Lectio divina

Friday, Jul. 10, 2015

Last week I again attempted lectio divina, a form of ancient Christian prayer in which one meditates upon a Scripture passage. 

Benedictine Father Luke Dysinger, on the Saint Andrew’s Abbey website, describes lectio divina as a four-step process that involves listening, meditation, prayer and contemplation. The words “gentle” and “quiet” crop up frequently in his description of these steps, and that’s precisely why I struggle with the practice. I find nothing soothing about it; I always have too many questions about what I’ve read.

I brought this up at one workshop I attended, and the instructor told me to just gently (that word again!) put aside the questions and continue to ponder the passage. When I asked how I was supposed to receive any sort of enlightenment when I didn’t understand the reading, his response was basically “Leave it to God.”

Hoping for better luck this time around, I took the July 1 Gospel reading, Mt 8:28-34, about the Gadarene demons who leave the people they possess and go into a herd of swine; the pigs then rush into the sea and drown.

Reading that, at least half a dozen questions popped into my mind, among them: If the demons were so frightened of Jesus, why did they confront him rather than staying hidden in the tombs? Why do they say, “If you drive us out …” even though he apparently makes no effort to do so?

Attempting lectio divina, I did manage to quiet my enquiring mind long enough to realize that, in the passage I was contemplating, Jesus does nothing except arrive at the place and speak two words. The entire remainder of the reading is about the demons, followed by one sentence about the swineherds and another about the townspeople.

This train of thought brought to mind an image I love: Just by walking past, Jesus frightens the demons so badly that of their own accord they ask him to send them into the swine. He says “Go, then,” and off they flee into the sea and drown. 

That, I said to myself, is the power of Jesus’ mere presence. 

Quite pleased with my perspicacity, I ended my contemplation with the feeling that I was finally getting the hang of lectio divina. 

That smugness vanished the next day, when an Internet search for answers to all my nagging questions revealed, among other things, that the story of the demoniac is also told in Mk 5:8 and Lk 8:29, except that both of those have Jesus explicitly ordering the demons to come out of the man. Also according to both Mark and Luke, the place name is Gerasene and there is only one man, although there are many demons, which go by the name “Legion.” 

The different place name and the number of men afflicted by demons are to me minor points, but I vehemently protest the fact that Matthew doesn’t bother to mention that Jesus ordered out the demon. All the hard work that went into my lovely insight about the power of his presence is now shown to be for naught, solely because the particular Gospel writer I read couldn’t trouble himself to add one more line of dialog.

All of the Gospels have the Gerasene townspeople asking Jesus to leave. They had good reason; he was the cause of what was probably a significant portion of their livelihood drowning in the sea. I considered treating lectio divina the same way, but then another question occurred that I’m still pondering: What might they have gained by asking him to stick around?