The Jesuit Guide To (Almost) Everything - James Martin [70]
When I returned, I imagined myself standing on the sunny shore of the Sea of Galilee, after the storm passed. Then I imagined telling Jesus how swamped I felt. Sitting on the beach and airing out my feelings felt freeing. What a relief to share this with Jesus.
Then, in my imagination, the boat that Jesus had saved slowly started to sink into the Sea of Galilee. I was relieved to watch it slip away—as if all of my worries were sinking with it. Maybe I was being invited to let that old life slip away.
Sometimes, as you might realize already, these contemplative prayers move beyond the outlines of the Gospel stories and bring you to unexpected places. Obviously there’s nothing in the Gospels about the boat sinking! But that’s not to say God can’t work through this kind of imaginative prayer as well.
Then I imagined the two of us building a new boat, with brand-new, fresh-smelling wood. At the same time, I thought, I could also hoist the old boat out of the water and fix it. Maybe the old boat just needed a little mending: a little tar, a few new boards. Maybe my old life just needed a little mending, too.
In prayer, I askedJesus how he was able to juggle everything, how he was able to handle all the demands on his time. An answer suggested itself: Jesus took things as they came and trusted that God was bringing things before him, rather than trying to plan everything. He also accepted the need to withdraw from the crowds sometimes.
By the close of the prayer, I realized that whatever boat I chose— the new one (asking for a new job) or the restored old one (changing the way I worked)—Jesus would be in the boat with me. I had nothing to fear. That insight gave me enormous peace. No longer did I feel swamped, because I realized that I had a choice in life. (In the end I chose to fix up the old boat.)
Not every contemplative prayer is so rich. Not every one brings insights or emotions. You might try several times before it feels like you’re even in the scene. Over the past twenty years, I’ve logged many hours, struggling in vain to “compose the scene” to little apparent effect. That’s not to say that nothing was happening, because spending time with God is always transformative. But not every prayer leads to noticeable fruit.
But sometimes it is rich. And I offer that personal experience not because it’s important that I felt swamped, but to illustrate that from even the most familiar of Scripture passages, God can reveal unfamiliar things, if you are open to hearing them.
LECTIO DIVINA AND THE SECOND METHOD
The second form of Ignatian prayer is similar to Ignatian contemplation. It goes by the name lectio divina or meditation. (As with “Ignatian contemplation,” the same prayer often goes by many names, which causes no end of confusion.)
Lectio divina means “sacred reading.” Like contemplation, it uses Scripture to draw you into a deeper relationship with God. Lectio relies on both the imagination and the intellect. It also differs slightly from Ignatian contemplation. But most types of prayer overlap, so there’s no problem if you combine aspects of one with another.
When I first stumbled across the term lectio divina, I imagined elderly monks sequestered in noiseless rooms, silently turning the parchment pages of medieval manuscripts, as sunlight streamed through a stained-glass window, illuminating the words they were reading. While appealingly romantic, it seemed something that would remain far from my experience.
But after I entered the novitiate, David introduced me to this ancient practice in an accessible way. Monks and cloistered nuns still do lectio divina, but it is a practice available to even the busiest and most nonmonastic among us. Essentially lectio divina is the practice of encountering