by Dr Sarah Bachelard
Since the beginning of 2012, I’ve led an ecumenical contemplative worshipping community in Canberra, Australia – Benedictus Contemplative Church. During 2020, we’ve been discovering how to be church in a different kind of way – worshipping via Zoom, welcoming a widely dispersed congregation, exploring what sustains a sense of community when we can no longer meet physically. I’ve been asked to share something of the whole Benedictus story, how we began, what we’re seeking to be and offer, and something of the view from here. But like the stories of our lives, there are different ways this could be narrated. There are the ‘facts’– when we started, what we’ve done, the ways and means of our gatherings and governance and coping with Covid. Then there’s what you might call our ‘soul’ story – the deeper life, the sense of call and orientation to which we seek to be true whatever befalls, the mysterious dynamic of something unfolding beyond and around us. Both stories matter; they interweave and inflect each other.
Take the question of our beginning, for example. The idea of founding an ecumenical contemplative church was originally not mine. It was my partner, Neil Millar, to whom the inspiration came. It was born in part from recognising the necessity of contemplative practice for responding to the spiritual hunger of our times, and further motivated by difficult experiences of ecclesial immaturity in our context. Rowan Williams has spoken of how, without the transformation wrought through contemplative prayer, the church comes ‘to look unhappily like so many purely human institutions, anxious, busy, competitive and controlling’, and this was our situation. Despite ubiquitous talk of ‘transformation’, we had become acutely aware that people can spend their whole lives ‘going to church’ without being offered any real way to grow. We wanted to explore something deeper, to allow commitment to the journey of transformation to shape our way of being a community of disciples. Let me begin the telling of the Benedictus story, then, by sharing something of how we understand this journey.
The Journey of Transformation
There is all the difference in the world between lives that are merely conformed by moral effort to the shape of Christian ‘virtue’, and those that are transformed through encounter with the living God. The first kind of life, no matter how sincere, never gets beyond moralism, striving and ideology. It tends to suppress or repress all that speaks of the ‘shadow’ and so perpetuates alienation in ourselves and others. The second kind of life has learnt that it’s the whole of us, including our shadow, that needs to be acknowledged and healed. The goodness in which we come to participate is then not ours but God’s. I grew up in the church without learning that difference, and I suspect I am not alone. I thought the whole point was to believe certain things and make myself good over the top of whatever else was there: icing over mud.
The journey of transformation, however, is a journey through whatever is unreconciled, doubting and destructive in us. It begins as we tell the truth about ourselves, and it takes seriously the way of the cross. Only by undergoing death and alienation does Jesus break their power over human life. In the same way, only by undergoing our own ‘night’, our desolation and pain, fears and confusion, being with all the messiness and seeming un-holiness of our experience, that we may be healed and renewed by grace.
There’s an unmistakable difference between persons and communities who have discovered for themselves the truth of their faith and are not just ideologically ‘sound’, between those who are transformed by grace and not just morally upright. Transformation leads to a softening and the possibility of solidarity. We have allowed our wounds and failures to break us open, to deepen our compassion for ourselves and those around us, to be less afraid of the mess and more able to trust the promise of healing and new life through death. In this way, the journey of transformation is a way of deepening integration and hope.
Sincere religious striving, on the other hand, tends to lead to a hardening. There is brittleness and, in the background, fear of getting life wrong or letting life unravel, because we have no lived experience of being unmade and then remade, healed by way of our wounds. This kind of religiosity leads ultimately to dividedness, dis-integration and often to casting out those who are deemed to threaten our ‘goodness’, whatever our rhetoric of love and acceptance. This is why people so often sniff in the church a climate of hypocrisy, the desperate clinging to a ‘righteousness’ of our own and a denial of who and how we really are.
So how do we undertake the transforming journey? All worship is supposed to lead us into this dynamic of Christ’s death and resurrection. In baptism, we go under the waters of chaos and death, letting go any identity and security of our own, receiving our lives as gift on the other side. In the Eucharist, we’re invited to know ourselves as fear-filled, incipient betrayers, and yet to discover that it is precisely as betrayers that we are still called into friendship with Jesus and participation in divine life. Worship teaches that of ourselves we can do nothing good and that we do not earn our place; our whole reliance is on gift, grace. That’s the theory at least. In practice, however, this deep meaning is often lost. Rather than unravelling the self-sufficient self, going to church may be precisely the way we develop a robust religious ego, sure of our righteousness by comparison with all the ‘lost’ out there.
This is the context in which contemplative prayer, meditation, is so deeply necessary. By drawing us beyond any words, thoughts or images, it helps us recognise that even in our prayers and spiritual disciplines we’re tempted to seek a goodness of our own, subtly justifying ourselves before God and others. Silent, wordless prayer invites us to let ourselves simply be, naked and unashamed, no better and no worse than anyone else. It is thus a profound experience of God’s mercy and acceptance, and the end of striving and self-satisfaction. In meditation, we do not talk about the promise and possibility of transformation; we undergo it. And this is what Benedictus is about – a worshipping community intentionally committed to enabling radical transformation.
A Church in and of Practice
Once the idea of a contemplative church happened, it seemed so natural as to be inevitable. A friend, rector of a local church, offered encouragement and a worship space we could use on a Saturday evening. We wondered about what to call this new community and one day, as Neil and I were pondering this question, our eyes lit on the cover of John O’Donohue’s book of blessings. The name, ‘Benedictus’, means ‘blessed’ and our hope was that as we allowed ourselves to be blessed, to be simply open and available to God, so we would ourselves become a blessing for those who gathered, for the wider church, and the world. It wasn’t exactly like planning an expedition to the Himalayas, but something of the experience of Scottish mountaineer W.H. Murray was ours too: ‘Until one is committed there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative or creation, there is one elementary truth... that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would otherwise never have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favour all manner of incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man would have believed would have come his way’ (W.H. Murray, The Scottish Himalayan Expedition).
We decided we’d begin in February, after the Australian summer break, and would commit to holding a weekly service until Pentecost. Then we’d see if there was a sense of life, a way of going on. When we got to Pentecost, though still small and fragile, Benedictus was already clearly ‘something’. There was no question but that we would continue, our gatherings shaped and sustained by the charism or marks of Benedictus we had discerned and been guided by – the marks of hospitality, silence, discernment, reconciliation and adventure.
We made some early decisions that have served us well. Like the World Community for Christian Meditation, Benedictus is ecumenical and open to all seeking to deepen their spiritual journey. We did not conceive ourselves to be in competition with other churches, and because we meet on Saturday evenings, those who come are able to continue worshipping in their Catholic, Anglican, Uniting Church, Baptist and other communities on Sundays. There are members of Benedictus who continue in this way as ‘dual citizens’, and there are others for whom Benedictus is their only church.
We committed to being ecumenical in the contemplative sense too. When we introduce the practice of meditation and offer a method, we suggest the way taught by John Main. At the same time, people who come with an existing practice are encouraged to continue in their established way. We thus have members who are part of the Centering Prayer network as well as the World Community, together with those who use the Jesus Prayer and other forms of silent meditation.
The service itself might be seen as a cross between public worship and a meditation group. It involves a liturgical gathering, music, scripture reading, a sermon or reflection, intercessory prayer and, at the heart of the service, a 15 minute period of meditation. Every three weeks, we share Holy Communion; the other two weeks out of three, it’s an Evening Liturgy.
Choices concerning the shape and elements of worship are necessarily discerned according to context, and must be held together in a relatively complex whole. Our decision to meditate for only 15 minutes (rather than 20 or 25), for example, reflected a commitment that the service be not much longer than an hour in length, as well as awareness that for those who have never meditated, 15 minutes is a significant time.
Similarly, our decision to celebrate the Eucharist every three weeks rather than weekly reflected our desire that the service be less daunting for the non-churched and those unsure of their faith, as well as awareness that for an ecumenical community, shared Eucharistic celebration could be a stumbling block for some. As it turns out, we have had no sense that that has been any such ‘stumbling’, but even so the three-weekly rhythm seems to work well. Some say they’d like Communion more often, others say they would prefer it less frequently, but in my view, and given that we weekly share the sacrament of silence, the balance is about right.
Our simple (often Celtic-inspired) liturgies express a sense of the importance of framing silence with meaningful and beautiful words, and the sermon – a theological reflection on scripture – seeks to connect deepening understanding of our faith tradition with life experience. Music and communal singing, led by members of the congregation, is also a vital part of our shared life, helping open hearts and affective ways of knowing, quickening energies and creating community.
Essentially, however, whether it’s word or silence, music or speech, the basic intention of our worship is to keep us close to the ground and open to God. We take care that we say what we mean and mean what we say – not repeating tired formulae, but writing prayers and responses that speak of our lived experience, spaciously holding paradox and complexity, naming what is unresolved, painful and confusing. Simone Weil said that ‘it seemed to me certain, and I still think so today, that one can never wrestle enough with God if one does so out of pure regard for the truth. Christ likes us to prefer truth to him because, before being Christ, he is truth. If one turns aside from him to go toward the truth, one will not go far before falling into his arms’. Our worship hopes therefore to be true, as we listen for the truth of our lives and the truth of God.
How We’ve Grown
The literature concerning new church ‘plants’ recommends that emerging communities be formed around a core of already committed members. We did not follow this advice. We had received encouragement from various people, and ourselves felt convicted to proceed. So, we simply began – letting our venture be known to the Christian Meditation and Centering Prayer networks, as well as to friends, some local parishes and congregations. After an initial flurry of attendance to signify support, the service settled into a small gathering of around 15 people in the first winter. After eight years, our Saturday service usually involves around 70 people, with over 200 on our email list. Benedictus has always felt vital, but numerical growth has been slow and steady, rather than spectacular.
In keeping with our commitment to the work of discernment, we were clear we did not want to impose a model of what a church ‘ought’ to offer, nor simply replicate what other churches were already doing (Sunday School, Youth Group, programs of social action). Instead, we sought to listen for what was arising and emerging organically. This led us to wonder about the distinctive vocation of a contemplative church. What is it we might offer to the whole that other communities are less able to share? And always we came back to commitment to the work of ‘transformation’. We did not want to create activities to reassure ourselves we were busy and relevant, but to discern offerings that might enable people to deepen their journey and support them in their vocations in the world.
Over time, various groups have emerged from this listening, some of which have been initiated and led by other members of the community. They include a fortnightly group forformation in contemplative action, a monthly gathering for sharing spiritual practices and personal stories, a theology reading group, a men’s circle inspired by the work of Richard Rohr, and a group for young adults to deepen self-knowledge and foster the art of discernment. We also offer a regular quiet afternoon for primary school aged children, which involves a time of meditation, reflective gathering, story-telling and art activities designed around themes such as ‘Kindness’, ‘Forgiveness’, ‘Colours in Creation’ and ‘Welcome’.
We’ve held community days, walked in rallies supporting asylum seekers and climate action, shared a study listening to the voice of Indigenous Australians, and participated in ‘pilgrimages in place’ so as to connect more intentionally with the land on which we meet. And we’ve discerned some additions to the liturgical calendar, which reflect both our inheritance from the contemplative tradition and allow us to mark the seasons of our (southern hemisphere) year. In July (the Australian winter) we celebrate Dark Night of the Season, inspired by John of the Cross; and in spring, it’s ‘Viriditas: a celebration of holy greening’ inspired by Hildegard of Bingen. There is much more I could say, but in all this, our life together has felt creative, energising and full of grace.
Our relationship to the denominational churches is friendly, if relatively indirect. After two or three years, we needed to clarify our governance arrangements and institutional status for the purposes of insurance and financial accountability. We have always been a self-supporting community, receiving no financial support from elsewhere, apart from the gift of rent-free worship space in our first two years. As Benedictus grew and came to be increasingly my main work, we needed to discern whether it could support a stipendiary position as well as pay its own basic costs. Because of our ecumenical nature, it did not feel right to become simply a ‘ministry unit’ of any denominational structure and we chose to become an incorporated association – effectively, an independent church. I continue to be formally in Anglican Orders, but from the beginning I have been financially supported entirely by the offertory of members of Benedictus.
It has seemed to us that the existing ecclesial structures do not readily accommodate a community like ours, but that this need not be a difficulty in the long term. Neil, I and other members of Benedictus continue to participate in the life of institutional churches, in no way in rivalry with them. At the same time, we enjoy the independence which gives us freedom to cross denominational boundaries and discern our way beyond the dictates of hierarchy. Ultimately, we hope, our journey and practice will conduce to richer life for all.
The View from Here
What, then, are we learning about being a contemplative church, seeking to serve the spiritual needs of our time, particularly in this time of global pandemic? I have always been struck by John Main’s insistence that 'the church can only proclaim what it is in the state of experiencing'. The church 'can only proclaim what it is'.[1] First and foremost, I think, our experience of Benedictus is confirming for us the necessity of being continuously grounded and re-grounded in the reality of which we speak, through our practice of silent meditation. This prayer really is transformative, and we see members of Benedictus being changed as they participate in it and in the offerings that flow from it. During Covid-19, our regular Saturday service and daily evening meditation has been conducted via Zoom, and there is something about the shared silence even in this context that is sacramental and transfiguring.
In terms of the life of the community, this shared practice is also powerfully connecting. It goes deeper than our ‘beliefs’ or intellectual understandings of God, and is more stable than our intentions to be ‘good’ Christians. Where there is conflict and people rub each other the wrong way, the practice itself calls people to adulthood. Of course, the community is not perfect, but it does seem significantly more mature, unthreatened and open than other church communities I have known. Our contemplative practice helps us all to see each other more as God might see us, to look for the person beneath their annoying habits, and to hold less tightly to our own perspective and sense of righteousness.
Towards the end of 2019, we relocated to a situation where we hoped to put down deeper roots in a place; no longer simply ‘tenants’, but sharers in a site. The irony is that for much of this year, the community has not been able to gather physically or open the church building to the surrounding community. However, as restrictions slowly lift, we are resuming our gatherings on site while continuing to meet via Zoom. Covid-19 has allowed us to discover that our Benedictus community is non-local as well as local, with members joining from all over Australia as well as other parts of the world. A ‘hybrid’ existence is becoming our new ‘normal’ and we are committed to enabling the continued participation of those who will not be able to attend in person.
I’ve mentioned that the fifth mark of Benedictus is ‘adventure’. Here we have in mind the sense of ‘advent’ – the future coming towards us from the future, open to God’s in-breaking. We are living in difficult times, as the world struggles to face the scale of our ecological crisis and the impact of the pandemic, and as systems of democratic government come increasingly under attack. It’s hard to know exactly what small communities of faith have to offer in such a context, except that, by faith, we hold that orienting ourselves to the transforming love of God makes a difference. We do not know exactly what the next phase of our life looks like – the different ways we may find ourselves contributing and connecting to the life of the world around us. We do know that as we seek to practise stillness and silence, to give ourselves in worship and service, we are steadied and empowered to go into our vocations and life circumstances in a spirit of simplicity, truth-telling and non-anxious presence. Our hope is that this is the spirit that will continue to infuse our common life, for the blessing of many.
*Dr Bachelard is the author of Experiencing God in a Time of Crisis (Convivium Press), Resurrection and Moral Imagination (Routledge) and A Contemplative Christianity for our Time (forthcoming, Medio Media).
[1] John Main, Community of Love, Continuum, New York, 1999, p. 6.