Stopping to live

An intentional action can confront acedia

First, a definition, then an explanation.

Acedia initially referred specifically to the "deadly sin" of sloth. It first appeared in print in English in 1607 describing ceremonies which could induce this sin in ministers and pastors, but that sense is now rare. Acedia now tends to be used more generally to simply imply a lack of interest or caring, although it sometimes still carries overtones of laziness.¹

I first became acquainted with the word acedia when I read Kathleen Norris’s Acedia and Me: A Marriage, Monks and a Writer’s Life , published in 2004. It seemed an odd contribution to her literary work, loving as I did Cloister Walk, her earlier work about rediscovering spiritual life by spending time as a lay oblate with the monks at St. John’s Abbey, a Benedictine monastery just sixty miles from where I now reside.

Cloister Walk was new to the world in 1996, just as I was. It was the year I completed my Master of Divinity, the year of the first step in recognition of ordination orders in The United Methodist Church, and the summer of my marriage. It was the first year that Claudia and I welcomed children into our lives, beginning a now more-than-thirty-year engagement in the foster care and adoption space. I remembering reading Cloister Walk soon after it was available, probably through a library check-out from the very small town (population 550) library just thirty minutes from where I now live.

I was moved by the author’s insights, and her discovery of the ancient riches of monasticism opened my eyes to the spiritual possibilities beyond my own limited awareness. At that time thirty years ago, it was still revolutionary for a Protestant (gasp) woman (gasp) to be connected with a Roman Catholic (gasp) monastery. Since the time of my first reading her Cloister Walk, I cannot begin to enumerate all the ways I have benefited from the ancient spirituality tools and methods her book birthed in my life. For the past decade or so, I have purchased and read probably more volumes written by Roman Catholic authors than from any other religious persuasion.

But, as I was saying, when a decade later I picked up her Acedia and Me, I was less than impressed. Perhaps I was too young chronologically or had not yet experienced enough of life’s perplexities, to appreciate what she was writing about. At the time I couldn’t quite connect acedia with much of anything in my own life. A task completist, however, I read the entire book, returned it to the library, and didn’t think much more of it.

At this point in my life, however, I am thinking a lot about her subject matter, because I’m living it. It may be — as most things in life are — a combination of several factors for me, but I now understand what it is to live with discontent fueled by grief. I’m not exactly apathetic — there are still many parts of my life that I find interesting, intriguing and worthwhile. I love my pastoral work, I delight in my children and grandchildren, my new puppy Otis is (usually) a joyful presence. There are very good things in my life, so I’m not in despair.

I am, however, subtly discontent, tired of the long-term slog of bereavement. It’s a strange thing — at least for me, that is — to know this sense of emptiness that comes from profound loss. I am unable to reconstruct what I was knew to be a stabilizing and contenting part of my life. I have memories, I have deep gratitude for what has been, but there is still a capacious abyss deep in my soul. This void, seemingly, cannot be filled by what I have previously depended on, so I have to find new strategies for life. In the midst of my own acedia, I’m learning at least one thing that provides meaning.

I am stopping — sometimes for a split second, sometimes longer — to notice nuance in the world around me (and maybe the world within me, although that’s admittedly a more daunting process). It may be why I so love the natural world: every day is just a little bit different than the previous one. The humidity may change, the breezes may shift, the light in these months becomes stronger, the buds on trees will soon begin to erupt, the snow pack dissipates.

When I take time to note the subtle changes in my puppy’s life (he is a little heavier this week than last, he is becoming more consistent in his bathroom habits, he is learning voice commands), his growing development urges me to pursue another day, even if only to see what Otis will do tomorrow.

I’m learning to import this thinking into my vocational life as well. After more than thirty years of preaching nearly every single Sunday morning (sometimes more than once), the temptation is to become a pastoral automaton. In some of my worship-preparation circles, it’s known as “plug and chug,” the remanufacturing of an old sermon or liturgy just to be done with it. I have never knowingly succumbed to that practice (it seems like a lack of integrity to me), but as each year ticks away, the temptation is there to just get by.

As a lifelong learner, I continue to open myself to new experiences as frequently as I can. Just this week I began reading a Latin American theologian I had surprisingly never “met” before, Juan Luis Segundo (who, interestingly died in 1996, the year of so many personal epiphanies for me). His name came up in a conversation with a clergy colleague I deeply admire, and I knew I had to read him, so I selected several of his volumes via inter-library loan (what a gift that is to those of us living in rural America!) and have been refreshed.

In the midst of acedia, I am discovering that stopping to recognize change is an important corrective. Without this discipline, I know that in my mind every day is only a repeat of the previous one and seems it will be only another version of the same thing tomorrow. The mundanity and senselessness of that perception cannot be life for me. It is simply waiting to die, and I refuse to stay very long in that mindset.

Your confrontation with acedia may very well not look like mine, but if you understand what I’m talking about (the daily slog with seemingly no meaning), I invite you to stop and see the beauty of your ever-changing life. And if you can’t find any beauty there, stop a little longer, look a little deeper.

As a child of the 1970s, I suppose I should already know this. After all, there was this song that I can sing today, almost from memory:

I’m learning to stop so that I can live, and I hope this is a journey you are embracing as well.

1. https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/acedia