Our Lady of Silence Abbey
Christ’s words to His disciples — “There is no need to be afraid, little flock” — always seem to fall on us here in the Abbey with a particular gentleness. We live in a place where silence is treasured, where bells rather than headlines set the rhythm of our day, and yet even in the stillness there can be hidden anxieties: Am I faithful enough? Will I be found ready? Do I truly live as one who waits for the Master’s return?
The Lord speaks to the heart of our fears. He does not tell us to strengthen ourselves by sheer willpower, but rather to rest in the Father’s good pleasure to give us the Kingdom. It is His delight to do so. The monastic life is certainly not about clenching our fists in grim determination, but about unclenching them — opening our hands to receive what the Father longs to give.
In this Gospel, Jesus paints two images: the watchful servants and the wise steward. In both, readiness is not passive. To “have lamps lit” is to live each moment as though it mattered eternally — whether we are chanting the psalms in choir, tending the vegetable garden, or greeting a guest at our Guesthouse door. It means that even the smallest act of obedience, charity, or prayer is a spark kept alive for the Lord’s arrival.
The warning about the unfaithful servant is sobering. In a monastery, it is easy to think that neglect only comes in dramatic acts of disobedience, but more often it begins quietly — in the slackening of prayer, the half-hearted service, the silent harbouring of resentment. The Lord reminds us that much has been entrusted to us: the silence we keep, the hospitality we offer, the intercession we make for the world. These are not ours to squander.
Here in Our Lady of Silence Abbey, we are daily reminded that to live ready is not to live anxious, but to live in loving attention. The candle burning in our chapel at night is more than a devotional gesture; it is a living sign of our desire to remain awake for the Master’s knock — whether at the end of the age or at the quiet hour of our own death.
Let us, then, not only guard the treasure entrusted to us, but serve with the joy of those who know their Lord will surely return. And when He comes — at midnight, at cockcrow, or in the blaze of the afternoon sun — may He find us not only at our posts, but with hearts already rejoicing to open the door.
Amen.