According to a very ancient monastic teaching, a monk should never be concerned for himself but think only of what would benefit his brother. That's easier said than done. I remember a story about a certain brother, earnestly aspiring to be a true monk according to this lofty ideal, who was munching away at the mid-day meal one day and to his horror discovered a dead mouse floating in his soup. Mindful that a true monk takes no thought what so ever for his own good but thinks always and everywhere only of what is best for his brother—he was at a loss what to do. Oh my. Well, by God's grace the answer suddenly came to him. He motioned to one of the monks serving table that day, and when he had drawn near discreetly whispered to him: "Pardon me, but I just noticed my brother there—has no mouse in his soup." I remember vividly the day, as a Junior monk, I discovered there was a dead mouse floating in my soup. An older monk in the community, much respected, and whose intelligence I found intimidating, had challenged me concerning a behavior of mine. The correction left me feeling exposed and vulnerable and I suddenly became very defensive. My response to him, intended to put him in his place, had made me feel foolish. The heat flushing my face from embarrassment turned to anger, and I mean, white hot. An hour later, I'm sitting in front of the Blessed Sacrament for my daily 5:00 meditation, and I am furious. By God's grace, a prayer steals into my leaden heart—I say to myself: "Yeah—o.k. Enough. It's time to forgive him." I know it's time. I've been through this scenario with the same monk over and over again. My anger flares. I am sure I will never speak to him again. An hour later, the feeling subsides, my better judgment returns, and I make peace with him in my heart, which is manifest when, an hour later, I greet him with a conciliatory word. He and I have been through this a hundred times. "Let it go", I tell myself. "It's time." A moment passes. Then I say to myself quietly and firmly: "No. No, I won't. This time, the answer is no." The silence in the little chapel roars. I mean what I said. I know I mean it, and God who knows all, knows I mean it. And that's when I see it. There's a dead mouse floating in my soup. My soul, at that moment, is a bowl of soup in front of me and there is a dead mouse floating in it. Staring for a moment in disbelief, I feel my heart and my whole being contracting. I am repulsed. No, what's happening is worse than that. I am, at this moment, divorcing myself. I realize my freedom is real. I could divorce myself. This "no", I am contemplating is a real possibility for me, and if I wished I could make it forever. I freeze. I can't look to the right or left. I am alone. "Raphael, you are not alone." It is God's voice. "Where are you?" I say. "I am right beside you." He means Jesus who became flesh and died for our sins. The room is silent. "He is your brother," I hear God say with great tenderness. I sit a moment with Jesus beside me. He is there. He is my Savior. I don't doubt it. But I can't bear to acknowledge Him, and finally say in disgust: "Pardon me, God, but my brother there has no dead mouse in his soup." And a moment later, maybe the kindest, gentlest words God ever spoke to me: "Raphael, look again."

Father Raphael