Benedict and the Sieve That Was Mended

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There is a rope hanging down the side of a cliff, and on the end of the rope there is a basket, and in the basket there is a loaf of bread.

It is a long way down. The rope swings a little in the wind. Tied to it, just above the basket, there is a small brass bell, and the bell is ringing, very softly, every time the rope sways. Down at the bottom, in a cave so small and so dark that you would walk past it a hundred times, a young man is sitting on a rock with his eyes closed, and when he hears the bell, he stands up, and smiles, and goes to get his dinner.

Somebody up there loves him enough to do this every single day, and has told nobody.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

Hello, and welcome to Saints by Candlelight, stories of saints, angels and patriarchs from the Catholic and Orthodox traditions, told for bedtime. These episodes are written by an AI and read by a synthetic voice, and they try very hard to be faithful. Tonight's story is about Saint Benedict of Nursia, who is a saint of both the Catholic and the Orthodox traditions, and it comes from his life as written by Pope Gregory the Great. A few of the things in it are what Gregory reports and not what we can check, and we will say so as we go. The conversations, the weather and the manners of a raven are our own invention, and we will tell you at the end which parts those were. So get comfortable. Dim the lights. And let's begin.

It is about the year four hundred and ninety, and Italy is a very confusing place to be a boy.

The Roman Empire in the west is finished, and nobody has quite got around to telling the roads. A few years ago, the last emperor in Rome was sent off to live in a villa, and now a king called Odoacer is in charge, and after him there will be another king, and after him another. There are Goths, who have their own church. There are Romans, who have theirs. There are tax collectors, who are the same as ever. And there are, here and there up and down the country, a handful of families who still have some money, and who still send their sons to Rome to be educated, as though nothing had changed.

Benedict's family is one of these. He is born in a town called Nursia, up in the hills of Umbria, east of Rome, a cold, high, stony place, where the winters are long and the mountains stand around the town like tall relatives at a wedding. He has a sister, whose name is Scholastica, and who, as you may have gathered, is going to be rather important later. And he has a nurse, an older woman who looked after him when he was small, and who has decided, as nurses do, that she will go on looking after him until one of them dies.

When he is old enough, his family sends him to Rome to study. I do not think we should picture a university, exactly. It is more like going to a very good school in a very big city, where the teachers are still teaching the old way, with the old poets and the old speeches, and the young men are supposed to learn how to argue, and write, and be useful to somebody important.

And Benedict does not like it.

Now, to be fair to him, it is not the learning he minds. He is clever, and he will go on reading all his life. What he minds is everything around the learning. Pope Gregory, who tells this story, says that Benedict saw many of the students rushing off down the wide road to every kind of foolishness, and that he pulled his foot back, as it were, from the edge of a cliff. There is a lot of noise in Rome. There is a lot of showing off. And a quiet boy from the hills, who would very much like to know what God wants him to do, finds that he cannot hear himself think.

So he does a thing that is, I think, braver than it sounds. He leaves.

He does not tell his family. He does not finish his studies. He does not go home, either, which would have been the sensible thing. He puts his books away, and he gives up the money and the house that he might have had, and he walks out of the city with nothing but a plan that has not quite formed yet. Gregory has a lovely phrase for him. He says Benedict left Rome knowingly ignorant and wisely unlearned. Which is to say that he did not know where he was going, but he knew exactly what he was leaving.

And his nurse, naturally, goes with him.

They go first to a place called Enfide. It is a small town in the hills, about forty miles east of Rome, and there is a church there, and a few good people, and, for a little while, a rather quiet life.

I should say that the old sources do not tell us what Benedict did all day. I expect he prayed. I expect he walked about, and looked at the hills, and thought. And his nurse, I am sure, went about the place with her sleeves rolled up, finding out which neighbours had good eggs, and which had bad opinions.

One day she borrows a sieve.

It is a kitchen thing, an ordinary clay sieve, the kind used for cleaning grain, with a lot of little holes and a rim like a big shallow bowl. Gregory's Latin calls it a capisterium. It is not hers. She has asked a neighbour for it, as one does, because she needs to clean the wheat, and it is a nice sieve, and the neighbour has said yes, and has told her, quite sensibly, to be careful with it.

And then she puts it down on the edge of the table, just for a minute, to look at something else, and it falls off, and it breaks in two.

Now, I do not know what you do when you break something that belongs to someone else. I know what I do. I stand there for a moment and pretend that it has not happened. The nurse, the old sources say, does something much more honest, which is to burst into tears.

She is not crying because she is clumsy. She is crying because it is somebody's good sieve, and she is a person who pays her debts, and she cannot afford another, and she is going to have to go next door and say sorry. She sits down in the kitchen with the two halves of the sieve in her lap, and she cries, in the way that people cry over small things when they have had a lot of large ones.

And Benedict comes in.

He is a young man. He is, I imagine, a little bit awkward. I think he stands in the doorway for a moment, not sure what to say, because he has never been very good at the chatty kind of comfort. What he can do, though, is see when someone needs help. And what he does, according to Gregory, is quietly take the two pieces out of her hands, and go away, and pray.

He prays over the sieve. That is all. He does not wave anything or say anything fancy. He kneels down, with the two halves in front of him, and he prays, in tears, for the old woman who has looked after him since he was a baby, and for her trouble, and for the neighbour's sieve.

And when he gets up from his prayer, the sieve is whole. Gregory says it is as if it had never been broken. There is not even a crack.

Now, this is the first story that Gregory tells about Benedict, and I want to say two things about it. The first is that Gregory tells it with a perfectly straight face, and says that he had it, along with the others, from four of Benedict's own disciples, who had known him and who had lived with him. That is a good, solid chain. Four people, who were there, or who were told by those who were, and then Gregory, writing it all down about fifty years later. It is as good as you can ask for an old story. But it is still an old story, and it is still a report, and you may take it as a report.

And the second thing is that the miracle is not Benedict's. Benedict does not mend anything. He prays. The prayer is his. The sieve is God's. That is how every saint's story ought to go, and it is how Gregory means this one to go, and I think that it is a small, kind, funny story, about an old woman and her borrowed sieve, and a young man who cannot bear to see her cry.

She is so pleased that she takes the sieve, whole again, and hangs it up over the door of the church, where everyone can see it. And Gregory says that it hung there for many years, so that all the people of the place could look at it, and remember. It stayed there, he says, until the time of the Lombards, who came a few years later and, as the Lombards did, rearranged a great deal.

Now this is, if you think about it, a rather awkward thing for a young man who has just run away from the noise of Rome. Because the people of Enfide find out. They gather around the church door. They look at the sieve. They look at Benedict. They begin to say things like holy, and wonderful, and I always knew there was something about that boy.

And Benedict, who has come all this way to be nobody in particular, finds that he has become somebody in particular after all.

So he does it again. He leaves.

This time he does not take his nurse. Gregory says that he did it in secret, and that he left her behind, and I do not know how that conversation went. I expect she had views. I expect they were loud. I hope that somebody found her a nice little house with a view of the vegetable garden and a good supply of other people's sieves. The old sources do not say, and I would very much like to know.

What they say is that Benedict goes alone into the mountains, to a wild and lonely place called Subiaco, about thirty miles east of Rome. It is a steep, narrow valley, with a river that flows down into three little lakes that the Emperor Nero once had made, to be pretty. There are cliffs. There are woods. And there is, high on the side of the rock, a cave.

It is a very small cave. You could not stand up in it, I think, and you could not stretch out. But it is dry, and it is quiet, and nobody is looking.

On the way up, he meets a monk.

His name is Romanus, and he belongs to a small monastery nearby, not far above the cliff, under an abbot named Adeodatus. Romanus is not a young man, I think, and not a dramatic one. He is the sort of person who does what needs to be done and does not make a speech about it. And when Benedict tells him what he wants, which is to be alone with God, somewhere that nobody will ever find him, Romanus does not argue. He does not say, are you sure. He does not say, you will starve.

He says, all right. And he gives Benedict a monk's habit, and he helps him up to the cave, and then he promises to tell no one.

Here is the problem, though. A man who lives in a cave still has to eat.

Benedict is very serious about his plan. He has gone to a place that is steep, and rocky, and very hard to reach. And so Romanus, who really is a good friend, thinks of a plan of his own. Every day, he saves a little of his own bread. Not much. The monks do not have much. He takes it out of his own portion, and he hides it, and when no one is looking, he walks up to the top of the cliff above the cave, and he ties it into a basket, and he lowers the basket down on a long rope.

And because the rope is not long enough to reach the cave, or the cave is too far under the rock, or just because Romanus is a thoughtful man, he ties a little bell on the rope. When the bread arrives, the bell rings. Benedict, in the dark, hears it, and knows that his dinner is here.

Now, I want you to think about this for a moment, because it is a very easy thing to miss. Romanus is a monk. He has promised to live by the rule of his own house, and he is going behind his abbot's back to feed a stranger. That is not entirely tidy. But he does it every day, for three years. He never says anything. He never asks for thanks. And he is, as far as I can tell, the very first person in the history of the Benedictines who is helping Benedict, and who has no idea what he is helping to begin.

The old story has one more small moment on that cliff. Gregory says that the ancient enemy, who did not like the look of the arrangement, once threw a stone at the bell, and broke it. He does not say much about this, and neither shall we, except to say that it did not work. The next day, there was another loaf, and the rope came down, and someone, presumably, found another bell.

And then there are the three years. I wish I could tell you more about them.

Gregory does not, because there is not much to tell. A man sits in a cave. He prays. He reads, perhaps, if he has a book. He gets cold in the winter and hot in the summer. He is hungry, sometimes, and he is lonely, sometimes, and from time to time, something in him wants very much to be somewhere else. Gregory tells one story about that, which we will leave for another night. And all the time, the bell rings, and the bread comes, and the mountain does not say anything at all.

If you have ever been through a long stretch of days where nothing happens, and you have wondered whether anything is being done with them, I would like you to think of Benedict in his cave. Because this is where he learns the thing that he will teach for the rest of his life, which is that a person can be very small, and very quiet, and very much hidden, and still be doing the most important work there is.

Then one day, some shepherds come by.

They are looking for a lost sheep, or a lost goat, or just somewhere to sit in the shade. They are walking along the cliff, and they look down, and there in the cave, among the rocks, they see a figure. It is dressed in animal skins. It has long hair. It is on its knees.

Gregory says they thought it was a wild animal. I think that is fair. If you were a shepherd, and you saw something furry kneeling in a cave, I think you would want to be sure.

So they creep closer. They peer in. And they realise that it is a man, and that he is praying, and that he has been there, as it turns out, for years. And these shepherds, who are plain people, and not at all clever, do the most sensible thing in the whole story. They go home. And they tell everybody.

Within a few weeks, the whole valley knows that there is a holy man in the cave. People come up the hill, with cheese, and with questions, and with their problems. And some of them stay to listen. Gregory says that the shepherds, who had come looking for a sheep, found their own hearts, and that they began to get from him the things of the spirit in return for the things of the body that they had brought.

I like that. Bread goes down. Wisdom, a little, comes up.

There is a nice moment that the old books tell, here, about Easter.

Another priest in the district has prepared a feast. It is the great day of the year, and he is sitting down to a table with good food on it, and rather a lot of it. And he hears a voice, which says, you are preparing delicacies for yourself, and my servant is hungry in the mountains.

So the priest gets up, and takes the dinner, and goes up into the hills to look for Benedict.

He has a hard time finding him. Eventually he comes to the cave, and there is Benedict, and the priest says, let us have our meal, because today is Easter. And Benedict, who has been alone for so long that he has forgotten what day it is, says, is it? Is it really?

And the two of them sit down on the rocks, and have the whole feast, in the open, with the mountains for a ceiling, and I think they must have laughed. Gregory says that they gave thanks, and ate, and that the priest went home.

I would like to think the priest never forgot it.

After three years, the word has spread so far that it is hard to be a hermit any more. Benedict becomes quite well known. And a community of monks, in a house not far away, hears of him and comes to ask whether he would be their abbot.

He says no. He knows them a little, and he knows that their way of living is not his. But they ask again, and again, and at last he agrees. And as you might expect, it goes badly.

The monks are used to doing things their way. Benedict is not. He asks them to rise at the right time, and pray the right prayers, and eat the right amount, and be honest with one another. And they do not like it. They liked their abbot the way he used to be, which was easy. And so, after a while, a few of them decide to be rid of him.

They put poison in his wine.

I am not going to dwell on this, because it is bedtime, and because the story does not. The old report is that Benedict, as was his habit, blessed the cup before he drank, making the sign of the cross over it, and that the cup broke. It simply fell apart, as if the cross had struck it with a stone.

And Benedict looks at the broken cup, and looks at the monks, and understands.

He does not shout. He does not accuse anyone. He stands up, and says, quietly and kindly, may God forgive you. Why did you want to do this to me? Did I not tell you that my way and yours would not agree? Go and find an abbot who suits you.

And then he walks out, and goes back to his cave.

I want to tell you what he does next, because it is the most important thing in the story.

He does not go back to hide. He had been alone long enough to know what that was for. And now there are people, a great many people, who come to him wanting to learn how to follow Christ. They are young and old, noble and poor, Goths and Romans. They are not asking him to be a wonder. They are asking him to be a teacher.

So Benedict builds. Gregory says that he built twelve little monasteries in the valley of Subiaco, each with twelve monks and an abbot, and that he himself looked after them all. It is a bit like starting twelve small businesses, except that the product is prayer, and the profit is very hard to measure. Noble families in Rome send their sons to him. Two of them, a boy called Maurus and a boy called Placid, become among his closest friends.

And it is here, just as things are going so well, that a priest from the neighbourhood begins to hate him.

His name is Florentius. He is a priest of a church nearby, and he has watched the crowds go past his own door and up the road to Benedict's. He is jealous. He is not a monster, I think. He is a small, tired, sour man, who minds very much that someone else is more loved than he is, and who does not know what to do with that.

He sends Benedict a present.

It is a loaf of bread. A beautiful loaf, still warm. It is a perfectly normal gift, as between two men of God, and it comes with polite wishes. And Benedict, who is not stupid, looks at it for a moment and understands that it has been poisoned.

Now, you will want to know how he knows. Gregory does not say. He simply says that Benedict knew it, in the way that holy people sometimes seem to know things, and that he did not touch it.

What he does next is wonderful.

Benedict, you see, has a raven.

It is not his pet, exactly. It is a wild bird, and it comes at mealtimes to the monastery, to be fed from his hand. It is a large, black, untidy bird, with a great beak and a sharp eye, and I imagine it has opinions about almost everything. And on this particular day, Benedict looks at the raven, and looks at the loaf, and says to the bird, in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, take this bread, and put it in a place where no one can find it.

The raven opens its wings. It makes an irritated noise. It walks all the way around the loaf, twice, with the air of someone who has been asked to do something distasteful. And then it picks the bread up in its beak, and flaps heavily away, and is gone.

And an hour or so later it comes back, and sits down, and waits for its usual dinner.

I think this is among my favourite things in all the old lives. Not the miracle, though it is a good one. The raven. It does what it is told, and it does not enjoy it, and it comes back for the reward with perfect composure, as though the whole business was a small matter between professionals.

But Florentius is not done. Gregory says that he went on, in ways we will not describe, trying to unsettle the young monks, and that Benedict saw it from a window and understood that it was he, and not they, that Florentius was really after. And so, with great sadness, and without any anger, he decides to leave.

He gathers a few monks, and he packs what little he has, and he sets out to find another place, so that the others can be left in peace.

And when he has gone a little way, a messenger comes running up the hill. Florentius, says the messenger, is dead. A balcony has given way, and he has fallen, and he is gone.

And what does Benedict do?

He weeps.

The old story says that he wept bitterly, both because his enemy had died and because one of his own disciples had felt glad about it. And he gave that disciple a penance, for being glad. It is, I think, the most surprising thing in the whole story, and the one that is hardest to tell in a jolly voice. Benedict has no wish to be rid of anyone. He wanted Florentius to have a happier life. He wanted him to be, if possible, a friend.

That is who this man is. He is not a wonder-worker. He is a person who cannot forget that the person in front of him is somebody God loves, even when that person has just tried to poison his bread.

So he leaves the valley, and goes south, and finds a mountain.

It is a big, bare, steep mountain, with a town at the bottom called Casinum, and an old ruined temple on the top. The temple belonged to the god Apollo, and the people in the valley, who ought to have known better, still go up there on holidays to leave offerings. Benedict goes up, and tells them about Christ, and the old altars are knocked down, and in time, on the very summit, a small chapel is built, and a small house, and a small group of men who are going to change the world.

This is Monte Cassino. The year is about five hundred and twenty-nine.

Here Benedict writes a book. It is called the Rule, and it is not very long. You could read it aloud in a couple of hours, and you would probably enjoy it. It is full of good sense, and humour, and tenderness. It begins with a single word, which is listen. Listen, my son, to the master's instructions, and turn the ear of your heart.

And it goes on from there, calmly, to say how a house of prayer should be run. How the monks should rise, and sing the psalms, and work with their hands. How they should eat enough, and not too much, and be given a cup of wine, because Benedict, who is a realist, does not think that anyone is going to give it up. How the sick should be looked after before everything else. How the youngest should be heard in the council, because God often reveals the best thing to the youngest. How the abbot should be strict and kind at once, and remember that he will be asked, on the last day, how well he treated every single one of them. And how every guest who comes to the door, rich or poor, is to be welcomed as though he were Christ.

That last line has been the heart of a thousand hospitals, and inns, and kitchens, and doors left open at night. It was written by a young man who ran away from Rome because it was too loud. I think that is rather wonderful.

People sometimes say that Benedict's motto is, pray and work. It isn't, quite. Those words do not appear together in the Rule. But the idea is everywhere in it, and it is a good one. A day that has some time to pray, and some time to work, and some time to read, and a good night's sleep, is a day that a person can live in. And the lives of the monks, on that mountain, and in all the houses that followed, kept the lamp of learning burning through some very dark centuries. They copied books. They farmed. They looked after travellers. They taught children. And nobody wrote any of it down in a dramatic way. It just happened, one ordinary day at a time.

I have left one thing out, and it is the best.

Benedict has a sister. You will remember her. Her name is Scholastica, and she has, from childhood, given herself to God. And she does not live at Monte Cassino, which is for men. She lives close by, with a few other women, in a house a few miles away. And once a year the two of them meet.

They do not meet at the monastery. Benedict is the abbot, and the Rule is the Rule, and he does not leave. So the brother and sister meet halfway, at a small house at the foot of the mountain that belongs to the monastery. And Benedict comes down with a few of his monks, and they spend the day together, praising God, and talking about holy things.

And one year, they have one such day. It is a good one. They pray. They talk. They eat their dinner together, in the late afternoon, in the little house. And when the meal is over, and the light is beginning to go, Scholastica says to her brother, please do not leave me tonight. Let us talk until morning about the joys of heaven.

And Benedict says no.

Now, this is not unkind. It is only that he is a man of the Rule, and the Rule says that a monk sleeps in his own monastery. He cannot stay out all night, even for his sister. He says, what are you saying, sister? I cannot possibly stay outside my cell.

And Scholastica, who has been quietly listening to this, lowers her head, and folds her hands on the table, and prays.

She is not asking for anything grand. She just does not want the evening to end. And she prays, I think, for a very short time. And when she lifts her head, there is a flash of lightning, and a roar of thunder, and a sudden, tremendous downpour of rain, so fierce that nobody, not Benedict, not the monks, not anyone, can set one foot over the doorstep.

The sky was perfectly clear, Gregory says, when they sat down to eat.

Benedict looks at the rain. Then he looks at his sister. And he says, may God forgive you, sister. What have you done?

And Scholastica smiles, and says, I asked you, and you would not listen. So I asked my Lord, and he did.

I love that line. I do not know if she really said it, but I think someone in that house did, and it sounds exactly like a sister.

And so Benedict, who cannot go out into a storm like that, sits back down, and they talk all night. About what, the old story says, only that it was the things of the spirit. I think they were talking about the thing they had both wanted, since they were children in the cold hills of Nursia, which was to be near God, and to love him well. And I think that when the grey morning came up, and the rain had stopped, they were happier than they had ever been.

Then they said goodbye, and went home. Three days later, Benedict was in his cell, looking out of the window, when he saw a dove rising up into the sky, as though it were going up to heaven. And he understood that his sister had died.

Gregory says that he gave thanks to God with hymns, and told his brothers, and sent them to bring her body to the monastery, where he laid her in the tomb that he had prepared for himself. So that, in death, as Gregory writes, their bodies were not parted, any more than their minds had been in life.

That was the last time they met. The old report says that the storm was not a quarrel. It was the love of the one who loved more, and for that reason, Gregory adds, could do more.

It is the year five hundred and forty-seven, or thereabouts, and Benedict is an old man.

Monte Cassino is a busy house now, with a great many monks. The mountain has been quiet for years. And Benedict, who has been told by God, as he tells his friends, when he will die, asks for his tomb to be opened, and for a place to be made for him next to his sister.

Six days later, he falls ill with a fever.

The sixth day, the old story says, he asks to be carried into the chapel. And there he receives the body and blood of the Lord, in Communion, the last food he will ever take. And then he stands, with his arms held up to heaven, supported by his brothers, because he is too weak to stand on his own. And in the middle of a prayer, with his hands raised, he breathes out his last breath.

That is all. He did not make a speech. He did not do anything dramatic. He stood up as well as he could, in the company of his friends, with his face to the altar, and went home to God.

Two of his monks, in different places, both saw a path of light stretching from the monastery up to heaven, hung with shining lamps, and a voice said, this is the road by which Benedict, the beloved of the Lord, went up. It is the old report, and we tell it as such. But I think it is a good thing to remember on a dark night. That there is a road, and that somebody has walked it, and that the lamps are lit.

And the mountain is still there. The monastery has been knocked down a number of times, by the Lombards, and by earthquakes, and by a great war, and every time the monks have come back, and built it again. The Rule is still being read. In the monasteries that follow it, a cup of wine is still allowed, and a guest is still welcomed as Christ, and the youngest still has a voice in the council.

And somewhere in the old town of Subiaco, in the hills, there is a place that is called the Sacro Speco, the holy cave. It is a church now, built into the rock above the valley, with painted walls, and a stair that winds down into the stone. If you go down to the bottom, you will find a small cave, very quiet, with a statue in it, and nothing else. It is an easy place to be still. And I think that if you listened, on a dark night, you might still hear a bell.

Now. Notes for the curious.

Everything in tonight's story about Benedict comes from the second book of Pope Gregory the Great's Dialogues, written about five hundred and ninety-three, or fifty years after Benedict's death. Gregory says that he had it from four of Benedict's own disciples, whom he names. That is a good source, and a careful one, but it is also a source by a man who is telling stories to teach, and who says openly that he is telling miracles. The birth at Nursia, the schooling in Rome, the nurse, the sieve, Subiaco, Romanus and his rope, the shepherds, the priest at Easter, the cup, the twelve monasteries, Florentius and the bread and the raven, Monte Cassino, the temple of Apollo, Scholastica and the storm, the dove, the open tomb, the last Communion and the standing death are all in Gregory. The Rule of Benedict is a different book, and a real one, and we quote from its prologue, and from its chapters on guests and on the care of the sick. The Latin word is obsculta, listen.

What we invented is the conversation in the kitchen, the nurse's views on her departure, the weather on the cliff, the details of the Easter meal, the shepherds' guessing, Romanus's character, the monk's smile at the Easter feast, the raven's walk around the loaf, and the thoughts of everybody. The old lives do not say what became of the nurse. We have left her happy.

A few details are worth being careful about. First, Gregory tells more about what Florentius did next, and we have left it out because it is not a bedtime matter. Second, the date of Benedict's death is not certain, and five hundred and forty-seven is the traditional one. Third, the Rule says nothing about the motto pray and work, which came later. Fourth, Gregory does not name the nurse, so neither do we. Finally, Benedict and Scholastica are saints of both traditions, from before the division between East and West, and are loved by Catholics, Orthodox, and many others.

That's the story of Benedict and the sieve for tonight. If you would like to remember Saint Benedict in your prayers, the Catholic Church keeps his feast on the eleventh of July, and his sister, Saint Scholastica, on the tenth of February, and the Orthodox Churches remember him, too, in the springtime. Thank you for listening to Saints by Candlelight. If you enjoyed it, share it with someone who could use a gentle story at the end of a long day.

And here is a blessing, one that Benedict might have recognised. May you have a friend who will let down a loaf of bread, and ring a little bell, and say nothing. May you break nothing that belongs to your neighbour, and if you do, may you have someone who will pray over it. May you listen, with the ear of your heart. May you welcome the next person at your door as though it were Christ. And when the evening is almost over, and you are not ready for it to end, may you have a sister, or a brother, or a friend, who will ask the Lord for a little more time, and may the Lord, who is kind, say yes.

Goodnight, and God bless.

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