Fathers and Brothers

 

By Ida Williams with Brother Luke

 

During one of the early dog owners’ seminars, one of the attendees asked at the end of Brother Luke’s presentation why some monks are called father and some are called brother. I thought I knew so much back then I had worked for them for at least 5 years, so I answered, “Priests are called father, and monks are called brother.”  WRONG!

Here is Brother Luke’s explanation:

“In many Christian traditions, both East and West, priests are referred to as father. In addition, in Eastern Orthodox monastic tradition, all professed monks are referred to as father, and professed nuns as mother. However, monks and nuns are also referred to as brothers and sisters. At New Skete, since its founding, the desire was to emphasize the understanding that we are all equal before God and not in some hierarchical order, so we preferred to refer to each other as brother and sister rather than mother and father. Of course, when visitors come who are familiar with the Orthodox tradition they will at times refer to us as father and mother and refer to the priests in particular as father. Also, when we had an abbot leading the community he was referred to as Abba, which is sometimes used as a more intimate term for father.”

This all came back to me as I was thinking about Father’s Day.  

When I was young, I thought my father was invincible.  Strong, smart, hardworking, and as my father he was the boss.  If Daddy said you better do your chores, you better do your chores.  If he said no, it meant no.  I adored my father, respected him, and in a slight sense feared him.   In my twenties that relationship changed.  He became more of a friend and less of an authority figure in my life.  That did not mean that he was no longer the boss.  I just needed a boss less frequently and needed that friend more often.  My Dad is now in his 80s.  He lives in a nursing home.  The man that I thought was invincible lost both of his legs because of complications from diabetes and a stroke.  In the process of having him placed in the nursing home, I became the “father.”  I made the arrangements, I called the ambulance to take him to the ER, and when we got there, I spoke with the doctors and told them we could not take him back home with us.  I had to make the hard decision knowing it was best for him and for my mother.   I did this out of love, not spite.  I think how many times he had enforced a rule or would not allow me to do what I wanted to do.  I would get angry and say he did not love me.   Now it was his turn to be angry at me and say I did not love him.  As the saying goes, “Time heals all wounds.”    He is doing well in the nursing home.  He has made friends there, my mother goes every day to be with him, and my siblings and I (five of us) visit at least once a week, and we call him.  In my visits and conversations with him, we are once again equal—AND he will always be my father.

Happy Father’s Day!