The Abbot and the Teacher 8

In chapter 64:11 of the Rule, Benedict gives us a monastic version of the Christian platitude, “Hate the sin; love the sinner.” He writes that the abbot must “hate faults but love the brothers.” Judging by the content of the Rule more broadly, putting this wisdom into practice was just as easy 1500 years ago as it is today, which is to say that it often feels impossible.

Personal experience and basic observation will verify that, when we are confronted with another person’s faults, we move hastily. Rather than distinguish between the person, on the one hand, and that person’s behavior, on the other, we make unjust assumptions. It’s easy to see why. Making the distinction between person and behavior is time-consuming and complex, but I’d rather keep things simple and move on quickly.

Making the distinction between person and behavior also leaves me in the uncomfortable position of acknowledging my ignorance. I don’t in fact know everything about why the person acted the way they did. I lack access to their intentions, and I rarely have a firm grasp of the circumstances of their behavior. Acknowledging all this means I have to admit to myself that I don’t actually know very much about what’s going on.

I’d rather jump to the conclusion that I know everything I need to know.

As a teacher, I regularly struggle with putting Benedict’s wisdom into practice. We just finished midterms here, and I read a handful of essays that were obviously generated by AI, not by human students. As per usual, I was frustrated with my students’ decisions. To be sure, I was competent to make the judgment that the students had used AI. An illiterate squirrel would have come to the same conclusion.

But I quickly started making judgments about why the students had used AI. This is where I got into trouble. I felt an energetic resentment that started to impact the way I was talking to people who had nothing to do with the situation. My inability to reserve my hatred for the fault alone created a flood of negative feelings. I eventually found myself ranting to myself in my own head.

Only as I’m writing this now do I realize that the ranting took over my limited bandwidth and made it almost impossible for me to listen to Benedict’s next piece of advice. He writes that when the abbot needs to punish the brothers for their faults, “he should use prudence and avoid extremes; otherwise, by rubbing too hard to remove the rust, he may break the vessel” (64:12). By failing to reserve my hatred for the fault alone, I’d compromised my ability to proceed with prudence and temperance in trying to help my beloved students correct their faults.

This compromised position will be the starting point for my next post, which will focus on Benedict’s careful treatment of our mutual frailty and the challenge of finding the right remedy for each person’s unique faults.