Recently, I came across this rather striking excerpt from Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis:
What we seek [when we come to listen to the Word of God] with all our soul…is the possibility of opening ourselves up in prayer to God’s transforming action. Whether we are fully conscious of it or not, in other words, we desire a change of life, a conversion from what we presently are to a more precise embodiment of the likeness of Christ at the center of our being, radiating out from us through all our thoughts, words, and actions.1
While he wasn’t talking about lectio divina specifically, the same is true for lectio. Lectio divina is nothing other than seeking the Lord by listening for his voice in the words of Scripture (or other regarded spiritual works). This kind of seeking is, itself, a prayerful opening of the heart to God’s transforming activity. We can say, then, that lectio opens the mind and heart for an experience of conversion. Merikakis beautifully explains what he means by conversion, and he does so as a Cistercian, a part of that long monastic tradition that originated with a reform movement in the 11th century. Amongst other themes, the early Cistercians emphasized the imago dei, the image and likeness of God that resides at the core of man and woman. For the Cistercians, the ascetical and spiritual life, indeed, the monastic way of life, aims to uncover that image of God that lies at the core yet is so often marred by sin and buried under worldly attachments. So we can think about conversion as a kind of grace-filled uncovering of that which was already there in our nature. It could be likened to renewal, rediscovery. Conversion thus allows the likeness of Christ to radiate out from the center and into the whole of life — to radiate through all our thoughts, words, and actions. This type of transformation of life stands as the flip side of seeking God in lectio. One can’t seek God and find him without being changed by him.
All of this reminds me of a tremendous paragraph from the Catechism:
Christ enables us to live in him all that he himself lived, and he lives it in us…“We must continue to accomplish in ourselves the stages of Jesus’ life and his mysteries and often to beg him to perfect and realize them in us and in his whole Church.” (CCC §521, quoting St. John Eudes)
Christ invites us to participate in the mystery of his life, and he lives out that mystery, now, in and through the “stuff” of our lives. This shocking statement is both exciting and frightening, especially when you consider the nature of the Paschal Mystery (particularly the parts about carrying the cross, suffering, and death). Besides, given the mundanity of my own life, anything as magnificent as the mystery of Christ’s life alive in my own is almost unfathomable.
Fortunately, Ven. Madeleine Delbrêl comes to the rescue and helps to make all of this more concrete. As she meditates upon charity and the call to holiness in the ordinary, she prays:
Lord, Lord, at least let this rind that covers me not be a barrier to you. Pass through. My eyes, my hands, my mouth are yours. This woman so sad before me: here is my mouth so that you can smile at her. This child is almost gray, he is so pale: here are my eyes so that you can look upon him. This man so tired, so very tired, here is my whole body so that you can give him my seat, and my voice so that you can say very gently to him: “Sit down.” This boy, so smug, so foolish, so tough, here is my heart for you to love him with, harder than he has ever been loved.2
Her words are reminiscent of the poem attributed to St. Teresa of Avila: “Christ has no body but yours, / No hands, no feet on earth but yours, / Yours are the eyes with which he looks.” She’s tapping into some mystical core, the inner workings of charity. Then, a further reflection:
Let us take a very small piece of our life and set free the charity of Christ in it to everything it can do, everything it wants to do, and to let it do it. You change trains, you wait in the waiting room in the middle of the night. The charity of the Lord is in you in the midst of this waiting room. What is it going to do? What will that very polite lady, this very proper gentleman say when you share coffee from your thermos with the neighbor to your right, your bread and your cheese with the neighbor to your left, if you wrap that child in your coat…But what will Christ say if you do not do it? The holy Church expects saints, and saints are those who love.3
Madeleine often uses train metaphors because her father was in the railroad industry. Don’t let them throw you for a loop. For our purposes, we may think more of either an airport, Starbucks, or kid soccer game. She imagines the charity of Christ acting in us like a leaven. It’s active; he’s active. You can’t see the leaven itself at work, but you can see its effects. It’s almost surprising: What is Jesus going to do? What does he want to do in and through me? What is he already doing in and through me? The people he wants us to love are right in front of us. Our circumstances are his providence. These are the ordinary means to our holiness. We ought not succumb to fear of loving God or others in the midst of them — fear of rejection or a negative impact on reputation. Why? Because what will Jesus say to us if we don’t love? The Church expects saints who love, because those are the only saints there are.
In many ways, Madeleine was one of the forerunners of the Second Vatican Council and the universal call to holiness we read about in Lumen Gentium: “The Lord Jesus, the divine Teacher and Model of all perfection, preached holiness of life to each and everyone of His disciples of every condition…Thus it is evident to everyone, that all the faithful of Christ of whatever rank or status, are called to the fullness of the Christian life and to the perfection of charity” (§40). Holiness isn’t just for priests and religious. All the baptized are called to holiness, to live a fully Christian life in which charity is perfected.
Finally, I’d like to point out how active all of this is. Everything from Merikakis to the Catechism to Delbrêl. It’s like Jesus is doing something right now. With this in mind, I think it makes good sense to consider some of the shortcomings of the old What Would Jesus Do (WWJD) bracelets. I assume you think about these bracelets often(!), so we should take a minute to ponder them. The WWJD sentiment is fine enough, and the question pushes us to consider morality in terms of discipleship, which is correct as far as it goes. But, the whole WWJD approach can remain an abstract thought-exercise, and reduce Jesus to a moral template.
To complement WWJD, we might consider WIJD (What Is Jesus Doing). WIJD is more mystical, while WWJD is moral. WIJD pushes us to consider how Jesus is already at work in our lives. It also doubles as an excellent way of expressing confusion regarding what’s going on in my life or in the world — “What is Jesus doing?!” — like a little prayer of both honesty and faith. But, I digress. Here’s the point: divine life and love is already operative within the real “stuff” of our lives — because he wants to do something with and in that “stuff.” And, through our lives he wants to encounter those of others. WIJD is more participatory than abstract. It acknowledges that God is already acting and not something that needs to be activated. Yes, God is at work. Will you let him?
(If someone wants to produce new bracelets and make millions, be my guest. If you could at least make a small donation to my Substack project, I’d appreciate it.)
Pax,
Brad
Leiva-Merikakis, Way of the Disciple, 18.
Delbrêl, The Holiness of Ordinary People, 82.
Delbrêl, The Holiness of Ordinary People, 86.