“Your words were found, and I ate them. And your words became to me a joy and delight of my heart.” – Jeremiah 15:16
Words have always offered me solace, companionship, escape, insight and even challenge. So when almost 10 years ago I learned at a parish retreat that reading can be prayer, I was hooked. Since discovering lectio divina, I’ve been on a path of faith reversion, one word at a time.
The structured approach of reading in four stages – read, meditate, pray, contemplate – has not only made prayer more accessible especially in times of anxiety and confusion, the practice also has allowed me to consider the possibility of “bi-directional” prayer. When done with intention, lectio divina can provide real answers.
While the ancient monks relied on scriptural texts, Pope Benedict encouraged “new methods, carefully thought through and in step with the times” when he promoted lectio divina during his pontificate.
So, while I sometimes open my Bible randomly, letting the Holy Spirit “give me a word,” I also lectio with other texts, everything from writings of saints to decidedly secular essays, fiction and even paintings and music. I delight in finding faith revealed obliquely but often no less powerfully in, for example, the short stories of Flannery O’Connor or Catholic Worker newspaper columns by Servant of God Dorothy Day.
I’ve also come to appreciate that what I select to read is grace inspired. A particular text might seem obtuse on one day but infused with meaning the next. That is why I never abandon completely words for lectio that challenge my understanding and acceptance.
For example, during my first reading of The Story of a Soul by St. Thérèse of Lisieux, I dutifully performed the four steps, which some practitioners liken to taking a bite, chewing, savoring and finally making the message part of one’s mind and body. However, when it came to the Little Flower’s self-mortification and desire for personal suffering, my contemplation step stalled. Until, that is, I suffered.
One morning, during a period of great personal crisis and doubt, I opened The Story of a Soul and prayed with this passage: “One Sunday, looking at a picture of Our Lord on the Cross, I was struck by the blood flowing from one of his divine hands. I felt a pang of great sorrow when thinking this blood was falling on the ground without anyone’s hastening to gather it up. … I shall spend my life gathering it up for the good of souls. To live from love is to dry Your Face.”
However, the meaning of the passage was not revealed until hours later when I attended morning Mass at Westerville St. Paul Church. For years I had admired the beautiful mosaic behind the altar, which depicts the communion of saints arrayed on each side of Christ suffering on the cross. But, not until that day did I notice two angels collecting the blood of Christ in shells at the base of the cross.
That connection, between words I read in lectio and my lived experience, allowed me to truly believe Christ would give me strength. That is why in prayer I still request the intercession of St. Thérèse so I can willingly accept the suffering that is sure to come each day. Somehow anticipating trials, then offering them back to Christ for the sake of other suffering souls, heals and helps me.
As poet and podcaster Christine Valters Paintner observes, “As we practice lectio divina … we no longer worry about whether we get the steps right. We surrender ourselves into the natural grace and rhythm of our heart’s deepest longings.”
If this Lent you are in search of a new way to pray, one that is both forgiving and fulsome, I hope you will try lectio divina. Any text – even the text of our daily lives – can reveal the voice of God. We just need to listen.
Jean P. Kelly is a member of Sunbury St. John Neumann Church and the host of Read. Pray. Write: Searching for Answers, Finding Grace, a podcast and website promoting the practice of lectio divina at www.readpraywrite.com.
