Ora et Labora: On Language and Living
Prayer, work, and the life beneath
*Originally published at The Rabbit Room. Reproduced here with some slight modifications at the risk of exposing my incurable fussiness.
Chasing a Curiosity
Before being voted “most likely to join the military” at my pacifist, Mennonite high school (read into that what you will), I had the opportunity to visit the truly peaceful grounds of a Benedictine monastery. I wish I could tell you about the deep, spiritual experience it was to be there, how the stillness of the place struck a chord in me that’s resonated since. In actuality, great student that I was, I remember only two things about our time: the communion-flavored grape juice we had at lunch and the following conversation.
A few of the monks had graciously lent their time, showing us around and teaching us about the monastic life. “Ora et labora,” we were told, was the sum of it all: prayer and work, balanced. They went on to describe their practices for deepening the faith and interceding for their surrounding community, but I was already stuck, left in the dust with a curiosity. I raised my hand.
“The roots are the same,” I pointed out.
“What?” said the good friar.
“The word ‘ora’ meaning ‘prayer’ is the suffix of ‘labora’ meaning ‘work,’” I said. “Why is that?”
Silence. Then a stutter. “It’s just—” he began. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just ‘ora et labora’: prayer and work.”
I didn’t buy it. Still don’t as a matter of fact. I’ll go so far as to say I wouldn’t believe the holy man even if these Latin sound-a-likes were only so by sheer chance.
What I mean is this: I don’t agree with the statement, “it doesn’t mean anything.” Words have depth to them, entire worlds holed up in their cores, and I’d rather break the shell to see what’s inside than take them for granted.
Words matter.
In Owen Barfield’s History in English Words, the Inkling chronicles the tendency toward “internalization” in Western language and thought. It’s fascinating to see, in words alone, shifts in consciousness over time toward the individual and away from community; away from integration and into the arms of reductionism; praising comprehension, foregoing apprehension.
All this is to say again that words matter. They shape the way we think. Remember. Live. And it doesn’t take a long look around to see the ways that “internalization” has shaped our perception of the meaning of our comings and goings.
I don’t mean to level any blame at the good monks we visited that day. I simply had to look elsewhere to find the answers I sought. And while ora et labora may not have any special significance for my life today (I never did join the Benedictines, Mennonites, or military), what does is whether I go about slinging worlds of meaning left and right without a second thought. Someone might just get hurt; or maybe worse, kept from seeing what’s shining beneath the surface of things: distracted by the rote of our busy lives and language.
“Utter words,” says philosopher Martin Buber, “as though heaven were opened in them and…as though you had entered the word.”1 If there are worlds in our words, their each and every utterance is an unfolding meaning we step into, co-creating it as we do.
If we are to realize — in the fullest sense of the word — that “all matter is radiant of spiritual meaning,”2 we’ll often need new language for the task, which is to say new and renewing perspective. This is a driving reason I’ve come to appreciate poetry more in the last handful of years (thanks for the kickstart, Malcolm Guite) and find even dead languages fascinating. There’s nothing wrong (and a lot of good) in having my assumptions challenged and the ground under my feet shaken a bit from time to time. The more the better, I say.
Come to think of it, these Latinates — courtesy of our kind, Benedictine hosts — may have plenty of significance for my life today after all.
Breaking the Shell
Interestingly enough, I haven’t found any indication these words are truly connected. Following an etymology of labora back to Proto-Indo-European ultimately accounts only for the “lab” in the word: something taken or gained.3 This might just leave room for a potential combination of roots — perhaps with one such as, oh, I don’t know…ora: of the mouth.4
Please note: there may not be a relation here. I’m not trained for this arena by any stretch of the imagination. I’m an amateur through and through. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Ora refers to the mouth (or in the case of our Benedictine slogan, what comes from it),5 and lab-ora refers to what is taken for the mouth, or the means to take for the mouth: exempli gratia, to labor.6 Food for thought.
For those bearing with this etymology, then, one could interpret the roots of ora et labora as “what the mouth produces, and what it consumes.” And that has plenty to bear on my life, especially considering Barfield and Buber. While “prayer and work” can be watered down to dry practice (been there), I think there’s something deeper going on here with these words.
First, what is taken for the mouth; consumed. What narratives do I give credence to? Are they centered on my own navel-gazing realities, meanings, desires, and perspective? Or are they stories of mystery and connection with others, the world, and the Reality that surrounds me and of which I am only a part and player?
And then there’s ora: what is produced. Are my language and living subtle and deep, rich and dangerous, pregnant and healing to those in my life? And what about to myself, who must step into the meanings that come from my mouth? Will I be known as trite, precise, and busy, my words as reduced and empty? Meaningless? Shallow?
I land on different sides of these questions every day, but I hope and strive to know the worlds I create with my words leave a little room for wondering and the wondrous, for re-humanization and community and being known, and for more grace in my language and living, which is to say in my ora et labora. Perhaps this is the heart of its Benedictine sister-phrase, laborare est orare: work become prayer. Our rote become poetry. Life become living.
Here’s to more of it for all of us.
Martin Buber, quoted in Madeleine L'Engle, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (New York, NY: North Point Press, 1995), 31.
George MacDonald, "The God of the Living," in Unspoken Sermons, vol. I (London, UK: Longmans, Green and Co., 1887), 239.
"Labora," Wiktionary: the free dictionary, accessed 12/02/2023, https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/labora#Latin.
"Ora," Wiktionary: the free dictionary, accessed 12/02/2023, https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/ora#Etymology_2_4.
Douglas Harper, "Oral," Online Etymology Dictionary, accessed 12/02/2023, https://www.etymonline.com/word/oral#etymonline_v_7105.
Douglas Harper, "Labor (n.)," Online Etymology Dictionary, accessed 12/02/2023, https://www.etymonline.com/word/labor#etymonline_v_1970.
I enjoyed reading this. Thanks for sharing. I think the study of language is important for every Christian — I’m in a place where most of my personal Bible reading now includes looking up Greek and Hebrew. As you wisely and succinctly put it: words matter.
"Words have depth to them, entire worlds holed up in their cores, and I’d rather break the shell to see what’s inside than take them for granted."
I think C.S. Lewis would agree with you very much on this point. I just finished reading That Hideous Strength through the lense of Medieval cosmology for school, and there's a point in there when the planets (or rather the spiritual beings associated with each planet) descend. When Mercury comes down, the philologist (Ransom) feels the essence of language itself overflowing with meaning and reality.
I loved reading through your reflections on words! I had an assignment once to translate a poem I wrote for one class into Latin, and it was really enjoyable to pore over dictionaries and read all the possible meanings of a word so I could choose the one with just the right connotation. It's great to know someone else out there has enjoyed dabbling in Latin, too!