Finding a Spiritual Discipline

"We do not want to be beginners. But let us be convinced of the fact that we will never be anything else but beginners, all our life!"

--Thomas Merton

"For each one must realize that he will make progress in all spiritual matters in proportion to his flight from self-love, self-will, and self-interest."

--St. Ignatius

Many of us--and I include myself in that reckoning--are searching for ways to slow down and to be more attentive and intentional in how we live our lives. Recently, I have begun a new spiritual practice, or, to use the more traditional and more stringent words, "spiritual discipline." A "discipline," according to my dictionary, is "a set of rules or methods, as those regulating the practice of a church or monastic order." Discipline can also mean "training expected to produce a specific character or pattern of behavior, esp. training that produces moral or mental improvement." It also implies "a systematic method. . . ."

Discipline hasn't been a very popular concept in recent years, or at least it has been misunderstood. I may be one of the few Unitarian Universalists who was disappointed when the words "free and disciplined search for truth" were removed from the Unitarian Universalist Association Purposes and Principles in the early 1980's. To me, the word "disciplined" signified that ours is not an easy or a passive religious way, where as some assume, one "can believe whatever one wants." Rather, ours is a most difficult way, one which requires the hard work of study and thought and testing and constant revision, one where we must seek the answers for ourselves, and follow the truth wherever it may lead, even when it means changing our previous understanding of the way things are. Truth is not presented to us on a platter. Indeed, ours is a faith which values the search almost as much, if not more, than the discovery itself.

To embark on such a search for truth requires, I would argue, a great deal of discipline, if we are ever to reach our goal. We can't go about it willy-nilly and expect to achieve any meaningful results. It requires that we do so systematically and thoroughly, re-assessing where we have already been even as we seek to determine where we should go next.

It may surprise you that I have only recently taken up a personal spiritual discipline. I imagine that you might assume that as a religious leader, I would have had one long ago. Even I sometimes imagine that this should have been the case. As Merton reminds us, "We do not want to be beginners. But let us be convinced of the fact that we will never be anything else but beginners, all our life!"

Like many of you, I complain that there is not enough time for such a practice. Time is precious. There is so much to do, and taking time to meditate or pray seems to be not only unproductive, but also a downright wasteful luxury. Surely I could be answering e-mail instead!

Oh, I have experimented with various practices, but the only one that until recently has become important and even essential to me is the religious practice of "pilgrimage," about which I have spoken to you already on various occasions. What I have lacked is a daily religious practice to help me step back, renew, and center myself in the midst of the many demands, both personal and occupational, upon my time.

A story is instructive. Carl Scovel, the retired minister King's Chapel in Boston, once wrote,

Perhaps the hardest thing to believe in this world is that there is peace and that peace is possible for us. Most of us, if I observe correctly, are so busy that the reminder of the possibility of peace is almost an irritation, and yet there are moments when we desperately want to stop and relax. It is possible to do that. It is possible to stop whatever we are doing and breathe deeply and think and pause long enough to let our mind wander and our soul center itself, and to feel a stillness which the world cannot contrive and cannot seem to take away. You can do this in your own room. You can do it on a walk. You can do it at a retreat center. You can do it if you are old and you can do it if you are young. All you have to do is stop. That's all. It's that simple. Have I possibly tempted you? If so, let me add a warning. You may want to do it again.

I have a good friend in the ministry, continues Carl. His name is Harry Schofield and years ago, long before spirituality became popular and long before Unitarian Universalists were contemplating it as a possibility, Harry was learning to live his own life as well as the world's. I remember once his speaking to a group of young, busy and not very receptive ministers. He said to us, 'I always pray for an hour a day.' (Skeptical silence.) 'Except of course when I'm busy.' (Laughter.) 'And then I pray for two hours a day.' (Silence.)

I have spoken with you in the past about some of the spiritual disciplines which were practiced in our own religious tradition by that group of religious seekers known as the Transcendentalists. Of course, rituals like Bible reading and daily personal and corporate prayer had always been practiced by our religious ancestors. The Puritans called their form of character formation, in an expression that I love, "the art of living to God." And regular Sunday worship, often more than once a day, has always been practiced in our tradition.

However, the Transcendentalists took on this concept in a new and more vigorous way. Theirs was a true spiritual awakening. The work of a religious life they called "self-culture," an agricultural metaphor designed to describe what they saw as the way to spiritual perfection. Self-culture could be practiced in various ways, most of them traditional, but, in the spirit of Jesus's "new wine in old bottles," those ways were often renamed. For example, the Transcendentalists practiced what they called "excursions," but which were little "pilgrimages" by any other name.

The Transcendentalists also practiced "journal writing," which was a form of spiritual autobiography or, again as the Puritans used to say, of "keeping the heart." They even considered reading to be a spiritual practice, searching as they did so for what Emerson wonderfully called "lustres." These little insights might traditionally have been called "epiphanies," or "outward and visible signs of inward spiritual grace." It was Emerson's ability to read in this way which made the writings of even the most strange and esoteric authors, such as those of the Swedish mystic Immanuel Swedenborg, worthy of his efforts to unravel and digest.

Contemplation was also an important spiritual practice among the Transcendentalists. As Emerson wrote in his lectures on "Human Culture,"

The simple habit of sitting alone occasionally to explore what facts of moment lie in the memory may have the effect in some more favored hour to open to the student the kingdom of spiritual nature. He may become aware that there around him roll new at this moment and inexhaustible the waters of Life; that the world he has lived in so heedless, so gross, is illuminated with meaning, that every fact is magical; every atom alive, and he is the heir of all.

The silence is ecumenical. It precedes dogma. It is incapable of crusades. In silence, people who do not speak the same language may yet act together, creating a tableau that talks louder than words.

Perhaps one of the most famous spiritual disciplines of all time is The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. His method for spiritual growth provided the model, in western religion, for most of the spiritual practices to follow. In the "Directions" for the use of his exercises, Ignatius wrote,

This expression "Spiritual Exercises" embraces every method of examination of conscience, of meditation, of contemplation, of vocal and mental prayer, and of other spiritual activity. . . . For just as strolling, walking, and running are bodily exercises, so spiritual exercises are methods of preparing and disposing the soul to free itself of all inordinate attachments, and after accomplishing this, of seeking and discovering the Divine Will regarding the disposition of one's life. . . .

As I mentioned at the outset, I have recently taken up a personal, daily spiritual practice of my own. Such a practice can be most anything which leads us to that "peace" about which Carl Scovel wrote. I have chosen a more traditional method taken from the Anglican tradition called "Celebrating Common Prayer" which I discovered on my recent trip to England. It is based on the Book of Common Prayer and follows a simplified version of the traditional seven-fold pattern of Morning and Evening Prayer within the Christian liturgical year. It combines Biblical readings with prayers, litanies, collects, hymns and silence. It has brought me to a new appreciation for the personal application of the Lord's Prayer, which I learned as a child and which may be the only prayer that I really know by heart. The theology, of course, I as a Unitarian Universalist must read as metaphor. But the beauty of this discipline is that it provides me with a structure for performing all of those spiritual "exercises" which St. Ignatius described for us so long ago.

My new practice has provided a way to be in touch with what is most important to me. It forces me to stop and listen, for a few moments each day, for the still small voice within. It provides an opportunity to think about and pray for my friends and loved ones in an intentional and regular way. Will it ultimately bear that fruit of the spirit of which St. Paul writes, "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control"? [Gal 5: 22-23] Only time will tell; but the evidence of the spiritual masters down through the ages leads me to believe that if I stick to it, it will.

May each of us find that spiritual discipline which leads us toward the wholeness we are seeking, remembering that the longest journey begins with but a single step. May we go forth into the world in peace, renewed by the searching spirit, and sharing the love we have found here, until we return again. Amen.

The Rev. Harold E. Babcock