preserved religion, art, science and agriculture for Europe through all the Dark Ages.

He was born in the Sabine hills just after the fall of Rome. He was of the country gentry -- comfortable but not "noble." He was sent (with his nurse!) to Rome at 14 to be educated (further). He was so scandalized by the behavior that he ended up leaving. After 2 years, he left and attached himself to some holy men at Enfide and sent his nurse home. Called to greater simplicity and solitude, he retreated to a secret cave, which only the monk Romanus knew about . . . at first. Inaccessible as it was to human traffic, the cave was only reached by lowering things (in this case, a daily loaf of bread) from above. This continued for some time until a priest saw Jesus in a vision, in which He said, "How can you feast [it was Easter Sunday] when my servant [Benedict] is starving in the wilderness?" He immediately took his Easter dinner up the mountain where it was mystically revealed to him Benedict lived, and shared his feast. Benedict had been so long away from human contact, he'd lost all track of time! I don't want to accuse the aforementioned priest of telling tales, but soon Benedict was overrun with visitors. Many of them were young men who wanted to be monks under his leadership. He warned them they wouldn't want him, but they insisted. He left his cave for the Monastery of Vicovaro, and sure enough, this "true believer" managed to tick off every one of the monks who had formerly admired him! He was too strict and much too orthodox. They were so offended with him, they poisoned his wine! The chalice broke in two when he made the sign of the cross over it as he said grace. Instantly realizing their evil intention, he simply said, "See? I told you we wouldn't suit each other."

He took off again, this time to Subiaco, where he started 12 different monasteries. It was here at Subiaco he wrote his famous, short (under 9000 words), and insightful Rule, a marvel of moderation in a sea of extremes, exemplified by ascetics such as St. Simon the Stylite or other monks who starved and scourged themselves. "I speak to you, whoever you may be" begins the Rule, indeed an oasis of charity, balanced and detailed, gentle enough that "a lamb can bathe in it without drowning, [but deep enough that] an elephant can swim in it" - a medieval saying about the Rule. It influenced and guided generations of monks with love and enthusiasm "that in all things God shall be glorified." Those monks faithfully kept alive not only his wise spirit, but all Western learning through the many years of barbarism and darkness.

But if you think he lived in peace from then on, you'd be wrong. A resentful local priest named Florentius spread rumors about him, then actively tried to discourage new recruits, then even engaged prostitutes to tempt him and destroy his reputation. Nothing worked. Finally, Florentius sent him a poisoned loaf of bread, ostensibly as a token of his repentance. Benedict supernaturally knew it was poisoned, so he enlisted the help of a raven to take it uneaten far away from human habitation. But Benedict had had enough.

He took off for another -- and final -- time. He climbed the mountain called Monte Cassino, tore down the pagan temple there and built a monastery. He was given the gift of prophesy and knew ahead of time when the monastery would be attacked, so he and all his monks could evacuate. He knew it would be demolished, but also that it would be rebuilt. And so it was . . . in 590, and in 883, and again in 1943. Always outnumbered, always outgunned, as they say. But it -- and the Benedictines themselves -- rise again from the ashes.

He had a premonition seven days before his own death, which time he used to get his affairs in order. And on the final day, he asked to be carried into church and helped to stand, his arms raised, in which position he died, giving praise to Almighty God. The charismatics would be proud.