P. Gorazd, O.Carm., P. Jindřich Zdík Charouz, O.Praem.
While reading a book on the history of the Carmelite Order, I came across a plot that struck me as very interesting for a wise life in general—even today and beyond the monastery walls. Because I did not want to remain captive only to my opinions, I turned to P. Jindřich Zdík Charouz, the prior of the Premonstratensian monastery in Želiv, who is both a historian and a priest, and asked him for his notes and explanations. This topic also intrigued him, and I present his responses in the article in italics. I would like to thank him for them at this point.
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One of the unfortunate chapters in the history of the Carmelite Order is the decline of its reform branch, which emerged at the beginning of the 15th century in the monastery in Mantua (and two nearby monasteries) and is therefore referred to as the Mantuan reform. Like other reforms, this one originally aimed to restore the sincere monastic spirit in the order and was indeed beneficial, but over time it succumbed to the influence of various vices. In the end, it abused the privileges it had received from the popes to be exemplary compared to the other monasteries of the order, living according to its own rules.
General Prior Mikuláš Audet1 refused to be satisfied with this state of affairs. He sought to be able to visit the Mantuan reform monasteries, thus contributing to their correction. In 1532, he took preparatory steps at the papal curia for this purpose. However, the general chapter of the Mantuan congregation protested against the planned visitation with a solemn declaration that listed several reasons against the visitation.
I was particularly struck by the fifth of these reasons, which argued: had the brothers of the Mantuan reform ever suspected that they could be subjected to the decision-making and authority of the general prior of non-reformed Carmelites when they made their monastic profession, they would have preferred to abstain from making the profession altogether, they would not have become monks and would have returned to the world. This is now attested by their oath... They are also not willing to pay more taxes than their predecessors or be bound to anything that was not customary for them until now, or that did not exist at all, but fundamentally, they are willing only to what was typical in their monasteries at the time when they made their profession. They only want to continue in this way of life and in no other, for had they known at the time of making their profession that something new would be introduced, they would not have taken the vow.
Thus—continuing their argument—if any new way of life or any stricter obligations were to be introduced in their monasteries, it would drive them into despair and force them to abandon the rule,2 God forbid! And so, if anything new were to be introduced by the general, especially contrary to how visitations had been conducted so far and contrary to the old customs of the Mantuan congregation, they declare that they will not agree to that, but will insist that nothing be changed. And if the general prior does not accept their protest, they will appeal to the papal throne, as they have done before, and will insist that until their appeal has been resolved, everything remains as it is. And if the Holy See does not accept their protest, they will file another protest until they achieve justice for themselves.3
Father Jindřich, do you agree with me that this argumentation is bizarre? In life—both in the monastery and in the family—claims will arise that we did not initially anticipate. And love is meant to be generous; it should not hesitate to give more and renounce itself!
Indeed, this argumentation is bizarre. From today’s perspective, but also from the perspective of the 16th century, which we must distinguish. The Mantuan reform was born at the beginning of the 15th century and remained part of the order; perhaps we could compare it to one of the order’s provinces. In the beginning—unlike the relaxed conditions in the entire order—it was stricter. After a hundred years, the tide turned, and the order wanted to restore the relaxed reform to the original enthusiasm. The reformed brothers did not agree with this.
The Church did not have clear legal regulations back then as it does today; the law in the church (just as in the civil environment) was so-called "found" every time. There were compilations of papal decisions, conciliar decrees, and ordinances from various competent church authorities pertaining to specific cases. When a new matter needed to be addressed, whether contentious or non-contentious, the compilations were searched for a situation that corresponded as closely as possible to the matter at hand and could serve as a model for its resolution.
And now coming closer to that bizarre argumentation: it was generally held in the church that no one can be forced to do something to which they did not commit. (When, for example, the Second Vatican Council removed the right to wear the mitre and staff from all other dignitaries except bishops and abbots, then duly benedicted prelates, although they were neither bishops nor abbots, could continue to wear the mitre and staff without issue until their death.) In other words: it was respected that no one can be forced to accept a reform. But—and this is immensely important—always with all consequences. Thus, one has the option to either accept the reform with its rigor—or not accept it and bear the consequences of that decision, which might include loss of passive voting rights. Which means that a non-reformed monk could not become a superior. To prevent negatively influencing others.
This is the legal perspective that apparently mattered more to those resistant brothers than the second perspective, which is likely closer to today’s person. And that is the spiritual perspective. It is not just about obedience but about its foundation, about the meaning of monastic life in general. The general prior wanted to help them live it more faithfully, but they resisted.
And one more thing, which is the same then as it is today. The Mantuan brothers did not want to give up their freedom. When a person says, "I do not want to!" it is certainly not a virtue, but it is honest and it is the truth. As is known, the truth liberates (John 8:32). However, when I do not want to admit it and I create reasons for why I "cannot," or conversely, why it should be according to my desires, then very often the reasons are completely unfounded, during which—the point to note—the concerned assumes that he is dealing with fools who will not see through his excuses. His worst enemy then becomes the one who sees through this game and refuses to accept it.
But such hypocrisy will lead nowhere—neither to reform, nor to unity, nor to satisfaction; and what is saddest of all, neither to the Kingdom of God.
Let me return to the core issue. Of course, when entering into various contracts and when we promise something, we always strive to precisely define what we are committing to. Similarly, when someone else provides something to us, a wise proverb advises: "Do not buy a pig in a poke." Let it be clear in advance what is at stake between us and what is not. Yet no matter what we do, we do not know the future in detail and it can surprise us. The "pig" always remains somewhat hidden "in the sack," through which we cannot see. Who would dare to set the condition of having everything clear in advance could never muster the courage. However, later during difficulties—especially if they are very demanding—we may find ourselves tempted to declare: "We did not agree on this!" and back out of the commitment we have made. And this is where our reformed brothers found themselves.
It is not just about a pig in a poke (better with cream), but also about the fact that "I know whom I have believed" (2 Tim 1:12). I can truly love only that or those whom I know; otherwise, I am loving my idea of the other, or it is simply an illusion. When I say A, I must consider that logically follows B and the entire remainder of the alphabet. When I articulate any letter—I cannot know in advance which one it will be. However, I have the certainty that I will have to articulate it. I cannot escape from that responsibility, and it is a responsibility towards God and towards others. I am not alone in the world.
Moreover, I possess reason, both natural and a gift of the Holy Spirit, which, however, always requires a healthy natural foundation. And I must also utilize reason; otherwise, like every other gift, it is of no use to me. It is precisely this that enables me to make decisions in the present moment so that I do not end up regretting it in the future. I do not know what will come. But I can responsibly declare that I am willing to embark on a demanding project with this person. Together we will manage it. But with another person, I will not even go for lunch because I see that he is completely unreliable. I will drive to Nordkapp confidently with this car, but with another, I will fear to go half a kilometer to the repair shop. This also applies in relation to God—when I listen to Him and follow His voice, I have nothing to fear. As Psalm 60 (verse 14) in Renč’s translation states: "With God, we will display great deeds; He will trample our oppressors!"
The same is true in marriage. During the courtship period, it is essential for the couple to discuss, clarify, and align their visions of their future life together. But what is to come will still surprise them in some way. Fr. Ladislav Simajchl, in one of his talks4, provides a harsh example from life:
"Once I lay in the hospital for a long time after a motorcycle accident. A young boy, a railway worker, shared the room with me. He was married for half a year. During a night shift, he slipped, and a train severed both of his legs at the ankles. He was still lying in the hospital, recovering from the stumps, when the mailman brought him a letter from a law firm: a proposal for the dissolution of his marriage filed by his wife. This was a worse catastrophe for him than the one on the tracks. But the wife saw it differently: when this happened to him, she wept over him with compassion, but then her mother came, packed her things, and drove her home. She told the boy's parents: 'Our Miluška did not marry a cripple.'
At that moment, I understood what the Church means when it insists on lifelong indissoluble marriage: only those two should marry who love each other enough to live not only with one another, but also for one another. They then give each other mutual guarantees through marriage: whatever happens to you, you will not be alone. No matter what comes our way in life, we will always be two: I will never abandon you."
This story truly illustrates that vitally important responsibility. When Miluška got married, she took a healthy boy. At their wedding, they promised to bear good and bad together until death. When disaster struck six months later, Miluška ran away. Rather, she allowed herself to be taken away. If that boy had been disabled before the wedding and had pretended to be healthy, if he had hidden his illness from her so that she would marry him, then the marriage would be invalid. It is not just a legal perspective; one must ask what such a relationship would stand on and what it would be worth if I am concealing something so fundamental from my partner.
But the mother’s argument is nonsensical, albeit perhaps not so unusual in today’s world. And when Miluška accepted it, she merely demonstrated her emotional immaturity and unhealthy dependence on her mother. Was she even capable of accepting any lifelong commitment?
Marriage is called "coniugium" in Latin, derived from the word "iugum" = yoke. The word "yoke" is still commonly used in preaching, but no one understands it because they cannot conceive of anything concrete associated with it. The original "yoke" is something similar to a collar that is sometimes foolishly placed around the groom's neck at a wedding. A yoke is for one, each must be harnessed individually, so in this way of harnessing—whether in a pair or, say, in a six-horse team—one can pull something while the other is ready.
A yoke cannot be placed on the neck of a noble animal, which is a horse, because it is not anatomically suited for that; it is meant for cattle (understand: an ox). It can be for a single animal as well, but it was commonly used in a form designed for a pair (i.e., a duo!) of draft animals, and in ancient times, it was even placed on a human, namely a slave.
This term for marriage also comes from those times of ancient Rome. It is not particularly flattering because a pair of oxen can pull a load that a horse team cannot even imagine. And (unlike horses) they will not bolt. When a couple is harnessed into a yoke, one cannot escape from it. If one stumbles, the other will support him, because the wooden frame on their shoulders does not allow for a complete fall. It hurts, but one gets up and moves on—in one team. "Take my yoke upon you" (Mt 11:29)—the second in the yoke here is Jesus. He does not stumble, He always supports the other.
These are very practical lessons!—And yet I will return to our episode from the history of the Carmelite Order. I noticed another interesting detail there: those brothers refused to submit to the general prior also because he was the superior of the non-reformed Carmelites, to put it in simple terms: "of the bad ones." This emerges from the words with which the general chapter of the entire order responded to their protest and to this argumentation: every superior has under him "the good and the bad"5 and it would be foolish to refuse obedience to a bishop or hesitate to accept baptism just because bad people are also part of his flock. It is sad that these brothers consider only themselves to be good religious and refuse to acknowledge that many others, including the general prior, also strive for a sincere religious life…6
Even this holds a lesson and a warning. As we see in the New Testament, the pious Pharisees were arrogant and looked down upon others, as we hear Christ’s admonition to ensure that before offering our brother to remove the speck from his eye, we check the purity of our own vision, this temptation keeps recurring. In our eyes, others do not seem good enough compared to us...
Yes, we are better and almost saints—and therefore, we will not listen to anyone. Does that prove our holiness and perfection? Do you feel the absurdity of this? Seriously: "Lord, grant that whenever I learn that someone has sinned, I may suffer with him and not pridefully mock him, but lament and cry such that I weep also over myself, saying: 'Tamar is more righteous than I'" (Gen 38:26).7
