Practice is doing something you can do in order to be able to do something that you can't do.
For example, I currently can't run a marathon, but I can probably run 1
km. So, if I did one day decide to run a marathon, I would do what I can
do, that is, wheeze my way laboriously along for a kilometre; then,
providing I did that often enough, my abilities would eventually
increase to the point where I'd be able to run a marathon. The basic
principle is the same for sport, or playing a musical instrument, or
learning a language, or any skill you care to name. The principle is
also true for our inner lives, hence the phenomenon of spiritual
practice.
A spiritual life is simple but it's not easy. Read the Sermon on the
Mount sometime, and you'll get some idea of what it might be like to be a
truly spiritual person. Jesus' description of life in the Kingdom of
God might make lovely poetic reading, but I can't do it, and neither,
for that matter, can anybody else that I know. But that doesn't mean
that the kind of life Jesus spoke of, and, presumably, which he himself
exemplified isn't possible. It's all a matter of practice. So, just as a
beginner sits down with her trombone and cacophonically ascends and
descends the scales, I sit on my prayer stool and keep my eyes and mouth
shut for a while. In every different sort of practice, the practicer is
training body and mind - making new habits, sharpening reflexes,
installing patterns, learning about himself and his subject matter,
extending the range of what she can do. In spiritual practice all these
things are going on, but there is also something else. The soul, or if
you don't know what that means, the deepest levels of your self is being
reshaped. In spiritual practice we aren't just acquiring new skills, we
are being remade.
There are various spiritual practices: prayer, meditation, pilgrimage,
acts of service, fasting, almsgiving and so forth, but they all have
these three things in common: Intention, Consent and Repetition.
Intention. I intend, when sitting in the corner of my
study, to grow into the person the Christ calls me to be. I recognise
that after 40 years of trying I haven't got very far, and that in my
chosen practice, meditation, my missteps are infinitely more numerous
than my true ones. I recognise also that I am subject to a myriad of
conflicting and selfish motivations: sitting piously in the corner is a
great way to avoid doing the dishes, for example, and it might give me
some sort of jazzy inner experience, the boasting of which will enable
me to pretend to others that I'm more holy than I am. Sweet! But there
is also a part of me that really wants to be what God knows I can be.
So, I sit and, at the start of every period on my stool, it's important
to tell myself that I want to be whole, and intend to be whole, and
know that I'm not entirely deceiving myself.
Consent: If any real changes are going to be made to the
deepest parts of myself then someone or something else is going to have
to do it because I'm not able to change myself. I know this because I've
tried. God knows, I've tried. The patterns in me run too deep and my
self awareness is too shallow to allow any real change to be made, and
besides, many of the things about me which most need changing are things
I'm really rather attached to. So, again, when I sit it's important to
consciously give consent for changes to be made. Who or what am I giving
consent to? Well, that's not a big problem for me. I say God. I
realise that God may be a problematic concept for some and if that some
includes you,then why not use God as a kind of shorthand? - a kind of
working hypothesis that will do until you can figure out what lies at
the heart of the Universe and why whatever it is that you gradually
discover there seems kindly disposed to you and oddly determined on your
wholeness. Works for me!
Repetition: Like any sort practice the spiritual kind only
brings benefit when you do it again and again and again, and for as
long as you can manage it. Doing it when the mood takes you (or to
express that in a more pious way, when God tells you, or when you "feel"
to do it) just doesn't cut the mustard. You need a time and a place and
these need to be sorted before you sit down. So, when I take my seat,
after reminding myself of my intention and giving consent, I remind
myself also that I am here for ( state your pre-decided number here)
minutes and there is nothing, but nothing more important to do in that
time, earthquakes, fires and urgent calls of nature excepted.
The Christmas before last our kids gave us Ancestry.com kits. You know the deal: you spit into a test tube, send it over to Ireland, and in a month or so you get a wadge of paper in the mail telling you who you are. I've never, previously, been interested in all that stuff. I knew my forbears came to Aotearoa in the 1850's from Britain but I didn't know from where, exactly. Clemency's results, as it turns out, were pretty interesting. She was born in England, but has ancestors from various European places, and some who are Ngāti Raukawa, so she can whakapapa back to a little marae called Kikopiri, near Ōtaki. And me? It turns out I'm more British than most British people. Apart from a smattering of Norse - probably the result of some Viking raid in the dim distant past - all my tūpuna seem to have come from a little group of villages in Nottinghamshire. Now I've been to the UK a few times, and I quite like it, but it's not home: my heart and soul belon...
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