F r om the A bb ot Sp ir i t u al Fa t h e r h o o d
When I was elected abbot in December 2012, one of the natures or types or titles of the office that I struggled with was the idea of being a spiritual father – not that I don’t believe the abbot holds that role in the community, and not that I haven’t taken seriously the responsibility of guiding the community spiritually in my role as abbot. It is the second half of that descriptor I’ve had to come to terms with: the weight, the heaviness of being a “father.” I can only imagine fear in a first-time father’s heart when mother and child come home from the hospital; it is real, and he can’t make his fear about himself – he is called to make a gift of self. Even as I type this column anxiousness wells up in me thinking about this designation I hold for my brothers as “spiritual father.” I have to laugh, also, as half the community entered the monastery before me, so the thought of trying to have this father/son relationship with them is intimidating. I work to get past the lie that I don’t have anything of significance to share with those who taught me, those who ministered to me, those who helped me find my vocation, those who formed me in my monastic life, those whom I still call “Father” or “Brother.” So what was supposed to change in me all of a sudden, that day back in December 2012 that qualified me as the “spiritual father” of my community? It can only be grace, and, over this time, recognition of the need for a big dose of humility. I actually write this column from a monastery in Minnesota, attending meetings of Benedictine educators and superiors. I write from here analyzing not only an anxious heart about this concept of being a spiritual father, but also examining a longing I had yesterday to be with my brothers – or to carry out the theme – my sons. It really was a rather stupid thing, this desire to be back in Kansas, to be back there so I could be with my brothers on a community outing. I wish this desire were for a more noble reason, but I wanted to be back with my brothers who were watching and playing in the Pitching for Priests softball game. It’s an annual game between the priests and religious of the Archdiocese of Kansas City in Kansas and those of the Diocese of Kansas City-St. Joseph, to raise funds for vocations promotion. I know. A softball game. But I sat last night in my monastery guest room in Minnesota and desired to be at CommunityAmerica Ballpark in Kansas City with my brothers to the point of it hurting. I went to Twitter to see how the pre-game tailgate sponsored by our Atchison Serra Club went; thanks to Benedictine College’s Twitter feed there were a handful of photos. I scoured the internet looking for a score – the game didn’t seem to receive top billing in the world of Kansas City sports. I left a text message
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Kansas Monks
