The last few weeks, the parables have centered on labor. These highlight that in the Kingdom, we’re invited to work, to be co-workers with God. This Sunday’s Gospel, however, highlights joy — that in the Kingdom, we’re invited to share in the King’s joy. “For joy and celebration were we created,” Leiva-Merikakis says. “And so this parable will be a test of how much each of us is still in touch with the vocation to joy native to our deepest being.”1

In the parable, the king sends his servants to summon those who had already been invited to his son’s wedding feast. Note that. These people had already been invited and now they’re being told: “it’s time!” They refuse. The king, instead of simply rejecting the A-List guests and moving on, sends different servants and with a longer message that details all the details of the feast. He’s trying to entice them. Some of the invited guests simply ignore the second wave of servants, and the rest mistreat and even kill the servants. This is a rather shocking overreaction to a persistent persistent invitation to come to a party. But, the shock is not over. Out of Jesus’ mouth comes a rather “God-of-the-Old-Testament” line: “The king was enraged and sent his troops, destroyed those murderers, and burned their city.” This is no saccharine and soft Jesus. No sentimental or ersatz Jesus. This is Jesus talking about hell-fire. Again, we have a kind of indictment against those who rejected the message of the prophets — the king is going to destroy their city, Jerusalem (and this does happen in 70 AD). In last week’s episode, the parable foretells the future death of the wicked tenants. This week, things are heating up and there’s an immanence to the death and destruction.

The king is moving on. He now instructs his servants to “go out…into the main roads and invite to the feast whomever you find.” They go to the highways and gather the poor and sick, presumably, along with any non-native visitors in the region — a nod to the prostitutes and tax collectors and Gentiles. The good and the bad alike are welcome to come to the feast — the king’s invitation now extends this far. B-List and C-List and D-List guests. He wants people to share in his joy so badly he’ll take “whomever they find.”

Then, we come to the final part of the parable and it’s about as shocking as what precedes it. The New American Bible (NAB) says “when the king came in to meet the guests he saw a man there not dressed in a wedding garment.” A tighter translation would replace “meet” with “see” or “behold.” The king comes in to behold the guests. Leiva-Merikakis points out that this is to say “he was looking on them with love and seeking to become enthralled with their beauty.”2 It’s odd the king’s focus isn’t on his son, but on the guests who were to be dressed in wedding garments — which would have been clean, white garments — as if they were brides. The Church, comprised of men and women alike, is the Bride of Christ. So, the king (i.e., the Father) comes in to behold the guests and one stands out like a sore thumb because he doesn’t have wedding garment. He doesn’t have the correct attire. But, like the rest of the parable, the wedding garment is symbolic. What does it symbolize? What does it mean? Here are a few notes in this regard:

• The NAB says this in its footnotes: “A wedding garment: the repentance, change of heart and mind, that is the condition for entrance into the kingdom (Mt 3:2; 4:17) must be continued in a life of good deeds.”

• The Ignatius Catholic Study Bible says the wedding garment is “a symbol of righteous deeds that accompany faith (Rev 19:7–8). These deeds are outlined in Matthew as almsgiving (6:2–4), prayer (6:5–15), fasting (6:16–18), and works of mercy (25:34–40).”

• The Navarre Bible says, “The wedding garment signifies the dispositions a person needs for entering the Kingdom of heaven…These dispositions essentially mean responding to grace.”

When confronted by the king about his shabby appearance, the man is reduced to silence, bound, and cast out into the darkness where there is wailing and grinding of teeth. This is an image of hell. So, the whole thing takes on an eschatological flair, with the heavenly banquet (wedding feast of the Lamb) on the one hand, and hell for a “party of one” on the other.

That many are invited but few are chosen highlights that all are called to the kingdom, but not all are found worthy to possess it.3

Prayerful Reading

The last few days, I’ve been reflecting on this line from Sunday’s Gospel:

HESAWAMANTHEREWHOWASNOTCLOTHEDINAWEDDINGGARMENT

With all of this, my mind goes to Baptism and the white garment. Msgr. Pope picks up on the same theme: “Whatever the debated cultural parameters of the story, the theological parameters are more clear. The wedding garment is provided by the king (God the Father), who clothes us in righteousness at our baptism.”4

In the Baptism rite at the Easter Vigil, for example, the priest says the following when clothing the newly baptized with the white garment:

N. you have become a new creation and have clothed yourselves in Christ. Receive this baptismal garment and bring it unstained to the judgment seat of our Lord Jesus Christ, so that you may have everlasting life.

The new clothing signifies a new identity. We receive this in Baptism. St. Paul articulates it in Galatians 2:20, in his line “it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.” He brings this up elsewhere:

• “But put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the desires of the flesh” (Romans 13:14).

• “For all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ” (Galatians 3:27).

• “Put away the old self of your former way of life, corrupted through deceitful desires, and be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and put on the new self, created in God’s way in righteousness and holiness of truth” (Ephesians 4:22–24).

Putting on the clothing means living in it, breaking it in. When I was a kid, my mom always bought me clothes that were about two sizes too big. “Because you’re still growing,” she said. Consequently, I always looked misshapen or like fabric was eating me. But this notion of growing into it applies nicely when it comes to putting on Christ. We have a lot of growing to do till the “fit” is right. So, we try. We put on the new man, put on the mind of Christ (see Philippians 2:5). This is metanoia, a change of mind, a conversion. It’s not one and done. It’s an ongoing conversion. It’s gift and task, already but not yet. For those of us who are “on the way,” enduring the pilgrimage of life, we have to admit we haven’t arrived yet. Our sin makes this clear enough. Sin is like tarnishing the garment, or taking it off altogether. So we need ongoing transformation, like we hear from Paul in Romans 12:2, “Do not conform yourselves to this age but be transformed by the renewal of your mind.”

Many are invited. Few are chosen. Maybe it’s simply because few choose to receive the gift being offered. That seems to be the case in the parable, anyhow. No special skills required, just humble receptivity and faithful wearing of the garment.

I’d like to end this reflection with an excerpt from a homily given by Pope Benedict XVI that touches on both these elements (i.e., receiving the garment and wearing it):

Why did this man accept the king’s invitation, enter the banquet hall, find the door opened to him but not put on the wedding garment? What is this wedding garment? At the Mass of the Lord’s Supper…this year I mentioned a beautiful commentary on this parable by St Gregory the Great. He explains that the guest had accepted God’s invitation to take part in his banquet, that in a certain way he had faith which opened the door of the banquet hall to him, but he lacked something essential: the wedding garment, which is charity or love. And St Gregory adds: “Therefore each one of you in the Church who has faith in God has already taken part in the wedding feast, but cannot claim to wear the wedding garment unless he jealously guards the grace of love” (Homily 38, 9; PL 76, 1287). And this garment is woven symbolically on two looms of wood, one above and one below: love of God and love of neighbour (cf. ibid., 10: PL 76, 1288). We are all invited to be the Lord’s guests, to enter his banquet with faith, but we must put on and take care of the wedding garment: charity, to live in the profound love of God and neighbour.5

In Baptism, we receive the garment. Putting it on and taking care of it requires charity — that profound love of God and neighbor.

Please use the comments to share your own lectio reflections if you’d like. It’s always a blessing to experience lectio within community — even online!

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Meditate on the words or phrases that strike you. What might God be trying to say to you? Why? Why is this or that standing out? Is he trying to speak into particular parts of your life or particular memories? Have a conversation with him. And keep listening. What’s he trying to say?

Oh, and don’t forget to pay attention throughout the day. Your life will teach you and lectio divina can help you “key in” on what God’s saying in and through the circumstances he has provided for you. Lectio often provides me with open and unresolved questions, and I go into the “stuff” of my life with these questions looking for answers. Or, it provides me with a word or image, a “theme,” that can help sharpen my focus as I seek the Lord throughout the day.

If you’d like to read more about the continuous script (scriptio continua) format, please check out the intro to this presentation of the Gospel from a few weeks ago, or this article.

ANDRESPONDINGJESUSAGAINSPOKETOTHEMINPARABLESSAYINGTHEKINGDOMOFHEAVENISLIKEAMANWHOWASKINGWHOCELEBRATEDAWEDDINGFORHISSONANDHESENTHISSERVANTSTOCALLTHOSEWHOWEREINVITEDTOTHEWEDDINGBUTTHEYWERENOTWILLINGTOCOMEAGAINHESENTOTHERSERVANTSSAYINGTELLTHEINVITEDBEHOLDIHAVEPREPAREDMYMEALMYBULLSANDFATLINGSHAVEBEENKILLEDANDALLISREADYCOMETOTHEWEDDINGBUTTHEYIGNOREDTHISANDTHEYWENTAWAYONETOHISCOUNTRYESTATEANDANOTHERTOHISBUSINESSYETTRULYTHERESTTOOKHOLDOFHISSERVANTSANDHAVINGTREATEDTHEMWITHCONTEMPTKILLEDTHEMBUTWHENTHEKINGHEARDTHISHEWASANGRYANDSENDINGOUTHISARMIESHEDESTROYEDTHOSEMURDERERSANDHEBURNEDTHEIRCITYTHENHESAIDTOHISSERVANTSTHEWEDDINGINDEEDHASBEENPREPAREDBUTTHOSEWHOWEREINVITEDWERENOTWORTHYTHEREFOREGOOUTTOTHEWAYSANDCALLWHOMEVERYOUWILLFINDTOTHEWEDDINGANDHISSERVANTSDEPARTINGINTOTHEWAYSGATHEREDALLTHOSEWHOMTHEYFOUNDBADANDGOODANDTHEWEDDINGWASFILLEDWITHGUESTSTHENTHEKINGENTEREDTOSEETHEGUESTSANDHESAWAMANTHEREWHOWASNOTCLOTHEDINAWEDDINGGARMENTANDHESAIDTOHIMFRIENDHOWISITTHATYOUHAVEENTEREDHEREWITHOUTHAVINGAWEDDINGGARMENTBUTHEWASDUMBSTRUCKTHENTHEKINGSAIDTOTHEMINISTERSBINDHISHANDSANDFEETANDCASTHIMINTOTHEOUTERDARKNESSWHERETHEREWILLBEWEEPINGANDGNASHINGOFTEETHFORMANYARECALLEDBUTFEWARECHOSEN

This text comes from the Catholic Public Domain Version. You can find the official lectionary readings for the 28th Sunday in Ordinary Time here. You could also look up the passage in your own Bible. It is from Matthew 22:1–14.

On Saturday, I’ll offer some of my own reflections on this passage, and hopefully some of you will share your own in the comments section.

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“Listen to another parable,” Jesus begins. He just won’t let up. “On the one hand, he does not seem to tire of exposing their arrogance, self-righteousness, and hardness of heart,” Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis says. “On the other hand…he really does not forsake them for good.” His mercy knows no bounds. We’re “too acquainted with the deepest motivations of the Heart of Jesus to believe that all he has in mind…is to expose and condemn everything and everyone unfriendly to himself.”1 No. He wants the parables to work like the bronze serpent mounted on the pole in Numbers 21:9. Those Israelites at the time of Moses were healed of the poison injected into their systems due to deep-seated vices by gazing in horror upon the depravity of their own sinfulness. To be healed, they had to look upon the cause of their being envenomed, namely, grumbling against God who punished them with vipers. It’s no wonder the image from Numbers 21 foreshadows the crucifix, and it’s no wonder Catholics hang crucifixes everywhere. The crucifix stands, at one and the same time, as a reminder of the horrors of sin and God’s completely shocking antidote to sin’s poison. Sunday’s parable works much the same way. Jesus wants the chief priests and Pharisees to see their sin for what it is and what God is up to. He continues to aim fiery darts right at the hearts of those who consider themselves already justified and, therefore, who do not think they need a savior. The rest of the parable “dramatizes God in Jesus always and everywhere pursuing our rebellious hearts with forceful divine rhetoric, so that we will be persuaded to turn back to him freely.”2

Well, the opening clause caused quite the preamble. Let’s get into the parable.

With broad brushstrokes, the parable of the wicked tenants serves as an allegory depicting the whole of salvation history in four stages:3

1. Creation and Election (21:33) — The householder (i.e., God) thoughtfully and carefully creates his vineyard (i.e., Eden, Promised Land, Jerusalem), and entrusts it to tenants (i.e., the “elect,” the Chosen People of Israel).

2. Law and Prophets (21:34–36) — Before leaving, the householder must have given clear instruction about caring for the vineyard given his assumption that there would be fruit (i.e., Law). He then sends servants (i.e., prophets) to receive the fruit of the harvest. They give the servants nothing but beatings and brutal murders.

3. Incarnation and Redemption (21:37–39) — Finally, the householder (i.e., God) is going to send his son (i.e., Jesus = Incarnation), because surely, they will respect his son. They don’t. Instead, they take him outside the vineyard (i.e., Jerusalem) and kill him with the expectation they will steal his inheritance. Unfortunately, we see this play out in every age, it seems. “God is dead and we killed him! Now we can do what we really want.” As I reflect on this further, I believe the anxiety we experience as a people in our time runs deeper than our fast-paced way of life or social media. It turns out that when you seemingly eliminate God from the picture, something we’ve been trying to do for a few hundred years, someone must step into that spot. When it’s you, you find yourself trying to carry a tremendous burden — the weight of the world — that can’t help but weigh you down. Okay, I’ve gone astray. Back to the program.

4. Second Coming (21:40–41) — When the householder comes back again, what will he do? Because of their wickedness, he will put them to death. They will receive their reward. It’s interesting to note that the Jewish authorities are the ones who issue the line explaining the punishment: “he will put those wretches to a miserable death, and lease the vineyard to other tenants…” The Jerome Commentary points out that the Greek contains a play on words, here: “evilly those evil men he will destroy.” It’s as if they’re condemning themselves and, at the same time, ushering in the Church comprised of Jews who believe that Jesus is the Messiah and believing Gentiles.

It’s worth noting that at the end of the whole sequence the chief priests and Pharisees did perceive he was speaking about them (see 21:45). However, instead of repenting, they harden their hearts and try to arrest Jesus.

Prayerful Reading

Well, I pondered couple of things that I don’t want to spend a lot of time on. First, I marveled at the sending of the son:

ATTHEVERYENDHESENTHISSONTOTHEMSAYINGTHEYWILLREVEREMYSON

It amazes me that the landowner was so convinced about the possibility of the tenants’ conversion of heart. He seems to either be completely naïve or tremendously foolish. Perhaps both. From here, though, my mind went to 1 Cor 1:25. This verse says: “For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength.” Clearly God’s up to something I don’t get, though he’s known for these upside-down things you could never anticipate. This hope for change and those words THEYWILLREVEREMYSON reminds me of the line: “From the fullness of the heart the mouth speaks” (Matthew 12:34). That the landowner/God says he’s sending he son as the only possible way to save the wicked tenants from themselves tells us something about the abundant goodness and mercy of God’s heart.

Next, you have to ask why in the world the tenants would have thought they, of all people, would be the ones to inherit the land by killing off the son. Of course they could have known the landowner had only one son, as there’s only one referenced, and assumed that without an heir the squatters would simply acquire the land at the landowner’s passing. In fact, they weren’t wrong. According to my Jerome Commentary, this would have been the legal proceeding at the time. If the owner would have died without an heir and without a will, the unoccupied land would have gone to the first claimant. The tenants would have had the first shot by the simple fact of being there. Besides, killing off the son would have been tantamount to killing the landowner himself.

All my curiosities aside, I want to share a bit of my own prayerful reading with you. I zeroed in on this portion of the text:

HAVEYOUNEVERREADINTHESCRIPTURESTHESTONETHATTHEBUILDERSHAVEREJECTEDHASBECOMETHECORNERSTONEBYTHELORDHASTHISBEENDONEANDITISWONDERFULINOUREYES

Here, Jesus quotes directly from Psalm 118:22–23. I already got fairly autobiographical this week, so I guess I’ll stay on theme.

In junior high and high school, I was one of those builders who rejected the living stone (see 1 Peter 2:4). You might say I was familiar with the sins of youth and versed in living a duplicitous life. Interiorly, I had rejected the faith I was given and exteriorly I even made fun of my peers, those “Jesus freaks” who had caught the “Catholic bug” at some Steubenville Youth Conferences. But during the Fall of 2004, just a month or so into my first year of undergraduate studies, I became aware, deeply aware, of the extent of my sin and my devious trajectory. It was not unlike the depiction of Julia Flyte’s confrontation with reality in Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. Grappling with the weight of her sin after Bridey, her older brother, called out the fact that she was “living in sin” — referring to her adulterous affair with Charles Ryder — Julia is beside herself. She tries to explain things to Charles, her agnostic lover:

“Living in sin”; not just doing wrong…doing wrong, knowing it is wrong, stopping doing it, forgetting…Living in sin, with sin, always the same, like an idiot child carefully nursed, guarded from the world. “Poor Julia,” they say, “she can’t go out. She’s got to take care of her sin. A pity it ever lived,” they say, “but it’s so strong. Children like that always are. Julia’s so good to her little, mad sin.”4

Living in sin. All sin betrays our true allegiances and all sin betrays our affairs, because all sins, for the baptized, are infidelities — however great or small. They’re all an affront to the most important vows of our whole lives, our baptismal vows. In this light, “living in sin” doesn’t have to do only with adultery, but in whatever ongoing, willful sin we’re engaging in. “Living in sin” refers to our pet sins, the ones we use to prop up ourselves, to satisfy our egos or base desires, the ones we simply justify away. It was in this sense in high school that I was living in sin. Sometimes I welcomed my sin and sometimes I hated it. Sometimes I raced down well-worn, vicious paths, and sometimes I struggled against them only to fall in due time. But more often than not, I was just living — living in sin. Yes, all the while living in sin, and striving for little more than self-satisfaction. Ego. Reputation. Self. Making a name for myself. I was taking good care of my sin. “Brad’s so good to his little, mad sin.”

Well, like Julia’s spiritual awakening at Brideshead that night, that piercing sting of her conscience, mine happened in the Fall of 2004. Let’s just say the Lord, in his severe mercy, made my direction in life abundantly clear to me. This culminated with an honest prayer from the bottom of my heart — probably the first of my whole life — that went something like: “God, if you are who you say you are, I need help.” There, on my knees in my empty dorm room in Pacelli Hall, there at John Carroll University in University Heights, Ohio, the God of the universe stooped down and heard my cry (cf. Psalm 40:2). And, one by one, things began to change as I relinquished my icy death-grip on my little, mad sin, and allowed myself to be led down a new path.

The stone which I had rejected became the cornerstone of my life. Revisiting those memories over the last few days, I realize I had little to do with that placement of that cornerstone in my life. I simply welcomed it. By the Lord had this been done and it was wonderful in my eyes. Still is, in fact.

Please use the comments to share your own lectio reflections if you’d like. It’s always a blessing to experience lectio within community — even online!

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If you’re a glutton for punishment and you want to read more about this, please check out the intro to this presentation of the Gospel from a few weeks ago, or this article.

Now for Sunday’s Gospel. Oh, and happy memorial of St. Thérèse, the Little Flower.

LISTENTOANOTHERPARABLETHEREWASAMANTHEFATHEROFAFAMILYWHOPLANTEDAVINEYARDANDSURROUNDEDITWITHAHEDGEANDDUGAPRESSINITANDBUILTATOWERANDHELOANEDITOUTTOFARMERSANDHESETOUTTOSOJOURNABROADTHENWHENTHETIMEOFTHEFRUITSDREWNEARHESENTHISSERVANTSTOTHEFARMERSSOTHATTHEYMIGHTRECEIVEITSFRUITSANDTHEFARMERSAPPREHENDEDHISSERVANTSTHEYSTRUCKONEANDKILLEDANOTHERANDSTONEDYETANOTHERAGAINHESENTOTHERSERVANTSMORETHANBEFOREANDTHEYTREATEDTHEMSIMILARLYTHENATTHEVERYENDHESENTHISSONTOTHEMSAYINGTHEYWILLREVEREMYSONBUTTHEFARMERSSEEINGTHESONSAIDAMONGTHEMSELVESTHISISTHEHEIRCOMELETUSKILLHIMANDTHENWEWILLHAVEHISINHERITANCEANDAPPREHENDINGHIMTHEYCASTHIMOUTSIDETHEVINEYARDANDTHEYKILLEDHIMTHEREFOREWHENTHELORDOFTHEVINEYARDARRIVESWHATWILLHEDOTOTHOSEFARMERSTHEYSAIDTOHIMHEWILLBRINGTHOSEEVILMENTOANEVILENDANDHEWILLLOANOUTHISVINEYARDTOOTHERFARMERSWHOSHALLREPAYTOHIMTHEFRUITINITSTIMEJESUSSAIDTOTHEMHAVEYOUNEVERREADINTHESCRIPTURESTHESTONETHATTHEBUILDERSHAVEREJECTEDHASBECOMETHECORNERSTONEBYTHELORDHASTHISBEENDONEANDITISWONDERFULINOUREYESTHEREFOREISAYTOYOUTHATTHEKINGDOMOFGODWILLBETAKENAWAYFROMYOUANDITSHALLBEGIVENTOAPEOPLEWHOSHALLPRODUCEITSFRUITS

This text comes from the Catholic Public Domain Version. You can find the official lectionary readings for the 27th Sunday in Ordinary Time here. You could also look up the passage in your own Bible. It is from Matthew 21:33–43.

On Saturday, I’ll offer some of my own reflections on this passage, and hopefully some of you will share your own in the comments section.

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Those who after their first steps in the spiritual life, throw themselves into the struggle of prayer and union with God, are astounded at the dryness of the road.

The more they advance, the more the darkness thickens around them. The more they go on, the more bitter and insipid everything becomes. They derive little comfort from the recollection of times past when God seemed to make their spiritual path easier…

Instead of consolation he sends boredom, and instead of light, darkness. Right there, halfway along our road, we don’t know whether we are going backwards or forwards…

We are beginning to discover what we are worth: nothing, or little. At earlier stages we thought we were generous; we now discover that we are egoists. We thought, under the false light of religious aestheticism, that we knew how to pray; now we find that we no longer know how to say “Father.” We were convinced that we were humble, charitable, obedient; now we find that pride has invaded our whole being, down to the deepest roots. Prayer, human relationships, working to spread the Gospel, all these seem thwarted…

With the exception of those privileged souls who understood right from the beginning what the problem really was, and who immediately set out upon the true, rough road of humility and spiritual childhood, the greater part of humankind is called upon to undergo a hard and painful experience.

This normally occurs around the age of forty.1

I am forty.

And perhaps I’ve never been more uncertain about things. By now, I’ve tried enough of my own projects. I’ve watched a lot of them fail. I’ve made decisions — some right, most wrong. I’ve gotten all strategic, only to get lost in my own abstractions. I’ve gotten tripped up by my idealistic vision of reality, only to slam into the real thing. I’ve overpromised and underdelivered. I’ve failed to count the cost and have bit off too much. Veered out of my lane. Over and over. I realize I’m a broken record in the confessional. I’ve had to deal with being disillusioned with myself as vices I thought I buried surface or sin I thought I stamped out sneaks in. Then there’s the complete surprise when I say something stupid or respond uncharitably in situations and in ways I never imagined. My soul has become aware, as Carretto puts it, “there is no sin which it has not committed, or which it does not feel truly capable of committing.”2 I’m capable of both high highs and low lows.

I have a lovely wife and eight beautiful children, and all the time feel my insufficiency. I sense my shortcomings. They’re right in front of my face everyday. All of it is, as Carretto puts it, “a hard and painful experience.” Our kids range in age from ages sixteen to one, leaving me feeling like I’m doing the mental splits each day. Teenage problems combined with a three-year-old who only knows how to yell makes me maniacal. I’ve been finding myself actually scratching my head in front of situations lately. I always thought that just happened in cartoons, but I guess not. My prayer has become more and more: “Help me to not mess this up;” or “Jesus, please let me be a better dad today than I was yesterday.”

I’m not at all depressed about this. Anything like that you might sense up to this point is simply my melancholic temperament coming through. Really, it’s all quite sobering. And it’s good living in reality, even if it means slamming into hard truths about God, myself, others, and the world around me. To encounter one’s limits and to learn to live well within them, I find peace there.

Hearing God’s Voice

In addition to moral considerations, Carretto raises spiritual ones. Desolation. Dryness. Boredom. Darkness. Confusion.

This whole midlife thing and the spiritual dryness has made me call into question whether or not I know how to hear God’s voice, if I have ever heard it, if what I was so certain was God’s voice in my young adult years really was, and so forth.3

In my youth, not that long ago, I’d feel some sort of inspiration or have an exciting thought, sit with it for about, oh, five seconds, and act on it. Or I’d have an “image” in prayer or receive a “word” in worship, and if it wasn’t immoral or against Church teaching, I believed it must have been of God and move on it. No hesitation. Brief discernment. Just thought and action. Or sometimes, action, then thought. Hmmm.

This is not to say that there’s nothing to the Christian imagination or the gift of prophecy or what have you. I simply mean to say there’s a precariously thin line between discerning God’s will and mine. Anyone who’s spent any time in discernment knows it can be a murky space (and, yes, I am aware of St. Ignatius’s rules, have been practicing them for decades, and have even taught them). Sometimes I discern rightly. Other times wrongly. Sometimes when I follow my will, things work out. Other times they don’t. Sometimes when I follow God’s will, things go according to plan and there’s fruit. Other times, everything seems to fall apart and I’m left wondering if I did something wrong or if apparent failure was his will all along. How can one know?

I’ve found great consolation in Thomas Merton’s prayer that appears in his Thoughts in Solitude:

Over the years, as I’ve gotten more experience in life and in ministry (and, I suppose, as I completed my doctoral studies), as I’ve gotten to know myself better, I’ve become less sure of myself. This has nothing to do with some deeply rooted insecurity, though I do think original sin and actual sin and the problem of death all have something to do with the kinds of existential insecurity we all face if we let ourselves think about it for a few seconds. If anything, over the years, I’ve gotten more comfortable in my own skin and have settled into a deeper awareness of being a mere creature, and one who has been blessed by a sacred adoption and everything that comes with it. By saying I’ve become less sure of myself, I mean I’m less foolhardy. I’ve come to realize the gravity of my words and actions quite a bit more. I can see, at least a little more clearly, the ripple effect of me in this world, for good or for bad — and I’d like to see it become more good than bad. Yes. Maybe less foolhardy and realizing just how sensitive the human soul is and how quickly you can capsize it with rash and unkind words. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about a line from Flannery O’Connor: “I am becoming convinced that anybody who gives anybody else any advice ought to spend forty days in the desert both before and after.”4

I also want to be clear that I’m not becoming a nihilist. In fact, I believe more and more in the inherent meaningfulness of all reality. However, I’ve come to realize that when left to my own devices, I often fail to recognize that meaningfulness or I fail to grasp its depths because I don’t allow myself to be taken into its mystery.

So, I question my own ability to discern. If I’m honest, I think I can be fairly hard of hearing when it comes to God’s voice, and I probably have my hearing aids turned up too high and tuned in too much to my own voice. As I engage in midlife, I’ve found myself reflecting on how I can have any bearings at all as I try to navigate all the gray hues of our lives that just aren’t as black and white as we’d like them to be. Are there any paths out of my own head? Is it possible to hear God, or am I just, always hearing myself?

As I look back, I can see that as I’ve grown older, I’ve been keying in on several elements of the Catholic tradition more and more, and veering away from trying to figure things out so much in my own head and relying, perhaps too much, on my feelings or pious and zealous sentiments. I’d like to mention just a few of these briefly:

1. Jesus. God is logos and the logos took flesh in Jesus Christ (the Logos). Jesus is, therefore, the subject who is the object of Christian faith. He is the key to understanding the meaning of all there is and the way to God. I follow Jesus because he’s been good to me and is the answer to the infinite longing of my heart. I can come into contact with him in and through the concreteness of the Church and her Sacraments.

2. The Ten Commandments (and Church Teaching). I’m not smarter than the Church. I’m just not. This pushes against the prideful and autonomous streak that runs through our culture and right through my own life. I might recoil at the thought of submitting to a master, of being a disciple, being a follower. I might find it repulsive not being lord of my life. But is it not the case that I’ve come to Christ because I need Our Lord to help me live? To make me into a real human? Is it not the case that I’ve come to the Church as Mother and teacher to show me the way? On my own, I surely didn’t find it. Who am I to tell the Church how she ought to be? Who am I to try to get her to bend toward my will and justify what I want? Who am I to tell God what he should do and when he should do it? Who am I to try to fashion God after my own image and likeness, rather than being conformed to his?

3. The Liturgy. And I’m distracted most of the time. But, liturgy is concrete and not revolving around itself in my own mind. It is it’s own thing and it’s outside of me. I bump into it. Or, like a river, I’m invited to jump into it. I don’t move it; it moves me. And this is a good thing.

4. My State in Life. I have a vocation comprised of a real wife and real kids, and they really mediate God’s love for me and I hopefully do the same for them. They also need things from me. In this way, I don’t need a religious vow of obedience to know what I need to do. I just need to listen to my wife and respond when she asks something of me, or get that thirsty kid some water at the dinner table, or pick up the other one from practice, or wipe the butt of the one-year-old — and to do it all charitably. No need to go searching for ascetical practices in my life, or to heap more and more on. I struggle enough to live out my own vocational call generously.

5. Lectio Divina. Ah. Now we’ve finally come to the reason why this lengthy post appears on this Substack. Lectio has become a kind of rock in my personal prayer. It keeps me focused and, like liturgy, it confronts me as an objective other. That it’s objective means it’s outside of me and I “bump” into it, so to speak. In prayer, then, I’m not just playing bumper cars with my own thoughts. I also don’t have to question constantly if something is from God or not. When I read prayerfully with Scripture, that is, when I pray in the mode of lectio divina, I can take it as a given that the words of Scripture are, in fact, God’s words. This gives my prayer more solid footing because I can start from a stable “given.” The given is that Scripture is God’s word spoken in such a way that we can understand it and, because it’s alive, it’s still speaking today. Through God’s written word I can learn how to listen for God’s voice. I can learn how to be present to God who is present to me, somehow, through his word. I’m not alone in this sentiment. Fr. Michael Casey, OCSO points out that “binding prayer to the Scriptures is an effective means of overcoming the obstacle of subjectivism and finding a way out of what had become a blind alley of blank spiritual experience.”5 I take Casey to mean the common experience had by anyone who prays and raises questions like: What am I hearing? Am I hearing anything? Is what I’m hearing from me? God? Someone else? How can I know for sure? However, I also think Casey’s getting at the problem of modern meditation that’s directed inward as a calming way of acquiescing with one’s own self. But, as Terrance Kardong, OSB says, “prayer turns outward to Another, not inward on the self.”6 Tethering prayer to Scripture gives prayer a concrete foundation and the person praying a concrete sounding board. I can know, by faith, I’m encountering God’s word, and through the inspired word, God himself. Scripture is real and really present to me. I bump into it as other, outside of my own thoughts, emotions, concerns, whims, and desires.

Since this post has become rather autobiographical, I’ll add one final note. My pursuit of Benedictine oblation at the Monastery of the Holy Cross in Chicago aligns with my journey so far. It confirms it and will help me move forward down this path that is the Christian life. For me, oblation and being affiliated with a real monastic community is part of the fight to get out of my own head and to get in touch with real things. I need that tether outside of my own subjective experience that can anchor me when I need to be anchored, and guide me when I need to be guided. Leaning into the Rule of St. Benedict and seeking conversion of life according to the monastic way of life as it’s lived out at the Monastery has been tremendously helpful at this juncture. I look forward to what the Lord has in store with all of this. It’s also been interesting to witness how my approach to parish ministry has changed with age and to see parishioners growing by embracing concrete encounters with Christ and each other.

I’ve meandered about enough in this post. To wrap it up, I’d say that on one hand it seems like I’m struggling to hear God speak as I move through the midway point on the journey of life. On the other hand, maybe I’m hearing him as clearly as ever — or clearer. I guess time will tell.

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The parable of the two sons that we will read on Sunday explicates John’s authority and issues an indictment. In other words, Jesus doesn’t let up after Israel’s leaders fail to respond to his question. He’s going at these chief priests and scribes. “What do you think,” Jesus asks. He’s diggin in. Look at how Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis describes the setting of the scene:

“What do you think?” The energy of divine transformation does not cease to pour forth from Jesus. He will not allow his adversaries to settle back into their longed-for comfort. He will continue to hurl at them the fiery darts of his wisdom, edging his way into the innermost recesses of their heart and conscience. Since straight theological dialogue [see Matthew 21:23–27] quickly met a dead-end, Jesus will now try the more roundabout approach of the parable: “What do you think? A man had two sons…”1

That Jesus has the patience to keep engaging with such thick-headed people gives me hope for myself. “What do you think?” Jesus respects their freedom. He asks for a response. He’s trying to get them to think, to change their minds, to metanoeō, to repent. Then he offers the parable. The two sons represent sinners (and Gentiles) who repent at John’s preaching, and the second are Israel’s leaders who refused John’s message. The real issue at hand is, in fact, repentance. The first son originally disobeyed, then repented (lit. changed his mind) and did his father’s will. The second son seemingly obeyed, then did not carry out his father’s will. He paid him lip service and stopped there. Talked-the-talk, but didn’t walk-the-walk. The first eventually did his father’s will, and the second did not.

Jesus then explains the parable, beginning with a massive charge: Despicable sinners, the unrighteous tax collectors, prostitutes, and Gentiles are will go into the Kingdom of God before you, you scribes and chief priests. It’s an indictment. The word for “go” implies leading or pushing ahead. It’s like a race where the underdog, seemingly against all odds, takes advantage over the heavy favorite and everyone watches in stunned silence. Those the scribes and priests considered to be the scum of the earth, the tax collectors and prostitutes, are entering the Kingdom first.

Is Jesus condoning sinfulness? Nope. That would miss the point. Leiva-Merikakis explains:

What Jesus is seeking from everyone he encounters is conversion of heart. He never exalts the underdog merely because of his condition as underdog, nor does he condemn the rich and the powerful merely because they are rich and powerful. Jesus sees in each person both the need and the possibility to change for the better.2

John the Baptist came in the way of righteousness. He came and “showed a way by which men could become righteous,” says The Jerome Biblical Commentary. That way of righteousness was (and still is) the way of repentance. Repentance is the antidote to the poisons of unrighteousness and self-righteousness. The Commentary continues, “They,” meaning the Jewish leaders, “have not admitted that the life of the Law leaves room for the repentance proclaimed by John and by Jesus as a condition of entrance into the reign.” “John came to you in the way of righteousness, and you did not believe him” (Matthew 21:32). John issued his message of righteousness/repentance to “you,” meaning to the scribes and chief priests. They didn’t believe him. But the sinners, the “scum” overheard it and they believed and repented and entered the kingdom of God (cf. Mark 1:15). Despite seeing this, the hard-hearted scribes and priests still didn’t repent.

Prayerful Reading

In my own prayer with the Gospel, I was struck by two lines. The first describes the attitude or conversion of the first son:

MOVEDBYREPENTANCE

The second describes the second son and, hence, Israel’s leaders:

YOUDIDNOTREPENT

There are two ways: repentance and non-repentance. One is a way of life and the other is death. One opens into the Kingdom of God and the other goes to hell, I suppose. Or it creates a kind of hell.

And there are two types of people: the unrighteous who repent and become righteous, and the self-righteous who don’t and remain unrighteous. But what is righteousness, really?

I appreciate Pope Benedict XVI’s explanation of this in Jesus of Nazareth: The Infancy Narratives. There, he comments on Matthew 1:19, that passage that says Joseph did not heap shame upon Mary after finding out she was pregnant. He was going to privately divorce her because he was a “just man.” The word for “just” in Matthew 1:19 is dikaios, which is the root of dikaiosynē, the way of righteousness issued by John the Baptist in Matthew 21:32. This word denotes justice and uprightness. It describes the man who is as he ought to be, righteousness, the condition acceptable to God. Reflecting on this concept, Pope Benedict explains:

Psalm 1 presents the classic image of the “just” man. We might well think of it as a portrait of the spiritual figure of Saint Joseph. A just man, it tells us, is one who maintains living contact with the word of God, who “delights in the law of the Lord” (v. 2). He is like a tree, planted beside the flowing waters, constantly bringing forth fruit. The flowing waters, from which he draws nourishment, naturally refer to the living word of God, into which he sinks the roots of his being. God’s will is not a law imposed on him from without, it is “joy.” For him the law is simply Gospel, good news, because he reads it with a personal, loving openness to God and in this way learns to understand and live it from deep within.3

Actually, the tail end of that quote is a good description of what lectio divina is all about. But, I digress. The one who is righteous maintains contact with the living word of God and delights in the Gospel. For the righteous man, God’s words cause joy and he receives them with a loving openness, a desire to understand, and a longing to be transformed by those words. The righteous man or woman is the one who comes into contact with God’s will and who does it with joy.

The unrighteous person is sinful or wicked. He chooses not to hear and does what he wants. He makes his own law and constantly moves his own goalposts to suit his fancy. The self-righteous person is wicked in his own right. He’s characterized by the persons of the scribes and chief priests in the Gospel passage and convinces himself of his own righteousness in contrast with the morality of others. Self-righteousness is often narrow-minded, pietistic, moralistic, and all these sorts of things. The self-righteous person puts on airs spiritually. He’s holier than thou, or at least he thinks he is. The self-righteous person fashions an imaginary kingdom that demands little or nothing and put himself on the throne, propping himself up by condemning everyone else — their lifestyles, ways of worship, and so forth. In the end, self-righteousness is unrighteousness in its own way, because it is a form of pride. And pride is the root of all sin.

In a fallen world and within a fallen humanity, unrighteousness reigns, regardless of its form. It’s like a given. If all humanity suffers from the effects of original sin and is sinful, then all humanity is unrighteous. Sunday’s Gospel invites us to repent, to turn to the Lord, to ask for help, to beg and plead for forgiveness and mercy. It invites us to pray that God would meet us in our unrighteousness and lead us on the way to righteousness. It’s a matter of becoming righteous. We haven’t arrived yet. So we’re called to a life of continuing conversion by getting on target, which is to say, setting our sights on Christ and allowing him to transform us (see Gaudium et spes, §22).4 The worst thing, as becomes clear in this Sunday’s Gospel, is to not repent and to hear Jesus’ words to the self-righteous: YOUDIDNOTREPENT. The unrighteous and self-righteous alike need to repent. The scum and scoundrels, along with the pharisees, scribes, and elders, they all need to repent. We all need to repent.

In a fallen world, the way of repentance is the way of righteousness. We come to the way of righteousness via the way of repentance. Sunday’s Gospel invites us, whether we’re unrighteous, self-righteous, or whatever, to repent and believe in the Gospel (again).

Please note that I resisted every urge to simply offer Flannery O’Connor’s excellent short story “Revelation” as a commentary (and a lectio reflection in its own right) on this parable. Her exceptional writing paints a vivid picture of this parable in modern terms and displays the insidious dangers of self-righteousness. I encourage you to read it if you haven’t. I do comment on this in an article I once wrote about Purgatory.

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For more on all of this, please read the intro to this presentation of the Gospel from a few weeks ago, or this article.

Next week, I may try to film a short video further explaining continuous script and some of my experience with it. In the meantime, here is Sunday’s Gospel. Enjoy!

BUTHOWDOESITSEEMTOYOUACERTAINMANHADTWOSONSANDAPPROACHINGTHEFIRSTHESAIDSONGOOUTTODAYTOWORKINMYVINEYARDANDRESPONDINGHESAIDIAMNOTWILLINGBUTAFTERWARDSBEINGMOVEDBYREPENTANCEHEWENTANDAPPROACHINGTHEOTHERHESPOKESIMILARLYANDANSWERINGHESAIDIAMGOINGLORDANDHEDIDNOTGOWHICHOFTHETWODIDTHEWILLOFTHEFATHERTHEYSAIDTOHIMTHEFIRSTJESUSSAIDTOTHEMAMENISAYTOYOUTHATTAXCOLLECTORSANDPROSTITUTESSHALLPRECEDEYOUINTOTHEKINGDOMOFGODFORJOHNCAMETOYOUINTHEWAYOFJUSTICEANDYOUDIDNOTBELIEVEHIMBUTTHETAXCOLLECTORSANDTHEPROSTITUTESBELIEVEDHIMYETEVENAFTERSEEINGTHISYOUDIDNOTREPENTSOASTOBELIEVEHIM

This text comes from the Catholic Public Domain Version. You can find the official lectionary readings for the 26th Sunday in Ordinary Time here. You could also look up the passage in your own Bible. It is from Matthew 21:28–32.

On Saturday, I’ll offer some of my own reflections on this passage, and hopefully some of my readers will share their own in the comments section.

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The parable of the workers in the vineyard is unique to Matthew’s Gospel. It follows immediately after the story of the rich young man and the difficulty of the rich entering the kingdom of heaven, like a camel passing through the eye of a needle. There, Peter notes that they’ve given up everything to follow Jesus and Jesus says that when he’s seated on the throne of glory, the apostles will also sit on thrones and will judge the tribes of Israel (Matt 19:28). That scene ends with Jesus saying: “But many who are first will be last, and the last will be first” (Matt 19:30).

Things pick up in chapter 20 at this point. Jesus is going to give a snapshot of what this kingdom looks like and how it is that the first are last and the last are first (see the repetition of this line in Matt 20:16). The parable highlights God’s generosity. It also highlights how hard he works. As Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis points out, nobody works harder in the parable than the master himself, who left his bed well before dawn and is involved in every aspect of the work in his vineyard all day. He is the first and, as such, he is among the last.1

The Ignatius Catholic Study Bible explains the overall meaning of the parable as follows:

It refers to Israel’s labor throughout salvation history and climaxes with the inclusion of the Gentiles in the New Covenant. Despite complaints, there is no violation of justice; God is not unfair to Israel, he is simply generous to late-coming Gentiles, making them equal members of his people.

Gentiles come into the fold late, yet they come in with equal standing. This more corporate outlook helps temper our own individualistic and capitalistic way of reading the parable. We do well to remember, also, that as a priestly people, Israel existed for the sake of the many — for the sake of the Gentiles. In that sense, that the Gentiles come into the fold, and whenever they come in, should be a cause of rejoicing.

Prayerful Reading

My own reading of this got stuck more in the sense that the hours in the workday refer to stages in life and to different times of conversion — some early in life, some at the midpoint, and some much later. Conversion rescues the person from the idleness that comes from idolatry (i.e., the idol makes one idol, usually), and allows the person to participate in God’s harvest before the sun sets on his or her life.2 For the person who has been slogging it out in the trenches of Christian living, this can seem like a tough pill to swallow. Why slog it out? Why try so hard to live as a disciple when perfectly wicked people can scoot in at the last minute and get equal (or better?) treatment?

This line captures this attitude so completely:

THEYMURMUREDAGAINSTTHEFATHEROFTHEFAMILYSAYINGTHESELASTHAVEWORKEDFORONEHOURANDYOUHAVEMADETHEMEQUALTOUSWHOWORKEDBEARINGTHEWEIGHTANDHEATOFTHEDAY

The murmuring (i.e., grumbling) of the workers reminds me of the older brother in the Parable of the Lost Son (see Luke 15:11–32). That son became angry with his father for the festive reception his father gave to his prodigal brother. The older son refuses to party. Here’s the scripture passage:

He became angry, and when he refused to enter the house, his father came out and pleaded with him. He said to his father in reply, “Look, all these years I served you and not once did I disobey your orders; yet you never gave me even a young goat to feast on with my friends. But when your son returns who swallowed up your property with prostitutes, for him you slaughter the fattened calf.” (Luke 15:28–30)

The older brother never left. He (presumably) worked hard and did what his father asked. The younger brother leaves, then swoops back in and gets the fatted calf!

A similar thing happens in the Gospel. Hired workers work all day. They bear the whole burden and heat of the day. They work for ~12 hours, while those who are brought into the work last put in ~1 hour. All get paid the same daily wage. I mean, who wouldn’t be incensed? I’d probably murmur a bit myself. My humanity seems particularly disposed to complaining…and to coveting.

How can we make sense of all this?

My thoughts turn to Psalm 73. Check this out:

Truly God is good to the upright,
to those who are pure in heart.
But as for me, my feet had almost stumbled;
my steps had nearly slipped.
For I was envious of the arrogant;
I saw the prosperity of the wicked.

For they have no pain;
their bodies are sound and sleek.
They are not in trouble as others are;
they are not plagued like other people.
Therefore pride is their necklace;
violence covers them like a garment.
Their eyes swell out with fatness;
their hearts overflow with follies.
They scoff and speak with malice;
loftily they threaten oppression.
They set their mouths against heaven,
and their tongues range over the earth.

The psalmist wants to describe a deep, spiritual crisis. Confronted by the prosperity of the wicked, he almost loses his way. He was trying to live and upright life, trying to remain pure in heart, but he looks around and sees that seemingly wicked people have it made. They live the good life. They’re beautiful. They eat well. They speak nasty and get away with it. They take advantage of people. And so on. They’ve got it made.

Therefore the people turn and praise them,
and find no fault in them.
And they say, “How can God know?
Is there knowledge in the Most High?”
Such are the wicked;
always at ease, they increase in riches.

Everyone likes them! They’re glamorous. People look past their wicked faults. To top it off, these wicked people feel like they’re pulling one over on God, if God exists at all. They’re practical atheists living a hedonistic lifestyle. Sound familiar in our decadent, post-Christian culture?

Then we have the psalmist’s complaint. He grumbles, saying:

All in vain I have kept my heart clean
and washed my hands in innocence.
For all day long I have been plagued,
and am punished every morning.

All day long he’s burdened by the Lord’s commands. Is the life of the follower of God all for naught? All in vain? The wicked seem to scoot by just fine. Sounds a lot like…

THESELASTHAVEWORKEDFORONEHOURANDYOUHAVEMADETHEMEQUALTOUSWHOWORKEDBEARINGTHEWEIGHTANDHEATOFTHEDAY

So we’re dealing, here, with an age-old problem of how God seems to treat his friends badly, to intimate St. Teresa of Avila’s grievance against him. I think anyone who is striving to follow the ways of the Lord, and who is honest with him or herself, has probably grumbled in this way when looking around at the lives of others.

What does the psalmist do?

If I had said, “I will talk on in this way,”
I would have been untrue to the circle of your children.
But when I thought how to understand this,
it seemed to me a wearisome task,
until I went into the sanctuary of God;
then I perceived their end.
Truly you set them in slippery places;
you make them fall to ruin.
How they are destroyed in a moment,
swept away utterly by terrors!
They are like a dream when one awakes;
on awaking you despise their phantoms.

He was stuck, thinking himself in circles. He was angry with God and about ready to abandon the way of faithfulness. Precisely at this point of despair he turns to God in prayer. Actually, he physically goes into the sanctuary. Physically putting ourselves before God can help break through all the barriers posed by our thoughts. There, in the sanctuary, God helps him to penetrate things deeper and knocks down mental hurdles. It may seem like the wicked have it made, but, in reality, they’re on a slippery slope. They’re on the broad and wide and easy highway to hell that C.S. Lewis describes in The Screwtape Letters. In fact, it’s a way so easy and so wide you don’t even realize you’re on it. This may be helpful, but it doesn’t address the existential crisis: What’s the point of laboring so hard for the Lord?

I appreciate how the psalmist addresses the issue without collapsing all the internal tension here. He doesn’t simply resolve it away with sentiment or piety. Look at this:

When my soul was embittered,
when I was pricked in heart,
I was stupid and ignorant;
I was like a brute beast toward you.
Nevertheless I am continually with you;
you hold my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
and afterward you will receive me with honor.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
And there is nothing on earth that I desire other than you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Indeed, those who are far from you will perish;
you put an end to those who are false to you.
But for me it is good to be near God;
I have made the Lord God my refuge,
to tell of all your works.

This is the kicker. Maybe the psalmist is dumb. Maybe he doesn’t understand the ways of the world. Maybe he doesn’t know how to get ahead in life. Maybe he’s thickheaded. Nevertheless, he’s continually with God. God is so close he holds the psalmist’s right hand. Jesus once asked his apostles if they were going to leave, too. Simon Peter replies, “Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life” (John 6:67–68). The psalmist says something similar: “Whom have I in heaven but you?” Where else is he going to go, really? Even if he’s weak in his flesh and stumbles and falls, even if the affection of his heart falters, God is there and God is his strength.

So the psalmist accepts his place as God’s beast of burden. In the eyes of the world, he might be nothing but a donkey, God’s fool, but at least he is near God. And if being close to God means shouldering God’s load, he’s okay with that. These are his circumstances, and he’s accepting them. This is where he is and it’s where God is. No sense looking around at the apparently favorable circumstances of others. Regarding others, isn’t God free to do what he pleases? I think of Jesus’ rebuke of Peter when Peter was so concerned about Jesus’ plan for the Beloved Disciple’s future: “What concern is it of yours? You follow me” (John 21:22).

Perhaps he says to you and to me: “You follow me, right here and now. Don’t worry about the others. They are my business. These are the circumstances I’m giving you. This is my will for you, my call for you. Will you answer it? Will you be faithful?”

So the tension remains: The people who have it made keep having it made, and psalmist’s workload doesn’t get any lighter. But he comes to realize that bearing the load means being close to God and sharing in God’s work. He’s okay with the load because that’s his lot in life and how God sticks with him. He accepts his circumstances as a gift. He receives the gift of his own story as his own. He’s not going to get caught in the comparison game anymore. Does the prodigal son’s older brother come to realize he was there with his father always? Do the laborers in the vineyard realize they are blessed to be able to work for the master and, therefore, to be close to the master for the whole day and not just for an hour? More importantly, do we realize it?

Please use the comments to share your own lectio reflections if you’d like. It’s always a blessing to experience lectio within community — even online!

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As I’ve already noted, it’s impossible to simulate the original experience of early monastic lectio and continuous script, but we can try. Sound out the passage below (Sunday’s Gospel) and continue mumbling the words in a repetitive manner. Go slow. As something stands out, take time with it, savor it, continue repeating it and allow it to speak to you. Meditate and pray. Then, mumble on.

To prime the pump for this exercise, I again want to highlight a beautiful description of lectio from Fr. Francis Martin:

Sit down with the Bible, in reverence, quiet before God, and begin to read. After a while, if something strikes you, reflect on it. Simply and naturally begin to speak to God, allowing what you have read to console you or free you from some attachment; or perhaps have a few moments of quiet praise. It may be that God’s presence will be so perceptibly though intangibly obvious that you simply rest in unreflective silence. This awareness may not last very long before there is distraction; so resume reading again in simplicity and peace. This is a simple, organic activity, a way of prayer—not a production-oriented function, but a way of lifting all of you as a human being, mind, imagination, emotions, spirit, quietly to God.1

Now for Sunday’s Gospel. Have fun!

THEKINGDOMOFHEAVENISLIKETHEFATHEROFAFAMILYWHOWENTOUTINEARLYMORNINGTOLEADWORKERSINTOHISVINEYARDTHENHAVINGMADEANAGREEMENTWITHTHEWORKERSFORONEDENARIUSPERDAYHESENTTHEMINTOHISVINEYARDANDGOINGOUTABOUTTHETHIRDHOURHESAWOTHERSSTANDINGIDLEINTHEMARKETPLACEANDHESAIDTOTHEMYOUMAYGOINTOMYVINEYARDTOOANDWHATIWILLGIVEYOUWILLBEJUSTSOTHEYWENTFORTHBUTAGAINHEWENTOUTABOUTTHESIXTHANDABOUTTHENINTHHOURANDHEACTEDSIMILARLYYETTRULYABOUTTHEELEVENTHHOURHEWENTOUTANDFOUNDOTHERSSTANDINGANDHESAIDTOTHEMWHYHAVEYOUSTOODHEREIDLEALLDAYTHEYSAYTOHIMBECAUSENOONEHASHIREDUSHESAIDTOTHEMYOUALSOMAYGOINTOMYVINEYARDANDWHENEVENINGHADARRIVEDTHELORDOFTHEVINEYARDSAIDTOHISMANAGERCALLTHEWORKERSANDPAYTHEMTHEIRWAGESBEGINNINGFROMTHELASTEVENTOTHEFIRSTANDSOWHENTHOSEWHOHADARRIVEDABOUTTHEELEVENTHHOURCAMEFORWARDEACHRECEIVEDASINGLEDENARIUSTHENWHENTHEFIRSTONESALSOCAMEFORWARDTHEYCONSIDEREDTHATTHEYWOULDRECEIVEMOREBUTTHEYTOORECEIVEDONEDENARIUSANDUPONRECEIVINGITTHEYMURMUREDAGAINSTTHEFATHEROFTHEFAMILYSAYINGTHESELASTHAVEWORKEDFORONEHOURANDYOUHAVEMADETHEMEQUALTOUSWHOWORKEDBEARINGTHEWEIGHTANDHEATOFTHEDAYBUTRESPONDINGTOONEOFTHEMHESAIDFRIENDICAUSEDYOUNOINJURYDIDYOUNOTAGREEWITHMETOONEDENARIUSTAKEWHATISYOURSANDGOBUTITISMYWILLTOGIVETOTHISLASTJUSTASTOYOUANDISITNOTLAWFULFORMETODOWHATIWILLORISYOUREYEWICKEDBECAUSEIAMGOODSOTHENTHELASTSHALLBEFIRSTANDTHEFIRSTSHALLBELAST

This text comes from the Catholic Public Domain Version. You can find the official lectionary readings for the 25th Sunday in Ordinary Time here. You could also look up the passage in your own Bible. It is from Matthew 20:1–16a.

On Saturday, I’ll offer some of my own reflections on this passage, and hopefully others will share their own in the comments section.

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Not Smart Enough

Fundamentally, lectio divina is a spiritual practice. It’s not a scholarly one, though it can certainly aid one’s scholarship. Spirituality has more to do with knowing God, than knowing things about God.

Now, this is not to say lectio’s not theological. Insofar as the fundamental content is God’s word — which is to say, God — lectio is theological. However, it’s not theological not in the sense that we would understand theology today, as in the scientific or systematic study of God. Instead, it is theological because the words of Scripture are God’s words and they put us in touch with God’s Word, the Logos (Theo-Logos).

This is a long preamble. The basic point is that lectio divina describes a spirituality of coming into contact with the mystery of God through the Sacred Pages of Scripture. It’s not an exercise in erudition, but of prayer. It’s not about “getting the answer right,” but “hearing God’s word rightly.” This means disposing ourselves to be moved, provoked, and changed by it. Disposing ourselves to hear it and to respond to it.

While we are trying to hear God’s word personally — spoken into the now of our lives — we do need to work to make sure we’re understanding the literal sense of the passage we’re reading in light of the Church and her way of reading Scripture (CCC §112–114). Lectio is not an exercise in subjectivism. The text communicates and it’s our job to pick up on what it’s saying in and of itself. As long as we’re seeking that kind of understanding and listening for God’s voice, we’re not going to veer off course too far. Fr. Michael Casey puts it this way:

We simply affirm that for one who is seeking God in a spirit of openness to the future, and with an ample supply of both common sense and integrity, occasions of going badly astray are relatively few. We are not infallible and sometimes we misread persons, situations, and texts; no great harm is done if we have an ordinary level of prudence and humility.1

We’re not engaged in highfalutin exegesis when we’re reading prayerfully. Instead, we’re relating the text to our lives, and our lives to the text. And when we pray lectio in a group setting, we’re not trying to one-up each other with elaborate questions or sophisticated answers. We’re not pontificating. We’re simply trying to listen to what God has to say and to articulate the impact of his voice in our lives.

Again, one doesn’t have to be a scripture scholar to pray lectio, and praying lectio doesn’t make you a scripture scholar. But, it can help you grow in holiness because somehow God becomes present to us through the inspired words of Scripture, and anytime we come into contact with God, we are changed.

Thinking You’re Not Praying Lectio Because You’re Not Following the Method

Sometimes people feel like they aren’t praying lectio because they aren’t following the “lectio method.” They aren’t following the rungs of the “lectio ladder” in order: lectio (reading), meditatio (meditation), oratio (prayer), and contemplatio (contemplation). While they may not be “following the script,” they are reading Scripture and reflecting upon it. Usually daily. They might even be continually reflecting on what they read during the day. This sounds a lot like lectio to me.

We must remember that before lectio was given a method by Guigo II in the twelfth century, it was rather methodless. We can’t forget this. It’s impossible to know the true origins of lectio, but it’s safe to say it was well over 600 years old by the guide Guigo’s Ladder of Monks came along. At the bottom if it, lectio divina is not a formula, a method, or a mechanism. It’s a prayerful reading of holy texts (usually Scripture). It involves ruminating on those texts and trying to get the words in you so that you know them by heart and they change you. Of course this begins with reading (lectio) the word. God gets the first word, so we encounter the text. But what happens from there may take on a life of its own. Those elements of meditatio, oratio, and contemplatio likely get all jumbled up and mixed together. The free-flowing movement of lectio takes over, until you return to the word of God and allow it to move you again.

I find Guigo’s ladder method incredibly helpful for beginners and groups. I use it when teaching individuals and groups all the time. I also find it helpful in my own lectio divina when I’m distracted and need a roadmap out of my own head. That said, I rarely use it in my own ruminations. The original monastic lectio had no concrete method even if there were common elements. This can be true for us as well.

Not Magic

Lectio divina has to do with hearing God’s word personally. But, sometimes, I think how we teach lectio can be problematic, because it can sound like its magic. We talk about listening for a word or a phrase that seems to “stand out” to us, or “jump off the page” at us. Lectio isn’t some weird practice like a Christian ouija board, nor are we trying to conjure anything up. You don’t need a philosopher’s stone to get some golden nuggets out of the pages of Scripture. We shouldn’t put pressure on the text like that, or on ourselves.

Here’s the deal: All the words of Scripture are already God’s words. They’re all God-breathed (see 2 Tim 3:16). Any one of them, or any combination of them, at any time, are capable of speaking to us and reaching us at a deep level. Sure, a passage may seem dry at one point in time and come alive at another. Life has seasons and seasons have ebbs and flows. What didn’t strike me then might strike me now. But we’re not trying to “make something happen.” We’re simply reading, repeating, listening, ruminating, praying, and trying to allow the word more and more room deep in our hearts.

Sometimes, when I pray lectio, nothing in particular stands out. Sometimes what stands out makes no sense to me. Sometimes I’m left with more questions than answers (actually, that’s true most of the time). I think it’s important to chill out and not put so much pressure on lectio, like getting too fixated on finding that word or those words jumping out at me.

Again, all the words on the page are already God’s words. I’m just trying to hear what he has to say to me with and through them, that I may understand him, myself, and my life in the light of his Word. In light of this, there are times when I’ve seemingly stalled out such that I’ll just pick a line seemingly at random and try to reflect deeply on that. Of course, any piece of insight, inspiration, or interpretation I receive during lectio cannot be guaranteed to have come from God and must be subject to discernment.

I do think the four-step method from Guigo can play into this pitfall. We can get too fixated on finding that word or those words between the steps of lectio and meditatio. Then we can panic if we’ve got nothing and either feel like we’ve got to force it, like our hearing aids are broken, or like God has abandoned us. This is why the original, methodless approach can be liberating. It’s less about that word or those words. Sure, I might get stuck on several words. I might pour over them. I might repeat a whole line over and over, as if I’m driving it deeper and deeper into my being. I might read a passage fifteen or twenty times. It’s more about what the text as a whole seems to be saying, because the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

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I’ll share my personal reflection momentarily. With lectio, however, it’s important to begin with the literal sense. What’s the text saying in itself? Sunday’s Gospel comes to us from Matthew 18:21–35. It opens with Peter’s question regarding how many times he needs to forgive someone for an offense. Peter asks if seven times suffices. According to The Jerome Biblical Commentary, the number seven refers to a definite number, but not necessarily a specified number. Jesus responds by multiplying seven (whether it is seventy-seven or seventy times seven depends on the translation), thus making the number indefinite. “No definite number makes forgiveness perfect.” We’re talking quality not quantity. All of this has the effect of denoting a limitless mercy — infinitely perfect forgiveness — and it reverses the limitless vengeance of Gen 4:24 (“If Cain is avenged seven times, then Lamech seventy-seven times”). Jesus gives a new law and vengeance has no place in it. Additionally, mere lip-service won’t cut it when it comes to forgiveness. No. You have to forgive your brother from the bottom of your heart. Our hearts are bottomless, limitless longing for the infinite (think: “restless till they rest in God,” or that image of our hearts having a God-sized hole in them that only God can fill). Bottomless hearts must offer bottomless, limitless forgiveness.

Next, Jesus illustrates his teaching with the parable of the unmerciful servant. When it comes to the two debts described in the parable, one must note the order of magnitude. The wicked servant owed the king 10,000 talents, which is equivalent to 6,000 denarii (20 years wages). This would have been completely impossible to repay. The servant of the unmerciful servant owed the wicked man 100 denarii, or about 100 days’ wages. Repayment would have taken time and required patience, but it was well within the realm of possibility. A debt far exceeding one’s ability to repay it on one hand, and a doable debt on the other.

The king, who has clearly been patient with his servant already, doesn’t only have patience (which would have allowed for a just repayment) but mercy: He forgives the entire, unpayable debt. The wicked servant, taking full advantage of his new financial freedom, goes right to the jugular in his unrelenting hunt to “get ahead” and become “bulletproof.” His merciless treatment of his own servant provoked the ire of his peers, who reported the whole affair to the king. The rest is history.

The point of the parable should be fairly clear: one who is forgiven a great (i.e., eternal) debt should forgive the much smaller debts of others. One whose sins have been forgiven by God must forgive the sins of others.1

Prayerful Reading

Next, I’d like to share some of my own reflection on this Gospel. First, I got hung up on this line:

HESEIZEDHIMANDSTARTEDTOCHOKEHIM

“Choke him.” It’s so gruesome. So violent. Reading the passage slowly highlights the brutality, especially in light of the wicked servant’s just having been forgiven. It’s fairly shocking. Well, it shocked me. I guess I’d never really thought about or imagined what the scene would have looked like.

I’ve been reflecting on that verb “to choke” in light of unforgiveness. It is an apt word, I think. To be unforgiving is to be grudge-holding and resentful, all of which collectively acts as a stranglehold on a relationship—suffocating it. Sometimes grudge-holding manifests itself in blatant wrath (like we see in the physical image of choking someone), but more often than not the “choking” looks a lot like avoidance, silent treatment, passive aggression, envy, backbiting, backstabbing, and all the other insidious things we’re capable of doing.

There’s one way to stop choking another: let go. Just let go. Surrender. Relinquish. Release. Forgive. To forgive is to let go, to release a person (and their reputation in your mind) from your sentence, to relinquish your inability to see the person for anything other than their fault.

Unforgiveness = choking the relationship (or the ability to be in relationship)

Forgiveness = letting go, allowing the relationship to breathe again

Forgiveness is basically my free decision — it cannot be forced — to relinquish the desire for vengeance. It’s a decision to see the other person as a person again. Instead of seeing the other as a non-person, the cause of my hurt, the sum of their sins, and so on, I make an act of the will, a choice, to see the other first and foremost as another human person. I give the person back him or herself, completely. That’s what the word means etymologically: to completely give. Forgiving the other does not mean excusing or implicitly condoning the wrongful action as “okay.” Forgiving the other does not mean that the pain caused by the offense vanishes, nor does it mean one should stuff away feelings or suppress memories. It doesn’t even mean reconciliation is even possible or necessary. Forgiveness justly acknowledges the truth by acknowledging the wrong as wrong. But it does not stop there. Forgiveness is an act of mercy springing from the depths of one’s heart, the depths that have first been touched by God’s merciful initiative. Forgiveness means completely giving the other his or her personhood again. It’s giving life not taking it.

In my lectio, I also got stuck on the last few lines of the Gospel reading:

INANGERHISMASTERHANDEDHIMOVERTOTHETORTURERSUNTILHESHOULDPAYBACKTHEWHOLEDEBTSOWILLMYHEAVENLYFATHERDOTOYOUUNLESSEACHOFYOUFORGIVESYOURBROTHERFROMYOURHEART

The wicked servant owed an unpayable amount. Consequently, he’ll be paying for his sin forever. Then, in the last line, Jesus snaps out of the parable and directs the whole thing to us. To me. To you. “Unless each of you forgives your brother from your heart.” Unless you do this, you will be handed over to the torturers forever. It’s rather formidable.

The whole parable acts as a kind of commentary for that other formidable line, the one appearing in the Our Father: “forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors” (Matthew 6:12). In fact, it helps to round out the line from the Our Father and ensures that we see God as the first mover. The king forgives first. God forgives first. Therefore, we are to forgive. But the twofold reality, here, is tightly wound: You are to forgive because you’ve been forgiven by God, but he will only forgive you to the degree in which you forgive others.

In light of this, I think we could tweak Dorothy Day’s line that “I really only love God as much as I love the person I love the least,” to “I am really only forgiven by God as much as I forgive the person I resent the most.” And this makes me feel very uncomfortable. How about you?

Please use the comments to share your own lectio reflections if you’d like. It’s always a blessing to experience lectio within community.

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I handed this to parishioners and, as you would expect, they looked at me like I was insane. Whether or not I’m insane is debatable, but what happened was not. We fought our way through the text, each on our own. We sounded out words and got stuck in spots. Most importantly, we slowed down and we incarnated the text with our own voices. This had the cumulative effect of bringing the text to life in new ways. Words and phrases stood out. Not just one word or phrase, but often multiple. Threads of meaning. Insights. Memories. Connections to other passages. Hearing God’s voice through his word.

The first monks encountered Greek and Latin texts in a manuscript tradition known as scriptio continua (continuous script). I’ve already written one article introducing this way of writing and reading. I know it seems crazy to rid ourselves of everything we use to help us read silently, conventions that date back to the 8th or 9th century, but it makes a difference in how we pray.

For those willing to take up the challenge, I will offer the upcoming Sunday’s Gospel in continuous script. Please note that I will not be using the NABRE for this text due to copyright limitations. Instead, I will be using the Catholic Public Domain Version of the Gospel text. This is a contemporary translation by Ronald L. Conte Jr. Below the continuous script of the Gospel, I will link to the USCCB readings for Sunday should you wish to read the lectionary version of the text or have an easier time of it!

Instructions

Of course it’s impossible to simulate the original experience of early monastic lectio and continuous script, but we can try. Sound out the passage and continue mumbling the words in a repetitive manner. Go slow. As something stands out, take time with it, savor it, continue repeating it and allow it to speak to you. Meditate and pray. Then, mumble on.

To prime the pump for this exercise, I want to highlight a beautiful description of lectio from Fr. Francis Martin:

Sit down with the Bible, in reverence, quiet before God, and begin to read. After a while, if something strikes you, reflect on it. Simply and naturally begin to speak to God, allowing what you have read to console you or free you from some attachment; or perhaps have a few moments of quiet praise. It may be that God’s presence will be so perceptibly though intangibly obvious that you simply rest in unreflective silence. This awareness may not last very long before there is distraction; so resume reading again in simplicity and peace. This is a simple, organic activity, a way of prayer—not a production-oriented function, but a way of lifting all of you as a human being, mind, imagination, emotions, spirit, quietly to God.1

PETERAPPROACHEDJESUSANDASKEDHIMLORDIFMYBROTHERSINSAGAINSTMEHOWOFTENMUSTIFORGIVEASMANYASSEVENTIMESJESUSANSWEREDISAYTOYOUNOTSEVENTIMESBUTSEVENTYSEVENTIMESTHATISWHYTHEKINGDOMOFHEAVENMAYBELIKENEDTOAKINGWHODECIDEDTOSETTLEACCOUNTSWITHHISSERVANTSWHENHEBEGANTHEACCOUNTINGADEBTORWASBROUGHTBEFOREHIMWHOOWEDHIMAHUGEAMOUNTSINCEHEHADNOWAYOFPAYINGITBACKHISMASTERORDEREDHIMTOBESOLDALONGWITHHISWIFEHISCHILDRENANDALLHISPROPERTYINPAYMENTOFTHEDEBTATTHATTHESERVANTFELLDOWNDIDHIMHOMAGEANDSAIDBEPATIENTWITHMEANDIWILLPAYYOUBACKINFULLMOVEDWITHCOMPASSIONTHEMASTEROFTHATSERVANTLETHIMGOANDFORGAVEHIMTHELOANWHENTHATSERVANTHADLEFTHEFOUNDONEOFHISFELLOWSERVANTSWHOOWEDHIMAMUCHSMALLERAMOUNTHESEIZEDHIMANDSTARTEDTOCHOKEHIMDEMANDINGPAYBACKWHATYOUOWEFALLINGTOHISKNEESHISFELLOWSERVANTBEGGEDHIMBEPATIENTWITHMEANDIWILLPAYYOUBACKBUTHEREFUSEDINSTEADHEHADTHEFELLOWSERVANTPUTINPRISONUNTILHEPAIDBACKTHEDEBTNOWWHENHISFELLOWSERVANTSSAWWHATHADHAPPENEDTHEYWEREDEEPLYDISTURBEDANDWENTTOTHEIRMASTERANDREPORTEDTHEWHOLEAFFAIRHISMASTERSUMMONEDHIMANDSAIDTOHIMYOUWICKEDSERVANTIFORGAVEYOUYOURENTIREDEBTBECAUSEYOUBEGGEDMETOSHOULDYOUNOTHAVEHADPITYONYOURFELLOWSERVANTASIHADPITYONYOUTHENINANGERHISMASTERHANDEDHIMOVERTOTHETORTURERSUNTILHESHOULDPAYBACKTHEWHOLEDEBTSOWILLMYHEAVENLYFATHERDOTOYOUUNLESSEACHOFYOUFORGIVESYOURBROTHERFROMYOURHEART

You can find the lectionary readings for the 24th Sunday in Ordinary Time here. You could also look up the passage in your own Bible. It is from Matthew 18:21–35.

On Saturday, I’ll offer some of my own reflections on this passage, and hopefully others will share their own in the comments section.

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The ancient Coptic icon clearly depicts an invitation to friendship with Christ, which, we can say, is the goal of the Christian life. Such friendship is also the goal of lectio. In its own way, then, the icon of “Christ and Abbot Mena” (AKA “Christ and his friend”), invites reflection on the mystery of lectio divina.

Jesus stands to the right. He has a cruciform halo and stands taller is taller than the other figure. He is greater because he is Lord. Inscribed to the right of Jesus’ head is the word “Savior” in Greek, which identifies a critical part of his relationship to us. Jesus has one eye on his friend and the other one on the viewer. He sees his friend and he sees me. He sees you. The hidden one we’ve been seeking sought us in our own hiding (see John 1:35–42 and Gen 3:9). By hiding his divinity in flesh, he found us there and still does.1 Jesus holds a jewel-studded Bible, showing us that he is the One we encounter in the words of Scripture. He is the key to unlocking the meaning of Scripture, and Scripture is key for hearing the voice of the Lord.

Then, we have the figure of the good, saintly abbot. Surely, he’s struggling through all the things any abbot—or priest, or abbess, or father of a family, or mother of a family, or brother, or sister—struggles through. Abbot Mena’s head is haloed, and his inscription reads “Father Mena, guardian.” He’s the guardian or superior of his monastery. Mena’s trying to be a good shepherd, and here is Christ, the Good Shepherd shepherding him. Jesus is guiding him into Scripture and guiding him in life. Mena holds a scroll, possibly the rule of his monastic community, and he, too, has one eye on Christ and one eye looking out. He can only bear credible witness to Christ “out there” to the extent in which he is abiding with Christ, in intimate relationship with him (cf. Mark 3:13–15).2 Finally, we note Abbot Mena raising his hand in blessing (see CCC, §2626). He is blessing Christ in return, but in return for what?

An embrace.

The whole scene is wrapped in an embrace. Jesus, draws close to the abbot, puts his arm around him. It’s an image of protection. He places the abbot under the wing of his protection. “Under his wings you may take refuge” (Ps 91:4). This is also a gesture of intimacy, vulnerability, and friendship. He is also pulling the abbot closer to his heart, collapsing the distance between them. The icon invites us to consider how he does this for us, too. “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matt 11:28), for “I no longer call you slaves . . . I have called you friends” (John 15:15). In collapsing the distance and drawing the abbot closer to his heart, he draws him deeper into his mystery contained in the Gospels. At the same time, the words of Scripture lead us to the heart of Christ. We come to the heart of the Lord via Scripture. Encountering God’s heart in Scripture and abiding in the Word, this is lectio divina. Lectio collapses the distance between God’s heart and mine. It is an intimate encounter—heart-to-heart.

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Surprising things happen. Maybe Lectio & Life can generate a small community of people interested in seeking the Lord through lectio and we can help each other along the way.

The Writing (and Reading) Plan

Sunday, the Lord’s Day, is the beginning and end of the week. As such, it’s the center of the week and it will stand at the heart of my efforts, here. The Catechism explains the place and importance of Sunday as follows:

The day of Christ’s Resurrection is both the first day of the week, the memorial of the first day of creation, and the “eighth day,” on which Christ after his “rest” on the great sabbath inaugurates the “day that the Lord has made,” the “day that knows no evening.” The Lord’s Supper is its center, for there the whole community of the faithful encounters the risen Lord who invites them to his banquet (§1166).

To aid my readers in preparing for the Lord’s Day, I will post the Sunday Gospel reading on Thursday of each week. Of course anyone can look ahead at this reading in their lectionary, devotional magazine, online, or on their preferred prayer app. However, I will be posting the Gospel in a unique format that mimics how the monks would have encountered a text when lectio divina first emerged as a practice. You can read more about the reading format in this article.

On Saturdays, I will publish my own reflections on the Gospel after praying with it for several days. I believe Saturday into Sunday presents the greatest opportunity for an experience of community, as I welcome readers to share their own reflections and we can share in something like what St. Gregory the Great described about communal lectio: “For I know that in the presence of my brothers and sisters I have very often understood many things in the sacred text that I could not understand alone.”

Then, on the other side of the Lord’s Day, I will frequently post theoretical or practical articles on the topic of lectio divina. I’ll aim for Mondays or Tuesdays for these. They could cover a range of topics, from helpful tips to interesting nuggets drawn from the long history of lectio. These articles may be short pieces offering help, or longer essays with a bit more of a scholarly edge.

Audience

In terms of readership, I have in mind the person I would call the “spiritually serious.” By spiritually serious, I mean someone who is striving in the spiritual life, regardless of whether that person is a beginner or an experienced traveler. Consequently, I aim for writing that is thorough yet accessible, helpful yet deep.

A Part of a Whole

Lectio & Life exists as a critical piece of what’s become a larger project. For years, lectio divina has served a foundational element of my own spirituality and my approach to ministry, though this has coalesced in interesting new developments recently. Personally, I am pursuing Benedictine oblation, and lectio forms a pillar of oblate life because it’s a pillar of monastic life. In my work at Stella Maris, I’ve developed two distinct mini-courses on lectio. I also run a weekly Bible study called (not surprisingly) Lectio and Life. In 2027, Cascade will be publishing my latest book: From Lectio to Life: A Guidebook for Listening to God in a Noisy World. You can see the convergence of forces, here. The book will certainly function as the flagship of the thing, but a book is time bound. Plus, a book is simply a launchpad for deeper inquiry and a range of experiences. Hence the reason for this Substack. It will allow me to continue developing thought around this topic and make relevant conversations about lectio even more accessible.

Immersive Experience

I hope Lectio & Life can offer all of us a kind of immersive experience into the world of lectio divina. It really is another world. It’s a world where words matter, things have deep meaning, and the events and circumstances of our lives are perceived as manifestations of God’s providence. And all with thematic threads running through them, threads that help us understand God and ourselves. In some small way, this Substack may help us enter this world.

After years of prayerful reading, I can say with confidence that lectio does change your life, and it does so gradually and gently. It probably won’t be immediately noticeable, but it will change. Stick with it and you’ll become more perceptive to God’s voice and more open to his way. So, if you don’t want your life to change, don’t pray lectio — because it will transform you. Conversely, if want your life to change, pray lectio and watch out.

Well, in a secondhand way, we can say Jesus would have been encountered through the lives and stories and proclamation and martyrdoms of people who actually walked and talked with Jesus, who followed him. They certainly would have encountered him in the liturgy and those nascent forms of the Sacraments that were taking shape. They also would have come to encounter him in the earliest inspired writings of Apostles and apostolic men that became known as the New Testament. These would have been read, publicly, often in liturgical settings, and would eventually become more widely accessible in the manuscript tradition that copied and transmitted the text.

These books — divinely inspired and eventually canonized — they were a kind of certified and guaranteed way of encountering the living, breathing Word of God — Jesus Christ — even as the apostles and their disciples died.

In time, say 200-300 years after that first apostolic generation, a new practice, a new way of reading Scripture and encountering Christ emerged alongside the liturgy and in service of it. That way became known as lectio divina. Lectio divina (lit. “sacred” or “divine” or “holy reading”) is a kind of prayed reading of Scripture. It’s knowing Scripture by heart — not as in rote memorization, but as in the Scriptures becoming part of you, getting into you. Like nutrients to body or oxygen to blood, the word of God was to be assimilated and change the way you thought, spoke, and acted.

Lectio divina was a kind of incarnational encounter with the incarnate God — facilitated by the sacred pages of Scripture and one’s own voice.

Here’s what I mean: In the early manuscript cultures (which still largely relied on oral story-telling to carry the culture forward and not the written word), books were super expensive to produce. They were also big and clumsy. To save space and make things more economical and efficient, scribes used a written form of Latin, in this case, known as scriptio continua — there were no margins and no spaces between words, there were neither punctuation marks nor page headings. There weren’t chapters and verses and all the other things that help a reader read today. It would have looked something like this:

COMETOMEALLYOUTHATLABORANDAREBURDENEDANDIWILLREFRESHYOUTAKEUPMYYOKEUPONYOUANDLEARNOFMEBECAUSEIAMMEEKANDHUMBLEOFHEARTANDYOUSHALLFINDRESTTOYOURSOULSFORMYYOKEISSWEETANDMYBURDENLIGHT

So, reading was a chore. It was difficult. It was time consuming. One had to decipher and literally sound out the words. So reading was a kind of whole body experience — involving a heavy book, the use of the eyes, the mouth, and the ears. You literally incarnated the word while reading, and this was necessary to “get it,” and “get it in you.”

Nowadays, when we read the Gospels (or anything else for that matter), we take a lot for granted and we tend to read quickly. We read silently. It’s an individualized, privatized affair. It pretty much involves our eyes and our minds. But, what would happen if we try to incarnate reading once again? What would happen if we would become like the “mumbling monks” whose prayed reading of scripture became known as lectio divina? What would happen if we gave God the first word and if the word of God would become part of us? What would happen if we encountered Jesus in Scripture and lived from that encounter?

I actually have tried the continuous script approach with various groups in my parish ministry, and with surprising results. People got into trying to sound out the text and different words and phrases stood out. I think everyone’s been surprised by how helpful it is to basically be forced to take the text slowly. It seems to open new space to hear the voice of the Lord resounding through the sacred words.

Each week on Thursday, I will publish the upcoming Sunday’s Gospel in continuous script. This will land right in the inboxes of my subscribers. Honestly, it’s a fun challenge to try to decipher the reading. I hope this helps people (myself included) to slow down with the text and to let it speak to us in new and different ways. Then, on Saturdays, I’ll post my own reflections after having prayed with it for a few days, and invite you to share your own if you’d like. (You can read all about the plan for this Substack here.)

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I read those words slowly. What profit would there be . . . what profit . . . to gain the whole world . . . gain the world . . . and forfeit his life . . . lose his life . . . lose himself . . . lose everything. As I mouthed the words again and again, suddenly the pool of words itself started changing. There, in my mind’s eye, it was as if the letters were scrambled like a Scrabble board at the outset of a game and then they were put back into place and I read: what would it profit a man to gain all the souls of whole world and lose those of his family?

The words cut the hard crust of my heart and left me pierced and wounded, like the blade of a scalpel at the outset of a surgery. I reread the new black words on the white page: what would it profit a man . . . what profit . . . to gain all the souls of the whole world . . . all the souls . . . and lose his family. It was as if the book read my life. The words of Scripture read me. And they revealed something about me I hadn’t realized before.

At that time, I had been doing ministry in the Catholic Church for years. I attacked my ministry like a madman. My ministry. That was the problem, thinking it was mine. Launching initiative after initiative, I was profiting my ego under the guise of profiting souls—so many souls, all the souls of the whole world. I was trying to gain the “whole world,” which, in my case, that meant the whole Archdiocese of Cincinnati or trying to scale some initiative so it could go national. All my best time and energy went to this pursuit, and I could feel the life of my family slipping through my fingers like cupped water in the hands. Cupping water in the hands is an exercise in futility.

I sat there looking at the words on the page, reading them and rereading them. But really, they had read me and now told me something about myself that left me wounded. The words made me feel simultaneously consoled and uncomfortable. The Gospel does this to us. It’s uncomfortably consoling. It is this way because it expresses the truth. The truth wounds us with its beauty, its radiant presentation of the way things are amid the gray, murky water of the most of our lives. It presents things the way they are, but it never leaves us there. It invites change. It provokes a response.

God’s words read me that morning even as I prayerfully read them. This is lectio divina. It’s the only kind of reading that reads you, that exposes you, because God’s word is living and effective and sharper than a two-edged sword (cf. Heb 4:12–13), and lectio gets that living word inside of you. It’s not magic. There are no mental gymnastics. It’s simply God’s word read in a context open to impact. God is present, somehow, in and through the text, and he speaks, personally, through what appear to be the same small, black letters on any other ordinary white page. But these words, the words of Scripture are different, and the prayerful reading of Scripture that is lectio divina is different, because it is reading for a change and it’s reading that does, in fact, change you. It changes you because it’s reading that reads you.

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Before you begin to work through the steps in a time of prayer, choose a relatively short Scripture passage to pray with. If you need some inspiration, you might consider John 15:1–5, or you can always pray with the Gospel of the day from Mass. (You can find the daily Mass readings on the USCCB website, or download iBreviary on your phone.)

The Four Steps of Lectio Divina

1. Lectio (Reading)

This step begins with a simple prayer to the Holy Spirit, such as, “Come, Holy Spirit.” Take a deep breath and become aware of God’s presence. Read the passage slowly, letting the words wash over you and sink in. Pause for a minute in silence, then read the passage again. Is there a word or phrase that tugs at your heart? Does something seem to jump off the page?

2. Meditatio (Meditation)

Now take some time to ponder that word or message in your heart. What does this word or passage mean? How does it challenge or inspire you? Why do you think that word or phrase sticks out? What thoughts, memories, desires, or emotions does this passage stir up in you? What do you think the Lord is saying to you?

3. Oratio (Prayer)

How does this passage lead you to pray? What do I say to the Lord in response to His word? Converse with God from your heart — what do you wish to say to Him or ask Him? Are you moved to tell God that you love Him? Are you moved to thank and praise Him? Do you need to pray for someone or something? What conversion of mind, heart, and life is the Lord asking of you? Take a few moments to lift up your heart to God in prayer.

4. Contemplatio (Contemplation)

Now be still. This step is very simple. It’s also very challenging for those of us immersed in a noisy and active culture. Begin by taking a few deep breaths. Quiet your mind and your heart. Try to stop thinking with your head. Instead, just listen with your heart. Receive the love and the healing which the Lord desires to give you. Take as long as you like to allow your heart to rest in God.

Finally, in your own words, thank Jesus for being present, for listening, and for speaking to your heart. For example, you could say:

Jesus, thank you for being present to me in your Word. Let it fill my mind and heart the rest of this day. Help me to always listen to you. Amen.

That’s the gist of it. Four steps and anywhere from 10–20 minutes on average (though, obviously you could pray for much longer).

Actio: A Fifth Step?

To the four traditional steps of Lectio, Pope Benedict XVI introduces a fifth one. He calls this actio (action). In all reality, it is less of a methodological step and more the living fruit of a life transformed by Lectio Divina. Benedict XVI insists that Lectio Divina reaches its goal in actio, a response to God’s word. He says, “The process of lectio divina is not concluded until it arrives at action, which moves the believer to make his or her life a gift for others in charity.”[1] In Lectio Divina, the believer receives the love of God, and this love invites the believer to respond by making a gift of him/herself in turn. Actio is the manifestation of charity in the life of the believer.

Given Benedict XVI’s emphasis on actio, I think it’s fitting to conclude with these words from Ven. Madeleine Delbrêl:

The Gospel is the Book of the Life of the Lord. It was made in order to become the book of our life. It was not made to be understood but to be approached as a threshold of mystery. It was not made to be read, but to be received in us. Each of its words is spirit and life…Alive, they are themselves like the initial leavening that will attack our dough and ferment it into a new way of life… The words of the Gospel knead us, modify us, assimilate us, so to speak, into themselves. The words of the Gospel are miraculous.

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[1] Benedict XVI, Verbum Domini, 87.