Jean Khoury
Summary: There is a form of procrastination that can remain hidden even in a very active Christian life. We pray, attend Mass, read Scripture, make resolutions, participate in apostolic activities and perform many good works, yet can remain substantially unchanged. The problem is not necessarily that we do not know the Gospel or that we do not desire the good. The deeper problem is the distance between knowing the will of God and actually doing it. St. Paul describes this interior division with extraordinary honesty: “For I do not do the good I want, but I do the evil I do not want” (Rom 7:19). The Christian can therefore become a person who continually hears the Word, admires the Word and even desires to live the Word, while postponing the concrete act by which the Word would become obedience.
This is a form of Christian procrastination, and it is rooted in the resistance of the “old man” within us. The mountain that stands between who we are and who Christ is calling us to become is far too great for us to move by our own strength. Yet Lectio Divina offers a remarkably precise response to this paralysis. Rather than confronting the whole mountain of transformation at once, Lectio allows the Holy Spirit, through the Word of God, to touch one precise point in our conscience and lead us towards one concrete act, one step. The genius of Lectio Divina is therefore not merely that it helps us to understand Scripture or to pray more deeply; it brings the Word to the point where hearing becomes doing, where grace encounters freedom, and where the Christian is invited to respond today to what God is asking today.
Introduction
One of the fundamental problems any Christian encounters before the Gospel is the problem of doing God’s will. We can know what is right without doing what is right, desire the good without possessing the strength to accomplish it, and recognise the voice of the Gospel without allowing that voice to determine our concrete behaviour. This is not an incidental difficulty on the margins of Christian life. It touches the very heart of conversion, because Christianity is not simply the reception of a doctrine but the transformation of the human person in Christ.
St. Paul describes this mystery in Romans 7 with words that continue to expose the deepest division within us: “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate” (Rom 7:15). He then identifies the difficulty even more precisely: “For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out” (Rom 7:18). The Christian can therefore possess genuine knowledge of the good and even a genuine desire for the good, while something within him remains resistant to translating that knowledge and desire into action.
This is where the phenomenon of Christian procrastination begins to appear. Ordinary procrastination means postponing something that needs to be done. Christian procrastination is more subtle and more serious: it is the continual postponement of the concrete response to the grace of God. We know that we should forgive, but we postpone forgiveness. We know that we need to change a particular attitude, but we postpone the change. We know that God is asking something of us, but we tell ourselves that we will respond later. We can even become accustomed to living with the distance between what we know and what we do. Above all, we know that Jesus is here, waiting for us to speak with him and, even more importantly, to listen to him. Yet we often do not take the time to place ourselves before him and allow him to tell us what he wants. Thinking that we already know what Jesus wants is not the same as actually meeting him and listening to him reveal his will to us here and now. Our human perception of God’s will is often general and mixed with our own projections, expectations and plans. We can therefore carry a heavy and sometimes paralysing idea of what God wants from us, whereas Jesus may be asking for something much simpler, more precise and more concrete today. Lectio Divina brings us out of our projections and back into the encounter itself: we stop assuming that we know what he wants and allow him, through his Word and the action of the Holy Spirit, to show us what he is asking of us now.
The paradox is that this can happen while we remain religiously active. We go to Mass and come out of Mass, but nothing seems to change. We pray, perhaps using many different forms of prayer, yet remain fundamentally the same person. We read spiritual books, attend retreats, make resolutions and perform good works, yet discover, if we look honestly into our conscience, that we are still dominated by the same patterns. We are moving, but we are not necessarily advancing. We are active around the centre without allowing the Gospel to reach the centre. The problem, therefore, is not simply that Christians need to do more. It is that what they are doing must eventually become transformation.
The Mountain of the Old Man
The reason this transformation is so difficult is that the Christian is not beginning with a neutral human nature waiting to receive a few improvements. There is within us a profound resistance to God, a resistance which Scripture describes through the language of the “old man” or “old self”. St. Paul tells the Ephesians that Christians must “put away the old self of your former way of life” and “put on the new self, created in God’s way in righteousness and holiness of truth” (Eph 4:22–24). The Christian life therefore involves a genuine passage from one mode of existence to another: from the old man to the new man, from the person governed by the patterns of the old life to the person progressively configured to Christ. It is not enough to have a clear goal, even if that goal is the highest possible one: serving the Lord and following Jesus. We can become so focused on the goal that we forget that there are also means by which we pursue it, and that these means are not neutral. They pass through us, through our desires, motivations, deep intentions, habits, reactions and ways of acting. The question is therefore not only, “Where am I going?” but also, “Who in me is walking towards that goal, and how is he walking?”
Peter provides a striking example. When he says to Jesus, “I will lay down my life for you” (Jn 13:37), his intention appears admirable. He has a clear goal: to remain faithful to Jesus, even to the point of death. Yet Jesus knows that something deeper is at work in Peter. His declaration is still coming, at least in part, from the old man in him: from his own strength, his own confidence and his own conception of fidelity. Peter believes that he knows what following Jesus requires, and he intends to accomplish it through his own strength. Jesus therefore tells him, “Will you lay down your life for me? Amen, amen, I say to you, the cock will not crow before you deny me three times” (Jn 13:38). The goal is right, but Peter himself still needs to be transformed.
This reveals something fundamental about Christianity: there are not only two things to consider, the goal and the plan for reaching it, but also the person who is carrying out that plan. Jesus is the goal; following Jesus is the vocation; serving the Lord is the purpose. But the means by which I follow him pass through the person I am, and that person still needs to be changed. The old man can take hold even of a good Christian goal and attempt to accomplish it according to his own strength, his own ideas, his own speed and his own plans.
This is why having a clear Christian goal is not enough. I can be absolutely convinced that I want to serve the Lord and still need to ask a much more searching question: who is serving the Lord in me? Is it Christ acting in me, or is it still largely the old man using a Christian goal to fulfil his own vision? Am I following Jesus, or am I following my idea of what it means to follow Jesus?
The means of Christian life are therefore hidden within us, but they are very much alive, because it is we who walk, we who speak, we who serve, we who make decisions and we who act. Following Jesus therefore cannot mean simply directing ourselves towards the right destination; the very person who is making the journey must progressively be transformed. The goal is Christ, but the one pursuing Christ must become increasingly conformed to Christ.
This is precisely why Lectio Divina is so important. It interrupts our tendency to live from a genial general idea of Christian life and brings us back into the concrete presence of Jesus. Instead of simply saying, “I will serve the Lord,” I am invited to listen to what the Lord is actually asking of me today and, at the same time, to notice what is happening within me as I respond. The question becomes not merely, “What am I doing for Jesus?” but, “Who is doing this in me?” Am I acting from fear, ambition, self-reliance, the desire for recognition or the need to control, or am I allowing the Holy Spirit to form in me the very dispositions of Christ?
The Christian life therefore requires both a clear direction and a continual transformation of the person who is walking in that direction. We need to know where we are going, but we also need to allow Jesus to transform the one who is making the journey. Otherwise, we can spend our lives moving towards the right goal with the wrong person at the wheel.
This is why the task of Christian transformation can appear like an enormous mountain. If we look honestly inside ourselves, we can discover an immense number of things that need to change. There are habits to overcome, relationships to heal, attitudes to purify, fears to surrender, attachments to loosen, forms of selfishness to overcome, acts of charity to practise, truths to accept and concrete responsibilities to assume: in one word, a full commitment of all our energies. We can see the whole mountain at once, and the sight of it can be paralysing.
The temptation is then to place the whole force of our will against the whole mountain. We make many resolutions. We decide that we will improve our prayer, become more charitable, control our temper, stop judging others, forgive someone, read Scripture more faithfully, exercise greater self-discipline, overcome a particular attachment and become more generous, all at the same time. The intention may be entirely sincere, but the result can be precisely the opposite of what we hoped for. The will becomes overwhelmed by the sheer multiplicity of demands, and because everything must change, nothing concretely changes. The problem is not that the Christian vocation is too demanding. The problem is that we are trying to carry the entire vocation to holiness into one act of human determination.
The mountain of the old man cannot be moved in this way. It can only be moved by grace. Christian transformation is fundamentally God’s work in us, but God’s grace does not ordinarily bypass our freedom. Grace moves us towards a concrete response, and our freedom must consent to that movement. We cannot transform ourselves into Christ, but we can cooperate with the grace by which Christ transforms us. This is where the importance of one concrete act begins to appear.
From Hearing the Word to Doing the Word
The New Testament repeatedly refuses to separate hearing the Word from doing the Word. St James puts the matter with extraordinary simplicity: “Be doers of the word and not hearers only, deluding yourselves” (Jas 1:22). The danger is precisely that hearing can become a substitute for doing. A person can listen to the Gospel, understand it and even be moved by it, while remaining unchanged because the Word has not yet become obedience.
The same principle appears at the conclusion of the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus does not distinguish between those who have heard the Gospel and those who have not heard it. Both have heard. The decisive distinction is between those who act upon his words and those who do not: “Everyone who listens to these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock” (Mt 7:24). The Christian life therefore requires a movement from hearing to doing, from revelation to response, from grace received to obedience enacted. This is precisely where Lectio Divina possesses such a remarkable spiritual significance.
Lectio Divina is sometimes presented primarily as a way of reading Scripture prayerfully, and certainly it is that. But its deeper purpose is much more demanding. Through Lectio, the Christian places himself before the living Word of God so that the Holy Spirit can take that Word and make it personally operative. The Word does not remain a general truth about Christian life; it begins to address me, here and now.
Benedict XVI described this beautifully when he said that “the diligent reading of Sacred Scripture accompanied by prayer brings about that intimate dialogue in which the person reading hears God who is speaking, and in praying, responds to him with trusting openness of heart”. He then recalled the words of Psalm 119: “Your word is a lamp for my feet and a light for my path” (Ps 119:105). The image of the lamp is important. A lamp for my feet does not illuminate the entire road at once. It gives enough light for the next step. This is precisely what Lectio can do. It does not necessarily tell me everything that needs to change in my life. It allows the Holy Spirit to illuminate what needs to be addressed now.
The Genius of Lectio Divina: One Point
Here lies what I believe to be one of the great spiritual geniuses of a well understood Lectio Divina: it brings the enormous demands of Christian transformation into one concrete point of obedience. The Christian does not need to resolve today every question that will arise during the entire process of sanctification. He does not need to solve his entire personality, overcome every weakness, correct every relationship and acquire every virtue in a single day. The question is much more precise: what is the Lord asking of me today? This is a decisive difference.
If I ask myself, “What are all the things I need to change?”, I immediately confront an almost unmanageable mountain. But if, after prayerfully receiving the Word, I ask, “What is the one thing the Lord is asking of me today through today’s readings?”, the mountain becomes a point. That point may be very small, but it is no longer vague. It may be a conversation I need to have, a forgiveness I need to offer, an apology I need to make, a criticism I need to suppress, an act of charity I need to undertake, a duty I have been postponing, a person to whom I need to give attention, a particular temptation that I need to resist, or simply an act of obedience to something that I already know the Lord has been asking of me. The power lies precisely in the concreteness. It is not that one act solves everything. It is that one act creates a place where grace and freedom meet. Lectio does not tell me to move the whole mountain. It allows the Holy Spirit to point to where I am to put my foot today.
Lectio does not tell me to move the whole mountain. It allows the Holy Spirit to point to where I am to put my foot today. Yet there is something more profound here than simply dividing a large task into smaller tasks. The whole mountain is somehow included in today’s step. When we climb a mountain, we do not climb it by making one enormous movement from the bottom to the summit; we climb it by taking one step after another. Each step is small when compared with the mountain, but each step is nevertheless a real movement towards the summit. The whole mountain is present in the direction of that step. In the same way, the whole vocation to Christian holiness is somehow present in the concrete act to which the Holy Spirit is inviting me today. I am not merely doing one isolated good thing; I am following Christ today. I am not simply completing a small task; I am allowing the life of Christ to advance within me.
This is why the one concrete act identified through Lectio Divina should never be regarded as insignificant. When the Word of God has spoken to me and the Holy Spirit has shown me what Christ is asking of me, and I then actually do it, something real has happened in my Christian life. Today’s “bread” of the Word has not merely been looked at or admired; it has been received, eaten and assimilated. Jesus says, “I am the bread of life” (Jn 6:35), and the Christian life consists in receiving Christ so deeply that his life progressively becomes our life. In this sense, today’s Word is not simply something I have understood; it is something I have lived. The Word has passed from the page into my heart, and from my heart into my actions. Something in me has therefore genuinely moved. Growth has been enacted.
This is also why the language of “following” Jesus is so important. To follow someone means that I actually move behind him. If Jesus speaks and I remain where I am, I may admire him, study him and pray to him, but I am not yet following him in the concrete sense in which the Gospel calls me to follow. When the Word indicates today’s step and I take that step, following Christ is actually happening. The Christian life is no longer merely an intention for the future; it is occurring in the present. Grace is moving me, and my freedom is consenting to that movement.
The Gospel itself places extraordinary importance upon this fidelity to what may appear small. At the end of the parable of the talents, the master says to the servant who has been faithful: “Well done, my good and faithful servant. Since you were faithful in small matters, I will give you great responsibilities. Come, share your master’s joy” (Mt 25:21). The Greek text speaks of being faithful “over a few things” (ἐπὶ ὀλίγα), and this is precisely the point: the disciple is not first tested through extraordinary achievements but through fidelity to what has been entrusted to him. Jesus does not say that the servant was faithful because he accomplished something spectacular; he praises him because he was “faithful in small matters”. The greater things are entrusted precisely through this fidelity.
This gives an extraordinary light to the daily practice of Lectio Divina. What is the Lord asking of me today? What is the “small matter” over which he wants me to be faithful? It may be very ordinary and may even seem insignificant in comparison with the immense transformation I know I need. Yet if this is what Jesus is asking of me today, then it is not insignificant. It is the place where my fidelity to him is being tested. It is the place where the Gospel is becoming life. It is the place where I am actually following him.
The Christian life is therefore not primarily the accumulation of grand resolutions. It is fidelity to Christ in the small, concrete acts through which he leads us. We do not become holy by continually intending to become holy. We become holy as grace progressively teaches us to say yes to Christ in the concrete circumstances of each day. The whole mountain is contained, in a certain sense, in the step I am taking today, because the direction of the step is the direction of my entire Christian life. If today’s step is an act of forgiveness, then I am becoming a more forgiving person in Christ. If today’s step is an act of patience, then I am allowing the patience of Christ to become more deeply rooted in me. If today’s step is an act of generosity, then I am allowing the self-giving of Christ to take greater possession of my freedom.
The act remains small, but the movement is not small. The Word has been received; grace has been given; freedom has responded; obedience has occurred; and something in the person has been changed. Tomorrow there will be another Word, another grace, another step. Over time, these apparently small acts constitute the movement of the entire Christian life. The mountain is climbed one step at a time, but every genuine step is already an act of ascent.
This is why the battle against Christian procrastination is ultimately a battle for fidelity to today’s grace. The temptation is always to postpone the real Christian life until some imagined future moment when we will be more disciplined, more prayerful, more generous or more capable of responding to God. Lectio brings us back to today. The Lord does not ordinarily ask me to become tomorrow’s saint today; he asks me to be faithful to the grace he is giving me now. The Word gives today’s bread (we say it in the Our Father), and today’s bread is meant to be eaten today.
In this sense, Lectio Divina becomes a daily school of following Christ, a school of Mary who always listened and put into practise Jesus’ Words (see Matthew 12:46–50; Mark 3:31–35; Luke 8:19–21). The Word speaks, the Spirit points, the Christian listens, and then the Christian moves. One step is taken, and the person is no longer exactly where he was. The old man has been met at one point, the new man has been given room to grow, and the life of Christ has advanced one step further within him. This is how the immense work of sanctification becomes concrete: not by trying to accomplish everything at once, but by being faithful to Jesus in the small things, in the precise things, in the things he is asking of me today.
The One Point: Drilling Through the Wall of the Old Man
There is a simple image that can help us understand why the concentration of Lectio Divina upon one concrete act is so powerful. Imagine that I am standing in front of a massive wall that I want to knock down. I can throw my whole body against it, lean against it with all my strength, strike it repeatedly with my hands, and exhaust myself trying to move it. Yet the wall will remain standing. My effort may be enormous, but it is badly concentrated. I am applying all my strength to the entire surface of the wall, and the wall is simply too large and too solid to be moved in this way. This is often what happens when we approach the transformation of the old man through general resolutions (good will is not enough, right powerful means are important). “I will be more compassionate.” “I will be more patient.” “I will pray better.” “I will become more charitable.” “I will stop judging people.” All of these intentions are good, but they remain general. We throw ourselves against the entire wall, and the wall remains where it was.
There is another way. Instead of trying to knock down the whole wall with my body, I take a drill and begin to make a small hole. The hole may initially be tiny, but something extraordinary happens: through that little opening, I begin to see the light from the other side. I return the next day and drill a little further, and the next day I make the opening larger. Gradually the wall is weakened. The light that was previously completely inaccessible begins to enter. I am not attacking the whole wall indiscriminately; I am concentrating all my effort upon one precise point. Eventually the wall is so weakened that it can no longer remain as it was.
This is something of what happens in Lectio Divina. The Word of God, taken up by the Holy Spirit, does not necessarily confront me with the entire mountain of what needs to change in me. It brings me to one point. It shows me one place where the Gospel has to become concrete. The Holy Spirit takes the Word and drills into the wall of the old man at precisely the place where my conversion needs to begin. This is why the Letter to the Hebrews can say that “the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and spirit… and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart” (Heb 4:12). The Word penetrates; it reaches the place of division; it exposes the precise resistance that prevents hearing from becoming obedience. Benedict XVI makes this same connection when he describes the Word as a criterion for discernment and asks, at the contemplative stage of Lectio Divina, “what conversion of mind, heart and life is the Lord asking of us?” He then insists that Lectio is not complete until it reaches “action (actio)”. (Vatican)
This is why a general resolution such as “I will be more compassionate” may leave the old man untouched. It is too broad to penetrate the concrete structure of my resistance. But suppose that during Lectio I am confronted by the command of Christ to love, and the Holy Spirit brings to mind one particular person towards whom I have become impatient, judgemental or closed. Suddenly the Word has become concrete. The issue is no longer “I should become a more compassionate person”; it is “I need to understand this person, forgive this person, listen to this person, or make this particular act of charity towards this person.” Now the drill has found the point.
And this is where something genuinely happens. When I forgive this precise person, something in the old man is no longer left untouched. I have allowed the Word to penetrate one particular resistance. I have not conquered the whole of my selfishness, nor have I suddenly become perfectly compassionate, but a hole has been opened in the wall. Through that hole the light from the other side can enter. The new man has, so to speak, swallowed a mouthful of the old man, and something that belonged to the old way of living has been overcome by a new act of life in Christ.
This image also helps us to understand why the one act should not be dismissed as something insignificant. The act may appear very small when compared with the totality of Christian perfection, but its significance lies in the place where it occurs. The question is not how much of the wall I have destroyed today, but whether I have allowed the light to enter where previously there was only darkness. A single act of forgiveness can be more transformative than a hundred general resolutions to become a more forgiving person, because in that concrete act the Word has crossed the boundary between intention and obedience.
The following day, the Holy Spirit will bring another point to light. Perhaps another resistance, another relationship, another attachment, another act of charity or another form of self-seeking. Again, I do not attempt to destroy the whole wall. I drill another hole. Little by little, grace opens passages through the old structure. The person begins to see differently, desire differently and act differently. The new man is not manufactured by a heroic act of self-improvement; he emerges as the person progressively allows the life of Christ to penetrate the places previously governed by the old man.
This is why Lectio Divina possesses such a profound pedagogical wisdom. It does not ask the Christian to solve the whole problem of sanctification in one morning. It brings the immense demands of the Gospel into the concreteness of today. The Word gives light; the Spirit points; the conscience recognises; the will responds; and one act is made. The act may seem tiny, but it opens a breach. Through that breach, the light enters, and the old wall is no longer completely closed.
In this sense, the daily practice of Lectio Divina becomes a gradual dismantling of the old man. Not because we possess the strength to destroy him, but because the Holy Spirit uses the Word to lead us into concrete acts of obedience through which the new life of Christ progressively takes possession of us. The Catechism describes meditation as the place where “we pass from thoughts to reality” and where the Christian learns to ask, “Lord, what do you want me to do?” (CCC 2706). The movement is therefore from the Word to the heart, from the heart to discernment, and from discernment to action.
The genius of Lectio Divina is precisely here: it teaches us not to waste our strength by throwing ourselves against the entire wall of the old man, but to allow the Holy Spirit to show us where to drill today. One concrete act of obedience creates one opening. One opening allows the light to enter. And when this happens day after day, the wall that seemed immovable begins, by the power of grace, to lose its solidity.
The Sword of the Spirit and the Point of the Word
The biblical imagery becomes particularly powerful here. St. Paul calls the Word of God “the sword of the Spirit” (Eph 6:17), while the Letter to the Hebrews says that “the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and spirit, of joints and marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart” (Heb 4:12). The image of the sword explains something essential about Lectio. The Holy Spirit does not merely give us information through Scripture; he penetrates us through Scripture. The Word reaches the precise place where the person is divided, where the mind knows but the will hesitates, where the conscience recognises the good but the old man resists doing it. This is why the connection between the Holy Spirit and the Word is so profound. The Spirit who inspired the Scriptures is also the Spirit who makes the Word living and operative within the believer. The Word is objective, but the Spirit makes it personally penetrating. The biblical text remains the biblical text, yet at a particular moment a word or sentence can become extraordinarily luminous because the Spirit is applying it to the concrete situation of the person.
Benedict XVI makes exactly this connection in Verbum Domini. He says that Lectio Divina begins with reading, proceeds to meditation and prayer, and reaches contemplation, where the Christian asks “what conversion of mind, heart and life is the Lord asking of us?” He then insists that “the word of God appears here as a criterion for discernment” and recalls Hebrews 4:12, which describes the Word as living and active and capable of discerning “the thoughts and intentions of the heart”. Most importantly for the argument here, he states that “the process of lectio divina is not concluded until it arrives at action (actio), which moves the believer to make his or her life a gift for others in charity”. (Vatican) This is an extraordinarily important statement. The Pope is not adding action as an optional appendix to Lectio. He places action within the movement of Lectio itself. The Word is read, understood, prayed, contemplated and finally embodied in life. Lectio therefore contains within itself an antidote to Christian procrastination.
Why Many Resolutions Can Paralyse Us
There is a paradox in spiritual life that deserves particular attention. We often think that the more resolutions we make, the more seriously we are taking our conversion. Yet an excessive number of resolutions can actually weaken the movement of the will. If I decide that I must change ten things simultaneously, my attention and my will are dispersed among ten different demands. Each one is good, but together they can become paralysing. The whole of Christian life becomes a project that I must somehow manage, and the inevitable result is that I continually postpone the moment when genuine obedience begins. This is why general resolutions are often insufficient. “I am going to become a better Christian” is true but too general. “I am going to become more charitable” is good but still insufficiently concrete. “I am going to improve my prayer” can be sincere but remain undefined. Such resolutions can remain indefinitely in the realm of intention. Lectio brings the intention into focus. Instead of applying all our will to a multitude of changes, we allow the Holy Spirit to concentrate our attention upon one point. The force of the will is gathered rather than dispersed. The Christian is not asked to become perfect today; he is asked to obey today’s grace. This is not spiritual minimalism. It is spiritual realism. The one act is not the whole of Christian perfection. It is the concrete place in which Christian perfection begins to become incarnate in the person.
The Word Must Reach the Centre
This also explains why Christian activity, however good, can sometimes conceal spiritual stagnation. We can attend Mass, pray the Rosary, practise Lectio, read spiritual books, go on retreat, serve the Church and perform works of mercy, and yet discover that the central patterns of our personality remain largely untouched. This does not mean that these practices are ineffective. It means that we must distinguish between religious activity and transformation. The Christian life cannot be measured merely by the quantity of things we do for God. It must also be measured by what God is doing in us. Benedict XVI warned against a “superficial activism” that can satisfy us temporarily while leaving us spiritually empty. He urged Christians to make room every day for the Word of God so that it might permeate “our whole life, thought and action”. (Vatican) The question is therefore not simply whether we are doing many Christian things. The deeper question is whether the Word of God is reaching the centre of our lives. Have I become more patient? Have I become more obedient? Have I become more charitable? Have I become more capable of forgiving? Have I become less self-centred? Have I become more attentive to the person in front of me? Have I become more willing to do what God asks rather than what I prefer? These are not questions about religious activity. They are questions about transformation. They are all summed up in the following question: Have I listened to Jesus telling me today the new act He wants me to make?
Lectio and the Renewal of the Person
This is why St Paul can say, “Do not be conformed to this world but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, so that you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and pleasing and perfect” (Rom 12:2). The purpose of transformation is intimately connected with discernment: the renewed person becomes increasingly capable of recognising God’s will and responding to it. (Vatican) Lectio Divina serves this process because the Word gradually forms within us a new way of seeing. We begin not merely to ask, “What do I want?” but “What does God want?” We begin not merely to evaluate circumstances according to our preferences but according to the mind of Christ. The Word becomes a criterion for discernment, and discernment leads towards obedience. This is why the daily practice of Lectio can be so formative. The person gradually acquires a new relationship with God’s will. Instead of waiting for extraordinary interventions, he learns to recognise the concrete movements by which God is leading him through Scripture, prayer, conscience and circumstances. The Christian life becomes less about making grand resolutions and more about learning the art of responding to grace.
Grace and the One Act
There is, however, an essential theological qualification. We must never imagine that the concrete act itself transforms us. It is grace that transforms us. The Christian cannot conquer the old man through willpower. If that were possible, sanctification would simply be a form of moral self-improvement. But the Christian life is participation in the life of Christ, and this life is given by grace. Nevertheless, grace does not make our freedom irrelevant. The act matters because it is the place where freedom consents to grace. When I forgive because the Word has shown me that I must forgive, I have not earned holiness through my act; rather, I have allowed grace to move through my freedom. When I make the difficult conversation because the Word has exposed my avoidance, I have not transformed myself by my own strength; I have cooperated with the grace that has invited me to act. The act is therefore both very small and very significant. It is small because it cannot contain the whole mystery of sanctification. It is significant because it is the concrete response through which grace is allowed to enter more deeply into my life. The mountain remains God’s work. But I must take the step.
Christian Activism and the Procrastination of Conversion
There is another form of Christian procrastination that can be much harder to recognise because it looks like the opposite of procrastination. It is Christian activism. We can be extraordinarily busy doing things for God while continually postponing what God is trying to do in us. We can devote ourselves to our parish, our group, our community, our apostolate or our ministry, and genuinely accomplish many good things, while the person who is doing all these things remains largely unchanged. Activity can therefore become a very sophisticated way of avoiding conversion. I can spend my life trying to change the world around me without allowing Jesus to change me.
Jesus asks a question that cuts through all such activity: “What profit would there be for one to gain the whole world and forfeit his life?” (Mt 16:26). The question is not whether the world has been changed through my efforts, nor whether my parish has grown, nor whether my apostolate has become successful. The question is what has happened to me. Have I allowed Christ to transform me? Have I become more like him? Have I learned to recognise his will and obey it? It is entirely possible to be extraordinarily effective in the things we do for God while remaining inwardly resistant to God himself.
The Gospel gives us an even more disturbing warning. Jesus says that “not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the Kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven” (Mt 7:21). Then he describes people who can point to impressive religious accomplishments: “Did we not prophesy in your name? Did we not drive out demons in your name? Did we not do mighty deeds in your name?” And Jesus answers them with words that should make every Christian tremble: “I never knew you. Depart from me, you evildoers” (Mt 7:22–23). The striking thing is that these people are not claiming to have done nothing. They have done a great deal. They have preached, ministered, performed mighty works and done them in the name of Jesus. Yet there is a terrible possibility hidden here: I can be working for Christ without allowing Christ to possess me. I can speak about him without listening to him. I can serve him without obeying him. I can build something apparently impressive in his name while failing to allow him to build the new man within me.
This is precisely where Lectio Divina confronts Christian activism. Lectio brings me away from my plans and places me before the person of Jesus. It asks me to stop first and listen. What does he say? What does he see? What is he asking of me? What does he want to change in me? The decisive question is not simply what I think should happen in my parish, my community or my apostolate. It is what Jesus thinks should happen in me.
This is fundamental to conversion itself. Conversion means turning towards God. It is a movement of reorientation in which I stop making myself the centre of my life and turn towards the Lord. I can therefore be very active while still being profoundly unconverted in one particular sense: I can be looking at my own plans, my own projects, my own vision of what the Church needs and my own understanding of what other people need to change, rather than looking at Jesus and asking what he wants of me.
Jesus exposes precisely this tendency when he says, “Why do you notice the splinter in your brother’s eye, but do not perceive the wooden beam in your own eye?” He then gives the order: “Remove the wooden beam from your eye first; then you will see clearly to remove the splinter from your brother’s eye” (Mt 7:3–5). The image is almost humorous in its exaggeration, but its spiritual significance is immense. We can become experts at seeing the small things that need to change in other people, in our communities and even in the Church, while failing to see the much larger reality of the old man within ourselves. We want to remove small splinters from the people around us while a beam remains lodged in our own eye. We want to reform our community, improve our parish, correct our group and change the behaviour of others, while Jesus is saying to us: begin here. Begin with yourself. Let me change you.
Lectio Divina places us precisely in this uncomfortable but liberating position. We come before the Word not primarily as commentators upon other people, but as people who allow the Word to judge us. “The word of God is living and active,” says Hebrews, “sharper than any two-edged sword,” and it penetrates to the “thoughts and intentions of the heart” (Heb 4:12). The Word therefore does not merely give me material with which to evaluate the world. It evaluates me. It turns the light towards me. It asks what is happening inside the person who is reading. This is why listening to Jesus’ view of me is so much more important than continually listening to my own view of myself. I can have an extremely convincing interpretation of myself. I can explain why I behave as I do, justify my reactions, identify the faults of others and construct elaborate plans for improving my environment. But Lectio asks me to surrender that self-definition to the gaze of Christ. What does he see when he looks at me? What does he want to reveal to me? Where am I resisting him? What is the one thing he is asking me to change today?
And this is precisely where the Holy Spirit becomes essential. The Holy Spirit does not merely give me more ideas about myself. He brings the Word into the depth of my conscience and makes it personal. Jesus’ words become a living address. A passage that I have read many times suddenly becomes a word addressed to me. I discover that the Lord is not simply explaining something; he is asking something of me.
Then the old man becomes visible.
Perhaps I thought my principal mission was to change my community, but Jesus reveals that I need first to forgive someone. Perhaps I thought the great problem was the lack of commitment of others, but Jesus reveals my own impatience. Perhaps I was planning how to correct somebody else’s weakness, while the Lord was asking me to surrender my need to control. Perhaps I was working intensely for the Kingdom while quietly nourishing my own desire for recognition. The Word has found the beam.
This is why Lectio can become the opposite of Christian activism. Activism begins with my plan and asks God to bless it. Lectio begins with God’s Word and asks me to receive his plan. Activism easily says, “Lord, this is what we need to accomplish.” Lectio teaches me to say, “Lord, what do you want me to do?” Activism can become preoccupied with changing circumstances, institutions and other people; Lectio first allows Christ to change the person who is praying.
This does not mean that Christians should stop acting, serving, evangelising or building the Kingdom. Quite the contrary. The problem is not action but the source of action. Jesus does not want us to become passive; he wants our activity to flow from communion with him. He wants to work in us and then through us. The decisive question is therefore not whether I am active, but whether my activity proceeds from obedience to his will or from my own plans, strength and speed.
The difference is enormous. I can work for Christ according to my speed, my strength and my plan, or I can allow Christ to work through me according to his speed, his strength and his plan. The first may produce impressive results while leaving me unchanged. The second may appear slower and less spectacular, but it allows the work of God to reach the deepest place: the transformation of the person himself.
This brings us back to Christian procrastination. The activist can actually postpone conversion more successfully than the inactive person because his activity gives him the impression that he is already responding to God. He can point to what he has accomplished. He has preached, served, organised, ministered and sacrificed himself. Yet the question remains: has he allowed Jesus to speak personally to him? Has he allowed the Holy Spirit to put his finger upon the place where he himself needs to change? Has he obeyed the particular word that God has addressed to him today?
The answer to Christian procrastination is therefore not necessarily greater activity. It is a real deeper encounter with Jesus in the depth of conscience. Lectio Divina creates a privileged place for that encounter because the Christian comes before the Word under the action of the Holy Spirit and allows himself to be addressed, challenged and judged by the Lord. The Word reveals; the Spirit illuminates; the conscience is awakened; the will is moved; and grace enables the person to put the Word into practice.
The most important thing that may happen through Lectio today is therefore not that I discover another way to improve my parish, my community or my apostolate. It may be that Jesus shows me the beam in my own eye and gives me the grace to begin removing it. He may ask me to forgive one person, to renounce one attitude, to make one act of charity, to accept one humiliation, to stop one criticism, to begin one duty or to surrender one attachment. The act may appear small, but if it is the act Jesus is asking of me, it is the place where the Kingdom of God is beginning to take possession of me.
This is the true reversal of Christian activism. I stop asking first, “How can I change everything around me?” and begin asking, “Lord, what do you want to change in me?” I stop trying to impose my plans upon the world and begin learning to receive his plan. I stop measuring my Christian life by the amount of activity I have generated and begin measuring it by my fidelity to the Word I have received. Then my apostolic activity can begin to become something different. I am no longer trying to work instead of Christ; I am allowing Christ to work in me and through me. I am no longer trying to conquer the world in my own strength while neglecting my own soul. I am allowing the Lord to conquer me first.
The deepest solution to Christian procrastination is therefore a real meeting with Jesus in the depth of conscience, under the action of the Holy Spirit. It is allowing him to speak to me rather than continually listening to myself; allowing him to challenge me rather than continually judging others; allowing him to reveal the beam in my own eye rather than continually trying to remove the splinters from everybody else’s; and allowing him to determine today’s act rather than allowing my own plans to determine the direction of my life. When this happens, Lectio Divina becomes a daily encounter in which the Word does not merely inform me but transforms me, does not merely tell me what Christianity is but calls me to live it, and does not merely give me something to think about but gives me something to do.
The Christian who lives this way gradually discovers that the greatest apostolic work is not necessarily the work that appears greatest from the outside. The first apostolate is allowing Christ to make me into the person through whom he can act. The Lord’s priority is not simply that I should accomplish something for him, but that I should become someone in whom his life can be seen. Only then can I genuinely say with St. Paul, “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Gal 2:20).
Practical Consequences
The first consequence is that we need to become honest about whether we are actually changing. It is possible to have a very active spiritual life while remaining fundamentally unchanged. We should therefore ask not only whether we pray, attend Mass or read Scripture, but whether our prayer and sacramental life are producing concrete transformation. If the same attitudes, resistances and patterns dominate us year after year, we need to ask whether we have allowed the Word to reach the point of obedience.
The second consequence is that we should resist the temptation to make too many resolutions. There will always be innumerable good things that we could do and innumerable areas in which we need conversion. But the more profound question is not, “What are all the things I should change?” It is, “What is the Lord asking of me now?” The first question confronts us with the entire mountain; the second asks us to take the next step.
The third consequence is that our Lectio should become increasingly concrete. We should not be satisfied with a beautiful thought or an inspiring insight if the Word has clearly touched an area of our life. We should allow the prayer to move towards the question that Benedict XVI places at the heart of contemplation: “what conversion of mind, heart and life is the Lord asking of us?” (Vatican)
Read: Finished and Unfinished Lectio Divina. How The General Light Becomes Clear ⇐ (see the book too).
The fourth consequence is that we should not be discouraged when the act seems disproportionately small compared with the transformation we need. The fact that I cannot change everything does not mean that I should do nothing. The one act is not meant to solve the whole problem; it is meant to establish obedience where there was previously postponement.
The fifth consequence is that we should pay attention to resistance. If the Word touches something in me and I immediately find reasons why I should not do what it seems to be asking, this may be precisely the point at which the Word has reached the old man. The resistance is not necessarily evidence that the prayer has failed. It may be evidence that the Word has penetrated deeply enough to expose the place where conversion is needed.
Finally, we should begin to evaluate our spiritual progress through the movement from hearing to doing. The Christian who has understood many things but practised none of them may not have advanced as far as the Christian who has received one word and faithfully obeyed it. The latter has allowed the Word to cross the threshold between knowledge and action.
Conclusion: From Procrastinated Christianity to Obedient Christianity
Christian procrastination is ultimately the postponement of transformation. It is the continual reception of the Gospel without allowing the Gospel to become a concrete response. We hear, but do not do. We understand, but do not obey. We desire change, but postpone the act through which grace is asking us to begin. The reason is not difficult to understand. The old man in us is powerful, and the mountain that stands between our present condition and the fullness of Christ is immense. If we look honestly within ourselves, we can see how impossible it is to move that mountain by our own strength. Yet the impossibility of self-transformation does not mean that we are condemned to spiritual paralysis. It means that we must learn the way of cooperation with the Holy Spirit.
This is where Lectio Divina reveals one of its deepest gifts. It takes the immense Word of God and allows the Holy Spirit to make it concrete for the person who is praying. The Word becomes a lamp for the next step. The sword of the Spirit penetrates the division between knowing and doing. The Gospel touches the conscience, illuminates a point, exposes a resistance and invites a response. The Christian does not need to move the entire mountain today. He needs to allow God to move him today. This is why the movement of Lectio Divina must eventually arrive at action. Benedict XVI’s formulation is decisive: “the process of lectio divina is not concluded until it arrives at action (actio)”. (Vatican) The Word that remains only in the intellect has not yet completed its work. The Word must descend into the heart, and from the heart into life. The genius of Lectio Divina is therefore that it does not leave Christian transformation in a vague place. It brings the enormous demands of the Gospel to one concrete point where the human person can say yes or no to God. Instead of trying to change everything, we respond to one grace. Instead of making many resolutions, we obey one concrete invitation. Instead of staring helplessly at the mountain of the old man, we take the step that God is asking of us today. And then, tomorrow, we listen again.
In this way, day after day, the Word of God gradually becomes action, action becomes obedience, obedience becomes habit, and habit gradually participates in the transformation of the person. The mountain is moved not by the force of human determination but by the power of grace working through repeated acts of freedom. Lectio Divina therefore becomes much more than a method of prayer. It becomes a school of obedience and a school of transformation, Mary’s school. It teaches the Christian not merely to hear the Word, but to receive it; not merely to receive it, but to discern what it asks; not merely to discern what it asks, but to do it. And this is precisely how the Christian begins to move from a procrastinated Christianity, in which conversion is continually postponed, towards an obedient Christianity in which the Word of God is gradually becoming flesh in the life of the believer.
“Lord, give us a heart like Mary’s, capable of listening to your Word, receiving it with faith, and putting it into practice.”