The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything

by James Martin

  The composition, by imagining the place. Here it will be to see in imagination the road from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Consider its length and breadth, whether it is level or winds through valleys and hills. Similarly, look at the place or cave of the Nativity: How big is it, or small? How low or high? And how is it furnished?

  With your imaginative sight and hearing, you have now begun to enter more fully into this scene. But you’re not finished yet: you have a few more senses at your disposal.

  What do you smell? Along with seawater washing into the fishing boat, you would smell . . . fish! (Or at least the residual smell from the day’s catch.) Finally, in such close quarters with the disciples you would smell rancid body odor and perhaps even some bad breath.

  None of these imaginative exercises asks you to picture anything weird or bizarre. All Ignatius suggests is trying to imagine—as best you can—what things might have been like. You also trust that, since you’re trying to enter into this scene to meet God, God will help you with this prayer.

  You still have two more senses left. Touch is one. What do you feel? Are you wearing homespun clothes? Maybe the material feels scratchy against your skin. If you’re sitting in a boat during a storm, you’re probably soaked, feeling cold, wet, and miserable, on top of being tired from traipsing around Galilee with Jesus all day.

  Finally, what do you taste? For this particular meditation, this sense is slightly less important. But for others, like stories where Jesus and his disciples are eating and drinking—as during the wedding feast at Cana and the Last Supper—this is a key sense. But even here in the boat, you might imagine tasting the saltwater spray.

  Now that you have used your senses and “composed the place,” you have the scene set. At this point you can just let the scene play out in your mind, with you in the picture.

  But it’s not just something to “watch.” “You do not merely imagine the event as though you were watching it on film,” Joseph A. Tetlow, S.J., writes in Making Choices in Christ. “You enter into the scene, letting it unfold as though you were part of it, standing warm in the temple or ankle-deep in the water of the Jordan.”

  Let the story play out in your imagination with as little judging on your part as possible. Let yourself be drawn to whatever seems most attractive or interesting. For example, if you notice the disciples more than Jesus, try not to judge that as inappropriate or wrong. While you’re in the meditation, allow God to lead you through your imagination.

  Pay Attention!

  Afterward take note of what happened within yourself while you were involved in the story. As with any kind of prayer, there are many things that could be revealed: insights, emotions, desires, memories, feelings, as we discussed in the last chapter.

  God desires to communicate with you all the time, but when you intentionally open yourself up to God’s voice, you can often hear it more clearly. To use the metaphor of friendship, it is similar to saying to a friend, “You have my undivided attention.” Ignatian contemplation enables us to hear more easily, or differently, and to recognize something that might otherwise be overlooked.

  Opening Ourselves

  Though intended by Ignatius to help one enter into events from the life of Christ, Ignatian contemplation can be used by all religious traditions to help you appreciate what John J. English, S.J., describes in his book Spiritual Freedom as “sacred events.”

  In Ignatian contemplation we form the habit of losing ourselves . . . in sacred events of great significance. After some initial practice, we learn how to stay with the scene and its actions, to relax in the presence of those who speak and move, and to open ourselves without reserve to what occurs, so that we may receive a deep impression of the event’s mysterious meaning.

  Insights, for example, are common in Ignatian contemplation. Whenever an insight would come up in my prayer, something that was clearly new, something that was clearly a fruit of the prayer, David would say, “Pay attention!”

  For instance, let’s say you notice how terrified the disciples are—not only by the storm, but by something more surprising: Jesus’ display of power. His miracles could have been frightening to this band of Galileans. Though you may have heard this story dozens of times, perhaps you realize in a new way that watching the sea stilled by your friend would have been astonishing, amazing, exciting—and frightening.

  You’ve just received an insight into the life of the disciples: it may have been frightening being around Jesus. Maybe you’ve heard about “fear of God.” It is a natural enough reaction. “Who then is this, that he commands even the wind and the water, and they obey him?” they say afterward. For the first time, you feel not only the excitement behind that statement but also the fear. Then you wonder if they ever talked about their reaction with Jesus. What would Jesus have said in reply?

  That might be as far as that insight goes—which is terrific. If you get a deeper insight into Scripture, it will help deepen your faith. But often the insight might lead to an insight about your own life. It might prompt you to ask yourself, Where am I afraid of God? Are there places where you’ve seen signs of God’s presence but have been afraid to admit this—because you’re afraid of God’s power? Sometimes it’s frightening thinking about God’s taking an interest in your life. Is fear preventing you from a deeper relationship with God?

  Just as common in contemplative prayer is a more emotional reaction, which can be surprising, revealing, and clarifying. The easiest way to explain this is to take something that happened to me when praying about this passage just a few months ago.

  Swamped!

  Recently I traveled to California to make the Spiritual Exercises, the first time since the novitiate over twenty years ago. It was part of the very last stage of my formal training as a Jesuit. (Yes, you read that correctly: the complete training of a Jesuit priest, which continues after ordination, may sometimes take over twenty years.)

  In any event, during the Second Week that precise passage came up. To be honest, I thought, The storm at sea? Been there, prayed that. I couldn’t imagine any surprises in store. But the God of Surprises had other ideas.

  As I prayed about the storm at sea, there were no insights, few desires, little emotion, scant memories, and hardly any feelings. But I knew not to be frustrated. Prayer is often dry, and, at least on the surface, little seems to be going on.

  The next day, I returned to the scene in my imagination. As soon as I climbed into the boat, a word popped into my head: swamped. The boat was taking on water during the violent storm, being swamped, and the disciples were terrified.

  Swamped was the word I used frequently with friends to describe my daily life. I was forever racing among a variety of projects and often felt overwhelmed. Consequently, I had started to wonder if it was time for a change—time to either ask for a new job or change the way I was working.

  You’ve probably felt this way at some point in your life. Many of us—parents of small children, overworked business executives, harried teachers, busy students, stressed-out priests—feel swamped by life, pulled in a million different directions. You think: I have to change the way I work or change how I am living.

  The next day my spiritual director encouraged me to return to the scene. Repetition is an important part of the Ignatian tradition of prayer. Ignatius thought it important to gain all the fruit you could from a particular prayer. “I should notice and dwell on those points where I felt greater consolation or desolation,” he wrote in the Exercises.

  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.

  Som
etimes, 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 God through Scripture.

  Like Ignatian contemplation, while this form of prayer was not invented by Ignatius, it is very popular among Jesuits. Ignatius calls it the “Second Method” of prayer in the Exercises. (In case you think we’ve overlooked the “First Method” in the Exercises, we haven’t. The First Method is less a method of prayer than a preparation: you review the Ten Commandments, and so on, to see where you have sinned, and you then make amends to your life.)

  Rather than telling you how lectio divina differs from contemplation, let me introduce the technique, and you’ll be able to see some of the differences yourself.

  The easiest way I’ve found to approach lectio was suggested by my New Testament professor, Daniel Harrington. He suggested breaking the process down into four steps.

  Before you begin, of course, you select a specific passage from the Bible as the basis for your prayer. Let’s use the story of Jesus preaching in the synagogue in Nazareth, as told in the Gospel of Luke (4:16–30).

  At the beginning of his ministry, Jesus comes to his hometown and enters the Jewish synagogue to preach. He unrolls the Torah scroll and begins reading a passage from the Book of Isaiah. “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,” he says, quoting Isaiah. “He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind.” Then he boldly says to the assembly, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” Initially the crowd praises Jesus, astonished that the hometown boy is so learned.

  But then he begins to criticize the group for its lack of faith, and says, “No prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown.” The crowd then turns on him. “They got up, drove him out of the town, and led him to the brow of the hill,” where they intended to throw him off the cliff. Unperturbed, Jesus “passed through the midst of them and went on his way.”

  As with any prayer, you first ask for God’s help. Now let’s consider the passage using lectio divina.

  1. Reading: What Does the Text Say?

  First, read the passage. What is going on? With most stories from the Old and New Testaments, this is clear. But not always. Here you might glance at the bottom of the page of your Bible, where the editors might have included explanatory notes. Bible commentaries, which offer explanations of unfamiliar words, practices, and traditions, will help you appreciate the context of the reading before you go on.

  For example, here’s what the HarperCollins Bible Commentary says about what Jesus is doing in the synagogue that day. “[Jesus] lives and works within his tradition. He regularly attends the synagogue and participates as all male members were permitted to do, by reading scripture and commenting. He follows the regular practice: stand to read, sit to comment.” Now you know that Jesus was following the standard practice, which might inform your prayer.

  When Jesus reads from the scroll, he reveals his identity and mission to his friends and neighbors. It must have been shocking for the people of the little town of Nazareth to hear one of their own say, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” In other words, I am the fulfillment of this scripture.

  After initially finding his discourse pleasant, the crowd turns on Jesus, attempting to kill him. No wonder this passage is sometimes called “The Rejection at Nazareth.”

  2. Meditation: What Is God Saying to Me Through the Text?

  Now ask if there is something that God wants to reveal to you through this text. This is where your imagination may come to the fore, as you begin to meditate more deeply on the text.

  Sometimes the passage might immediately connect with something in your life. For example, where do you feel called to be prophetic, even in the face of rejection? In the Gospel story, Jesus wanted to proclaim his message even though he probably suspected it would be controversial. Is there something in your life that calls for a similarly courageous stance?

  This is where linkages with your life are important. Let’s say you’re praying about this story and recall a troubling situation at work: someone in your office is consistently being mistreated. You’ve long thought about defending her, though you worry about what it might mean for your career.

  Why did you remember your friend during this particular prayer? As David would say, “Pay attention!” Recalling your friend while praying about Jesus’ saying something controversial may not be a coincidence.

  Here’s a concrete example: A few years ago I came to my annual retreat perplexed. For the previous few weeks I had been thinking about a controversial issue in the church that I wanted to speak about but was worried about the reaction that it would engender. During the retreat my spiritual director recommended this story. As I prayed with this passage, I noticed Jesus’ ability to speak the truth, and I felt an impassioned desire to be like Jesus, to speak the truth. Afterward I wrote in my prayer journal: “People in the congregation felt different things and had various reactions to Jesus. Some were horrified,
some cheered, and some were afraid. But he did it anyway! ”

  The text conveyed the confident freedom of Jesus. It seemed that, through my reaction to the story, God was offering me some of that same confidence and freedom.

  3. Prayer: What Do You Want to Say to God About the Text?

  Now it’s your turn to speak to God. How does the text make you feel? What questions arise in your mind? What is your reaction? Pour it all out to God.

  After meditating on this particular passage, you might find yourself fearful. If it means standing up for your friend at work, or standing up for yourself, this could be dangerous. You might worry, rightly, about being rejected, as Jesus was in his hometown.

  On the other hand, you might feel emboldened by his confidence, and you may come to see that all prophetic gestures probably made the prophets frightened. Yet, like Jesus, all the prophets acted in the face of this fear, trusting in God. Maybe you feel a mixture of fear and confidence. This is the time to be honest with God about your feelings.

  During my own prayer I felt frightened about speaking out. Being prophetic sounds romantic until you face an angry mob. Or even a few angry people. What would happen if I spoke out? Would people reject me?

  The more I prayed about it, the more I returned to the same question: How was Jesus able to make such bold statements, knowing that people would probably reject him? Gradually I realized that not only did everyone in the synagogue know Jesus, but Jesus probably knew them. Most likely he could have anticipated their response—the same way that you can guess how your friends will respond if you say something challenging. So Jesus most likely anticipated their rejection. One reason he was able to speak out was because he was free, unfettered by worries of acceptance or rejection, perfectly embodying what Ignatius called “detachment.”

  We ought not to be content with being hearers, but doers.

  —St. Aloysius Gonzaga, S.J. (1568–1591)