Regula Benedicti: Ora et labora

We've requested a Special Mass to be held at the Monastery-Down-The-Road on behalf of my brother Grader Boob (his preferred form of address). We do this every year on the first day of classes at his university.

Of course, we haven't always had the luck to live next door to a Catholic Prayer Factory. Back in the States, we sometimes had to improvise. The things we had to do to get the Jehovah's Witnesses on board! Only for Grader Boob would I deny Plato and my firm belief that I will suffer the fires of Hell.

On the other hand, it was hard to get the Presbyterians to stop hosting Prayer Vigils for Beleaguered Educators every hour, on the hour -- once they get stuff out of committee, Presbyterians are a fearsome force.

One year we were kind of in a religious snit, and went with the Council for Secular Humanism. Okay, so they kicked us out when I began screaming "What do you mean there’s no such thing as spirit? And Grader Boob, he's undesigned, unintended, and responsible for [himself]? Since when? I don't think so! And, furthermore: Harrumph."

Since we've been in occupancy at The Manor, and since Marlinspike Hall borders the monastery, Fred and I have been treated to catechisms and concordances, hagiography and the Regula Benedicti, The Rule of Saint Benedict.

The Rule of Saint Benedict is my Bible -- and in so saying, I am not cracking wise. I mean, who needs a little structure, some guidance to monastic life in community, more than Fred, La Bonne et Belle Bianca, The Remnant Felines {waving to Celestial Sammy} -- and myself? Who needs help in the practice of hospitality more than Manor Mavens? And who has benefited from the commandment to welcome guests to the monastery more than I have -- a woman choosing monastery over easily accessible convents? Receiving the stranger as Christ -- now *that* is a huge break and boon for the visitor such as myself.

[Once-upon-a-time, I developed the habit of vacationing at monasteries, staying between 7 and 10 days, usually silent and observing the hours.  Very refreshing, envigorating.  I hope to have shown sensitivity as a lone woman visitor to the manly monks.]

Ora et labora, people, ora et labora!

The monks, for this year's celebration of Grader Boob and the return to school, have decided to go with the theme of Patron Saints: Whose Your Daddy? (The Brother-in-Charge of Event Planning just blinked when we pointed out the sexism of that title. He'll regret that when the Militant Existential Lesbian Feminists show up in their picket gear, with chains and styrofoam coolers full of Evian, Power Bars, the leftover canapés from Joan and Karen's Commitment Ceremony, and huge chunks of dark chocolate [made from fairly traded, organic cocoa].)

Turns out the traditional choice for Patron Saint of Teachers is St. John Cantius. No problems there. No, the problem came from my request to include, for parity's sake, the uppity Ste. Catherine of Alexandria. I've been pretty insistent that she be included in any rite performed for the benefit of educative souls. 

Okay, so The Church denies her existence, claiming she is but the Christianized version of the amazing Greek philosopher/scholar Hypatia who, as it happens, was killed by a mob of Christians.  Monks, to be specific.

Called "premodern," Saint Catherine of Alexandria, before being shuffled off to Buffalo, was the patron saint of "royal" women, professors, scholars, libraries, archives, Balliol College, and the University of Paris -- as well as patron to milliners, millers, potters, spinners, tanners, a whole host of important crafts.

She is supposed to have been a babe, too, which is probably why we are blessed with a rich iconography:

Her principal symbol is the spiked wheel, which has become known as the Catherine wheel. Saint Catherine is also represented in Christian Art with a wheel. The wheel is generally broken, because, after she was bound upon it, by the intervention of Heaven it was shattered, and the flying fragments dealt death to her executioners. Under her feet is seen the turbaned head of the tyrant Maximinus, symbolical of the triumph of Christianity over the Infidel. Instead of the sword, the actual instrument of her martyrdom, a book is placed in her hand, in token of her learning. The crown upon her head bespeaks her royal dignity. As a noble's daughter she is patroness of princesses and ladies of noble birth. She is patroness also of students, philosophers, and theologians, because she put to confusion all the rhetoricians and scholars who came to dispute with her from all parts of the empire.

You can read the texts for her feast celebration on November 25 here.

St Catherine of Alexandria: Scenes from Her Life
Donato D' and Gregorio D' Arezzo, about 1330

Those Cistercians! All you have to do is cross their palms with silver and presto! Special Mass!  Just kidding -- I think it is less that I have convinced the good brothers of Catherine's perfect fit, religiously, and more the living expression of the Rule of Saint Benedict.  Always looking for the easy way to be kind, these guys.

So we're going to walk over to the Abbey Church about 5 -- provided I charge my wheelchair battery -- and commune with some living saints, while raising for God's consideration the difficulties of teachers, everywhere, but especially the challenges faced by the one, the only, Grader Boob.

With incense wafting (our inhalers at the ready), royal purple and insouciant pink tapers lit and in full flicker, we place Brother-Unit Grader Boob under the protection of St. John Cantius, professor of Scripture and Physics at the Kraków Academy noted for his good cheer and humility -- traits that also leap to mind about GB.  We will further invoke the fiery, feisty St. Catherine of Alexandria, intellectual superstar, not afraid to speak truth to power, calling out emperor Maximinus Daja when he went against the faith.  We hope for Grader Boob a semester without the need to face off against an administration that would compromise academic standards and impede the free application of earned grades!  Rah!

Much thank to The Cistercians for the Annual Blessing of the Prof!  In return we usually participate in the Annual Hiding of the Abbot -- he gets fed up once or twice a year, so we stash him in some regal suites and pamper the hell out of him, until he is ready to square off against eager airhead postulants and ancient wrinkled scholar monks fallen prey to Alzheimer's.  Last year, after the warehouse fire (they run a lucrative internet business), after they discovered that mild-mannered Father Clem was a pyromaniac, Abbot Steve came and hid in Marlinspike Hall until the Papal Envoys returned to their palatial digs.

Have a great semester, Grader Boob -- We love you!