KnoxPriest

It’s day 1 of my sabbatical and one prayer has already been answered: I’m not utterly exhausted as this season begins. It’s a prayer I’ve shared for a while and I awaken today with gratitude for the good days I’ve shared with my parish this year. I’m tired, but it’s the good version of tired. I know that I need a season of rest, yet I enter that season with gratitude and joy for the good things of parish life in 2024.

It’s time to enter a different mode of being. Anyone who has attended a spiritual retreat–and especially a silent retreat–knows that retreat rhythms are different than ordinary, daily rhythms. Prayer and Scripture increase, governing the hours of the day. In between times of prayer, there’s opportunity for rest and reflection; to attend to natural beauty and contemplate the beauty of Christ in creation.

It’s time to enter a different mode of writing, too. I’m aware that, for better or worse, I preach like a writer. Homilies need a specific shape for a liturgical setting, a clear beginning, middle, and end, grounded in one or a few Scripture readings. But the tradition of spiritual writing takes more forms than preaching–letters, meditations, journals, prayers, etc.

Teaching is a great joy, as well, but instruction requires the teacher to focus on outcomes. Last weekend I taught on joyful asceticism, one of my favorite subjects to teach to aspiring spiritual directors. The days ahead are meant for practicing the disciplines of joy myself. The teacher must be a student himself, a lifelong learner. That’s the priority of these days–to learn and receive the goodness and joy of the Lord.

And writing brings me joy. Not immediate joy, but joy nonetheless. Writing is like another love of mine, running. I despise the first half mile of any run, then somewhere after the half-mile mark, the blood flows, a good pace sets in, and the movement feels good. Beginnings have always been my struggle as a writer and preacher. But once the beginning is underway, it becomes a form of prayer. Writing to see, to understand, to witness the beauty of God–this is no chore. It restores my soul.

I don’t know how often I’ll write here, though I suspect that I’ll post fairly often. I’ll be studying the theology of beauty, so that will be a recurring theme in days ahead. I’ll write when I feel like writing and rest when I need to rest.

A season with a different mode of being and different rhythm of days gives the opportunity for a different mode of writing. I’m fascinated with the countless ways language awakens the soul to enjoy God and his world.

Caution: there will be references to etymology. I take no offense should this news conclude our reader-writer relationship. This may be the most prudent decision for you. I am, after all, a word-nerd. It was unthinkable for me to leave my copy of Dictionary of Word Origins in my office at church.

This site will be a space where I’ll try out some different forms of writing. What follows in these months will be wonderings, digressions, and meditations; fragments, half-thoughts and exercises in attention; essays, observations, and lectio divina; a kind of spiritual laboratory for pondering creation and the contemplative life. My sabbatical writing may be synonymous with non-sequiturs.

Let’s begin…

On the literal meaning of contemplation

The aforementioned entry from Ayto’s Dictionary of Word Origins notes that contemplation means observing in a temple. It is a sacred space for making observations.

The root word, then, of contemplation is ‘temple’–a holy place. The first action of contemplation, then, is discernment and selection. What is worthy of my gaze?

The inverse question awaits too: what is unworthy of contemplation?

Holy contemplations end in fulfillment and joy. Unworthy contemplations end in emptiness. 

To gaze on Christ, to fix one’s eyes on the meaning of Holy Scripture; to watch the drama unfolding in a glade of trees; to ponder the goodness of one’s spouse; to cherish the smile and laughter of a child; to remember the fidelity of a soul friend over many years–these are worthy contemplations.

‘So teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom.’ (Psalm 90.12)

The sign of the cross has become more precious to me this year than ever before. One makes the sign as a physical prayer for numerous reasons, not the least of which is receiving grace. Unless one receives the gift, the gift remains external. Receiving grace requires action to be internalized. Around noon I had the tangible sense that the prayers of my parish for my sabbatical are already living and active. I made the sign of the cross to receive the grace, the blessing of their intercessions. A priest cannot explain the interior knowledge when he receives his people’s prayers, but it is real and deep. There is no greater gift.