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Spiritual Discipline
By Hugh T. Kerr

Editors' Note: "When Hugh Thomson ("Tim") Kerr, Editor of THEOLOGY TODAY for over four decades, died last March, we decided that a fitting way to honor his memory and his long service to the journal would be to create a special issue of THEOLOGY TODAY, one whose pages would be filled with the sorts of writers and articles that Tim loved best. This is that issue.

Here you will find tributes to Tim Kerr by two of his good friends, F. W. Dillistone and John Mulder, and essays on a variety of theological themes by people whose thought Tim deeply admired. Though Tim, a refreshingly modest man, would surely have been embarrassed to see articles about himself here, we, nevertheless, believe that he would have greatly enjoyed reading this issue of THEOLOGY TODAY.

In his last months, Tim was working on the manuscript of another book, this one on the role of the Holy Spirit in Christian theology and practice. The editorial that follows is an excerpt from that manuscript, and we are gratified to be able to include it-Tim Kerr's final editorial.

'It is a curious fact of our times that "spirituality," in one form or another, has become so wide-spread. We hear of spiritual direction, spiritual exercises, spiritual meditating, spiritual formation, and on and on. "Spirituality" has become an entry in bibliographical listings, in library usage, and included as a title for numerous books and articles. In one current Books in Print directory, there are more than twenty four-column pages listing titles, old and new, that include the words "spiritual" and "spirituality,"

"Spirituality" may be associated with religious faith and life, or it may be for many a sort of self-searching, a mystical amalgam of all religious and contemplative experiences. What is curious about the present interest in "spirituality" can be stated in two questions: (1) Why is this happening in our day, just now? and (2) Isn't there something contradictory about relating the spiritual life to "discipline"?

The word "spirituality" is certainly not new. In some sense, "spirituality" is simply a synonym for faith. Christian spiritual and devotional practices, such as prayer, attending church, participating in

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the sacraments, confession-perhaps much more commonplace in early and medieval history-have nonetheless been emphasized by some in every historical period.

There are mystics and contemplatives who are part of every age and often independently of dominant traditions. Any anthology of such exemplars of "spirituality" would include names like Gregory of Nyssa, Bernard of Clairvaux, Francis of Assisi, Eckhart, Ruysbroeck, Catherine of Siena, Loyola, Teresa of Avila, Julian of Norwich, John of the Cross, John Woolman, Jacob Boehme, Hildegard of Bingen, Blaise Pascal, William Law, Mechtild of Magdeburg, Thomas Kelly, Martin Buber, Evelyn Underhill, Howard Thurman, and Thomas Merton, just to note some.

Why are these people and their written meditations, often very personal and private, being perused with ready acceptance these days? And not only these but an increasing number of contemporary searchers of a deeper spiritual life. Why do study groups today gather to discuss these matters that were not so long ago regarded as arcane, gnostic, and bizarre? Why are retreat centers crowded and overbooked with those who want some small quiet time away from the routine of daily life? And why are so many busy people of all kinds taking time out on a regular schedule to meditate, pray, and journal?

There are certainly historical precedents. The desert anchorites and hermetics in the early church, such as Anthony, Jerome, Barbara, and Simon Stylites come to mind. German pietism under Spener and Francke in the eighteenth century existed briefly as a protest against orthodox Lutheranism. And the Buchmanite, Oxford Group, or Moral Rearmament movement flourished here and there in the 1920s and early 1930s. But these mostly withdrawn examples had little lasting effect, and many in both secular and sacred traditions looked on them as slightly eccentric.

So, why today is the quest of the spiritual life so pervasive? We can only speculate that there must be multitudes of all kinds of people out there in the modern world with an unfed hunger and an unquenched thirst for things spiritual, personal, and inward. They are, apparently, not finding what they need in an impersonal, competitive work world, in higher education, in the sciences, or in religious centers.

II

What are the "exercises" on which seekers rely and the code words and rubrics under which they operate? We can easily list a few, in random order, such as being rather than doing, relaxing and listening, quieting down and being detached, self-emptying or "kenosis" (cf. Philippians 2:7), letting go and letting God (an AA slogan). The purpose of such practices and states of mind is not in the interests of self-abnegation but in order to be filled and replenished with new light and love. The familiar hymn says it plainly: "Breathe on me breath of God; Fill me with life anew."

Contemporary "spirituality," unlike many examples from previous

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times, has acquired an ethical and social direction. Mystics and contemplatives have frequently been charged with cultivating a selfcentered quietism insulated from the problems and issues of the time. This was even the case in the early days of the youth protest movement when Timothy Leary urged students to "Turn on, Tune in, Drop out." Experiments with LSD and other hallucinogens were meant to expand perspective and alter states of consciousness. Lacking in spiritual commitment and without ethical aim or purpose, such experiments are now largely discredited partly because they reflected a cynicism and a blase' boredom, echoes of which could be heard in Peggy Lee's doleful lament, "Is That All There Is?"

Aldous Huxley, who tried the mind-changing native American mescaline and wrote about its effects in Doors of Perception (1954), has made a halting and half-serious apology for mystics and contemplatives who simply sit and do nothing. "There is," he wrote, "no form of contemplation, even the most quietistic, which is without its ethical values. Half at least of all morality is negative and consists in keeping out of mischief." He goes on to note that mystics are not likely to be gamblers or drunkards; they are not normally bigoted or intolerant; they do not make war or "grind the faces of the poor."

But this well-meaning defense is peculiarly unpersuasive and irrelevant for our day. The special trademark of contemporary "spirituality" is the ethical implication of an inner enlightenment that issues in concern and commitment for social justice, protection and renewal of the environment, and a new global ecumenism. Spiritual awe must lead to social action and the exercises of spiritual disciplines should result in dedicated discipleship. Human beings are creatures of habit, and some sort of structured regimen of prayer and meditation constantly reinforces not just our inner regeneration but our outward reach to include the whole of creation.

The spiritual Markings (1964) of Dag Hammarskjöld were meant to be personal reflections rather than a book, but after his death in a plane crash in the Congo, the reveries were translated and published with the help of poet W.H. Auden. Dag Hammarskjöld lived a hectic life in the interests of international peace and justice, but few knew that the much-respected diplomat was constantly journaling his inner thoughts and prayers. Three items from the Markings can be cited as illustrations of the relation between spirituality and social ethics:'

'-Night is drawing nigh-'
For all that has been-Thanks!
To all that shall be-Yes!

Goodness is something so simple: always to live for others, never to seek one's own advantage.

'Dag Hammarskjold, Markings, translated by Leif Sjoberg and W.H. Auden (New York: Knopf, 1964), pp. 89-102.

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So long as you abide in the Unheard-of, you are beyond and above-to hold fast to this must be the First Commandment in your spiritual discipline.

III

The connection between the spiritual life and social justice is receiving intensified attention by many popular writers, such as Matthew Fox, the well-known Dominican priest. His book on Creation Spirituality (1991) is a vigorous summons to all seekers of the life-giving spirit to move from contemplation to compassion.

Creation spirituality, Fox writes, "awakens people and their slumbering moral outrage at the folly of our race and offers a creative outlet for the justified anger and the pent-up frustration of ordinary folks." He distinguishes between the First World, overdeveloped in material things but underdeveloped spiritually, and the Third World, which is just the reverse.

The traditional spiritual journey stemming from Plotinus (A.D. 205-270) involved three steps or "ways"-purgation, illumination, and union. But the newer creation "spirituality" rejects these in favor of four steps-the via positiva (awareness of the mystery and wonder of nature), the via negativa (silence, letting go, awareness of darkness and nothingness), the via creativa (human creativity and generativity), and the via transformata (relief of suffering, combatting injustice, and the struggle for balance).

This newer approach to spiritual discipline is "prophetic" in the sense that, as Abraham Heschel put it, the prophet "interferes" on behalf of social justice. The inner experience of the sacred focuses on the outward injustices of society, and, since all spiritual exercises share the life-giving spirit in common, Fox maintains, "all true paths are essentially one-because there is only one spirit, one breath, one life, one energy in the universe. . . . Spirituality does not make us other-worldly; it renders us more fully alive."

Discipline, regular meditation, and scheduled times for reading and journaling are not in themselves assurances of the coming of the Spirit. The Spirit, after all, is not under our control. We cannot manipulate the Spirit to suit our purposes. The Spirit, like the wind, blows according to divine, not human, direction. But we can make ourselves ready and receptive, not knowing when or where the Spirit will appear. We are admonished to "be still and know that I am God" and "to wait for the Lord."

Most of us are not naturally or instinctively humble or contrite, and we have little practice in being still or waiting on the Lord. Discipline, exercises, regimens of various sorts can put us in the mood to receive the injunction that a spirit-filled and spirit-led life requires us "to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with ... God."

IV

If, finally, it is asked where and how do we find the Spirit, the answer is, "We don't." The Spirit finds us. What we have been talking about in

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general and abstract terms can best be illustrated by reference to some familiar and famous names who tell of their own personal experiences. Most of them agree that the Spirit of light and life came to them unbidden and unexpectedly.

Augustine is the classic example. In his Confessions, he says that, as he agonized in a Roman garden, he heard a voice saying, "Pick it up, read it; pick it up, read it" (Tolle lege; Tolle lege). He returned to his room to find this passage of Scripture: "Not in reveling and drunkenness, not in debauchery and licentiousness, not in quarreling and jealousy" (Romans 13:13).

Evelyn Underhill, the British mystical writer and spiritual counselor, wrote to her mentor, Baron Friedrich von Hugel, about her own dissatisfaction with how things were going, and she, like Augustine, heard a voice speak to her. She remained self-critical but renewed her dedication to practices, such as prayer and contemplation.

C.S. Lewis tells of riding one day on the top of a London bus when he felt he was "holding something at bay, or shutting something out." And then he was aware of the possibility of opening a door or keeping it shut, and, later on he responded "I chose" to open the door.

Francis Thompson, the poet, wrote many verses long forgotten except for one he called "The Hound of Heaven." A drug addict and also a devout Christian believer, Thompson likened the unrelenting quest of the divine in his life to a dogging pursuit that would not let him go:

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labrynthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears.

Both Ignatius Loyola and Sojourner Truth, different and distanced in so many ways, tell of their spiritual awakening by using the third person singular. Loyola, for example, says of himself, "He was a man given over to the vanities of the world," and the slave Isabella, better known as Sojourner Truth, tells of the "awful look" of her "almighty Friend," so that "she [speaking of herself] plainly saw that there was no place, not even in hell" where she could escape.

The list of similar personal pilgrimages is endless. Each one, yesterday and today, is different but also the same. We don't summon the Spirit; the Spirit comes to us often in curious and unexpected ways.

The wind blows where it wills,
and you hear the sound of it,
but you do not know whence it comes
or whither it goes;
so it is with every one who is born of the Spirit.

(John 3:8)

Hugh T. Kerr (1909-1992)