Thursday during the third week of Lent: an ordinary day, if the community diary is to be believed. Earlier I watched the dawn stealing across the sky and now the clouds are tinged with pink and there is birdsong hinting at our long-delayed spring. Duncan is snoring contentedly somewhere in the room (no early riser he!), no doubt quite happy that he can safely leave Crufts to his children and grandchildren. The liturgy provides much to ponder, while today's section of the Rule is a reminder that equality is not the same as justice and even in a monastery the superior will have to weigh individual needs - and take the consequences if she gets it wrong.

As the day unfolds there will be work to do, people to see, unexpected delights and probably moments of difficulty or disappointment also. The holiness of the ordinary is something we do not always appreciate as we ought. It is, however, on ordinary days such as these that our salvation is worked out. Whether we are full of energy and hope, or tired and a little grumpy, the present moment is the only one in which we can meet God. We may forget that most of the time: the important thing is not to forget it all the time. The ordinary is really not so ordinary after all.

Later today we expect a visit from our bishop. He is always very approachable and our welcome tends to be correspondingly low-key and Lenten in its simplicity: he is easy with us and we with him, which is a great blessing. I did hear a vacuum cleaner being hauled into the library yesterday, but clearly Great Works were not being undertaken.

It made me think about how we welcome others. So often we concentrate on the adjuncts of hospitality: food, drink, setting. The really important element of welcome, giving time and listening to the other, is something we are less good at. Why? It is surely easier than killing fatted calves or organizing great celebrations. The analogy with prayer is obvious. God asks of us a listening heart rather than great sacrifices, but we often seem keen to give him sacrifice (often trivial) rather than obedience. It doesn't work the other way, of course. God gives us everything and listens to us, too. Perhaps we should think more about how God has welcomed us into his life than how we try to welcome him into ours. Look at the crucifix and see how his arms are spread wide to receive us, eternally.

Digitalnun is off to the JR this morning and has decided that a good way of passing time is to meditate on how to revalidate the RSS feed for this blog. It works fine in Safari, as Safari users will know; but at some point during the past two years, something broke. Perhaps a blogging nun used "an illegal character" (or two, or three or four); or during a reloading of the site some files got moved around and suffered corruption (sounds like the digital equivalent of relic-hunting, doesn't it?). It matters, because people who haven't time to visit this site but who like to keep an eye on the blog often use a RSS reader to keep them up to date with changes. Any suggestions for revalidating the feed are therefore welcome.

Meanwhile, anyone who has an administrative or managerial role may find it helpful to listen to the Rule today and tomorrow. Chapter 31, on the Cellarer or Bursar of the monastery, is a succinct treatise on the spiritual aspects of management. Goods and tools are to be accorded the same care and respect that we give sacred altar vessels. People can be more awkward to deal with, but even the most demanding must be treated with courtesy and respect. When there is nothing else to give, there is always the good word which is above the best gift. A good word. Surely we can all speak one today?

Having a biochemist in community makes life very interesting. Anything to do with genetics, for example, is discussed avidly. Digitalnun noticed a small item on the BBC web site about the Lemba whose DNA appears to confirm that they have Jewish ancestry, including in their priestly tribe the gene found only among cohanin (see http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/8550614.stm). Not another "Lost Tribe" story, but an instance of the survival of religious belief and practice under very unfavourable circumstances. One could find parallels in Spain and Portugal where some families have retained elements of Judaism since the time of the Expulsion, or in Japan, where the story of the Nagasaki Christians is well-known.

What is it that enables some people to maintain their religious identity for centuries while others fall away or reject it quite early in life? The theologian may argue the case for grace, the sociologist for cultural influences and endogamy, and so on and so forth. I suspect there is no one answer. Religious communities reinforce a sense of identity by their use of common texts (e.g. for us as Benedictines the Rule and Customary), common rituals (our ways of dress/worship) and common history (the retelling of the story of how we came to be). During Lent we are particularly conscious of the latter: the telling of the story. On Easter Night we shall listen by the light of the paschal candle to the whole of salvation history, culminating in the gospel of the Resurrection. The fact that the Son of God became man for our sakes, shared our flesh and blood and identified with us in both his birth and his death, is breath-taking. In Jesus there is not a single selfish gene, only the purest, most generous love. That is a story worth telling again and again.

The women of Cameroon have chosen Psalm 150 as part of their theme for Women's World Day of Prayer today. It is a psalm of pure praise, calling on everything in creation to praise the Lord. Very often our praise of God is qualified in some way: we ask something, or we remind God of a little flaw in what he has created or ordained (we are always helpful, especially when we address the Almighty). Our "yes!" somehow mutates into "yes, but". It is the price we pay for growing up and growing away from the simplicity of children.

True praise is beautifully simple and leads to ecstasy in the literal sense. We stand outside ourselves, our gaze wholly focused on the other, our very body language reflecting the joy and delight we experience. Children and dogs are good teachers of how to praise. When we were reunited with Duncan the other day his whole body was one ecstatic wiggle of delight (PBGVs are well-named "the happy breed"). In England our worship of God tends to the stately rather than the ecstatic, but perhaps we should allow our praise a freer flow. David danced before the Ark, indifferent to the disapproval of his wife or any other onlooker. I doubt whether we'll be wiggling in choir today, but I hope our singing of the psalms will be full of a similar transcendent joy. Let everything that lives and that breathes, praise the Lord!