Lectio Divina: An Antidote for the Internet

I began seminary with lectio divina and I am ending seminary with lectio divina. I first encountered this practice in one of my first classes nearly three years ago. Now, one of my last courses at Fuller Seminary, “Congregation as Learning Community,” begins each meeting with lectio divina. This practice demands quiet and contemplation before speech and analysis. We begin with a prayer to calm ourselves and to center our awareness on the constant work of the Spirit in our midst. Two of us then read the selected scripture aloud. Their readings are followed by 5-10 minutes (this can be longer) spent in attentive silent reading and reflection on the text. We heed words and phrases that stand out to us, for whatever the reason, and trust that the Spirit is bringing those passages not only to our own attention, but to the group’s as well. Sometimes, the every member of our group ‘noticed’ a similar word, phrase, or idea; more often, we notice different parts of the text. In both cases, we trust that we have just encountered the Spirit through the scripture.

The past weeks have reminded me of the value the practice of lectio divina, perhaps even more than our group’s findings. I find the pace of lectio divina a discipline–focusing on that passage is a battle against infiltrating distraction. In a recent article from The Atlantic, “Is Google Making Us Stupid?”, the author, Nicholas Carr, claims that media, and the way we use those media, shape the way we think. Carr laments:

[M]edia are not just passive channels of information. They supply the stuff of thought, but they also shape the process of thought. And what the Net seems to be doing is chipping away my capacity for concentration and contemplation. My mind now expects to take in information the way the Net distributes it: in a swiftly moving stream of particles. Once I was a scuba diver in the sea of words. Now I zip along the surface like a guy on a Jet Ski (Carr, “Is Google Making Us Stupid?”).

The Internet is a teacher as much as it is an information portal. Carr goes on to claim that the Internet’s style of efficiency and immediacy inhibits our ability to engage in “deep reading.” If he is right, the Internet surfing we all practice may not just be making us stupid, but may be instilling in us a thoroughgoing distraction muting the voice of the Spirit. Yet, a more obvious conclusion is that Internet surfing is antithetical to the type of slow, disciplined reading practiced in lectio divina. In their book, Spiritual Classics, editors Richard Foster and Emile Griffin encourage practitioners of lectio divina to “[d]well inside the text” (Foster, Spiritual Classics, 35). This penetration into the text is a far cry from skimming along the surface of Internet content.

The church, myself included, would do well to recapture the cadence of lectio divina as a way to temper the pace the Internet fosters. Carr does not advocate Internet abstinence, but something like the media literacy Michael Budde suggests in his The (Magic) Kingdom of God. Though speaking primarily of the rhetorical criticism, Walter Brueggemann’s words capture the heart of lectio divina. Let his words be an exhortation to the church as he “invite[s] us to read with slowness, patience, and attentiveness, aware that disclosure (= revelation) could arise,” as the Spirit of God works ceaselessly in our midst (Brueggemann, Cadences of Home, 58).

Critical Thinking as Spiritual Discipline

On the recommendation of a seminary professor of mine, I have begun reading through several works by Dr. Stephen D. Brookfield. Brookfield has written at length concerning the development of critical thinking. For Brookfield, “[C]ritical thinking is a lived activity, not an abstract academic pastime … It involves calling into question the assumptions underlying our customary, habitual ways of thinking and acting and then being ready to think and act differently on the basis of this critical questioning” (Brookfield, Developing Critical Thinkers, 14, 1). As a practice, critical thinking: identifies and challenges cultural and ideological assumptions; accounts for the context in which ideas and practices take their shape; imaginatively explores alternatives to those dominant ideas and practices; and produces a “reflective skepticism” in those practitioners of critical thought (7-9). Additionally, critical thinking manifests emancipatory learning (building an awareness of the forces that brought you to your present and cultivating an intent to shape them), dialectical thinking (engaging understanding and resolving contradictions), and reflective learning (practicing internal reflection, which leads to a changed conceptual perspective) as constituent ingredients.

Speaking as one immersed in theological education and Christian commitment, I believe critical thinking has the makings of a fruitful spiritual discipline. I see critical thinking as a fortified, vitalized form of meditation (see Richard J. Foster, Celebration of Discipline, ch. 2 for a helpful summary and guide to Christian meditation). The priorities of critical thinking echo portions of Jesus’ message. First, Jesus called into question nearly every social, religious, and cultural assumption he confronted. He did not assume that the poor were treated as they should be, or that the most religious fully understood the message of God. Second, Jesus urged his followers to imagine the redeemed world God initiated and is bringing to fruition. He claimed that the Kingdom of God was present in the midst of his followers. Finally, Jesus called those followers to take action resonant with God’s new agenda. He impelled his disciples to turn the other cheek, go the extra mile, and give one’s cloak and tunic when asked. I believe Jesus, in a way far greater than I understand, was the ultimate critical thinker. I hope that my own local church, and local bodies of believers everywhere, will question the assumptions produced by their contexts, imagine the world that God is bringing together, and act in ways that hasten the coming of that renewed world.