A Meditation on Contemplation

There is a short collection of meditations by the Roman Catholic philosopher, Josef Pieper, titled Only the Lover Sings: Art and Contemplation. The title springs from St. Augustine’s assertion that “only he who loves can sing.” So Pieper explains in his Preface that the essays will clarify one thing: “that music, the fine arts, poetry—anything that festively raises up human existence and thereby constitutes its true riches—all derive their life from a hidden root, and this root is contemplation which is turned toward God and the world so as to affirm them.” It would seem, therefore, that “fine artists” such as Leonardo Da Vinci, Michelangelo, J. S. Bach, W. A. Mozart, Robert Frost, Flannery O’Connor, and a host of others have engaged in some form of contemplation to give us glimpses of God’s beauty.

Contemplation is also essential for spiritual direction. That is, we prepare for sessions in prayerful silence; and we encourage our directees to come with listening hearts and minds. What’s more, we do not prepare an agenda. Rather, we listen to discover God’s desires for our directees. Our sessions embrace a three-way conversation that includes God, the directee, and the director. It’s not unusual to offer periods of silence to listen for God’s “still small voice.”

So far, my deepest experience of contemplation came during a forty-eight hour silent retreat with a group of spiritual directors-in-training. There were a few times when our leader intentionally broke the silence, and we sometimes communicated nonverbally; but for the most part we were silent—together. Throughout the retreat I remained focused by mentally repeating a beloved passage of scripture, a prayer phrase. As we concluded, I shared with the group that I had experienced an indescribably deep sense of the presence of God—of peace. I felt that I had entered the contemplative path. As a result, I am better able to practice shorter periods of meditation, entering my own hermitage of the heart.

I am also thankful for the contemplative approach to the scriptures, Lectio Divina or Divine Reading. It involves sitting in silence with a passage, allowing God to speak through His teaching. Via contemplation, I gaze upon and listen to a morsel of the Lord’s magnificence. This practice makes my sharing of the word more personal, for it comes more from the heart than from the head. Contemplation also complements the cognitive approach to the Scriptures I was taught in seminary.

A case in point is my encounter with Jesus’ parable about the shrewd manager, found in Luke 16:1-9. You know the story: A manager is accused of wasting his master’s possessions. Before being thrown out, the manager wonders, “Now what? My boss has fired me. I don’t have the strength to dig ditches, and I’m too proud to beg. Ah, I know how to ensure that I’ll have plenty of friends who will give me a home when I am fired” (NLT). So he calls in his master’s debtors and shaves off significant slices from the balances owed. What a surprise that his master commends him for his cleverness! Moreover, Jesus observes that the people of this world are more prudent in dealing with their own kind than are the people of the light.

More amazing and mysterious still is Jesus’ application: “I tell you, use worldly wealth to gain friends for yourselves, so that when it is gone, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings” (NIV). What is Jesus advising us to do? And how do we put his guidance into practice?

I’ll respond to those questions by conveying a few of my experiences with the parable. It was recently part of the daily readings for the Mass. I wasn’t satisfied with the priest’s “take” on the story in his homily, so I consulted other sources. I read an excerpt from a sermon by one of the early Church Fathers (in Give Us This Day, November 7, 2015), and I considered N. T. Wright’s thoughts in Luke for Everyone and one or two other Evangelical scholars. What a wide range of interpretations! This surely is one of Jesus’ most provocative pronouncements.

My recourse was to “sit with,” to contemplate, and to memorize, Jesus’ conclusion: “I tell you, use worldly wealth to gain friends for yourselves, so that when it is gone, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings.” I considered its beauty as poetry, the economy of language, its simple, unavoidable message.

Then I presented it as a devotional to a group of colleagues. Again, when I invited a response, I was amazed at the range of applications expressed about Jesus’ wisdom. When I commented that memorizing the point of the parable had been difficult, one of them quipped that it is hard to memorize a statement that doesn’t make sense. But as I continued to meditate on the verse, I gained valuable insight into how Jesus’ teaching applies to me. And I am beginning to put it into practice.

Now who will deny that this parable is a work of art? Followers of Jesus have been dismayed, astonished, and enamored of it for centuries. As with all works of arts, we can be drawn in and enriched by its beauty.

But how did this piece of art come about? Did it arise, as Pieper suggests, via contemplation? Surely the Son of God, creator of all things, is the artist. Would it not have flowed spontaneously from his lips? Yet, we’re told that Jesus “grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man” (Luke 2:52). We also know that he often withdrew to lonely places and prayed (Luke 5:16), and that he learned obedience from what he suffered (Hebrews 5:8). No doubt, the archetypal poet pronounced this parable having spent time alone with His Father, the author of the Eternal Word.

Do we not, then, need time with the Word to grapple with its splendor?

© Stan Bohall

December 7, 2015