If you asked me to describe the method of what I call Integral Theology—or simply, correct theology—I might surprise you with my answer. I deeply believe that one of the central elements of its method is something quite simple yet profoundly powerful: Lectio divina. This may seem unexpected, but I am convinced that the foundation of substantial theology—the kind that truly transforms—is sapiential theology.
The Latin word sapientia means “wisdom,” and this gives us a clue about what sapiential theology truly is: a theology marked not merely by the surface-level knowledge of texts, but by height and depth—a wisdom that elevates and penetrates. True theology is not limited to analytical study or scholarly abstraction; it is rooted in the wisdom that comes from deep, lived experience.
What, after all, is theology? Theology is the whole body of the words of Jesus Christ. Through Jesus, the Triune God reveals the mystery of salvation, unveils His intimate life, and draws us into communion with Himself. He does so primarily through the Scriptures—both Old and New Testaments. But the Church teaches us something remarkable: the Old Testament, when read in the light of Christ, is not “old” in a pejorative sense. On the contrary, it becomes newer and even deeper than the New Testament. This reversal itself is a profound theological insight.
So the question becomes: How do I receive the words of Jesus?
Here, the theology of St. John the Evangelist offers crucial guidance. John shows us that Jesus’ words are not static or frozen in time—they are living, and they are meant to be transmitted from generation to generation. But there is a condition: this transmission must be incarnational. The words must be put into practice. Theology, then, is not simply the acquisition of intellectual knowledge. It is a transformative journey—from intellectual understanding to deep, vital knowledge that engages the whole person: mind, will, and heart.
If I listen to the Word of God without committing my will and my life to it—without truly putting it into practice—I will not experience that word. And yet this experience is essential. To “experience the Word of God” is to witness the ongoing incarnation of Jesus’ word in my daily life. It is a slow, steady embodiment of divine truth—day after day—until the word becomes flesh in me.
Paradoxically, then, the learning process that makes one a theologian is not primarily academic. It is, at its core, a process of daily divine teaching—a personal Lectio divina guided by the Holy Spirit. This is why the Church Fathers and many saints insisted that all saints are theologians, and that theologians should be saints. As Fr. François-Marie Léthel, OCD, has so clearly emphasised in his return to the sources of the early Church Fathers, sanctity and true theology are inseparable.
This, I believe, is the only path toward a genuine renewal of theology today.
The Incarnation of the Word: A Path to True Theology through Lectio Divina
In an age increasingly characterized by rapid theological production and intellectual abstraction, we risk forgetting a fundamental principle: theology is not merely about understanding doctrines or gathering spiritual insights. Even genuine lights from God, if they remain disembodied—unlived, unpracticed, and unexpressed—fail to rise to the level of authentic theology. At its heart, theology is an incarnated word—a word lived, experienced, and then shared with others in a spirit of communion.
This understanding is not new. Theologians from the Church Fathers to the mystics and modern masters have insisted that true theology is inseparable from holiness, from transformation in Christ. “The theologian is one who prays truly, and the one who prays truly is a theologian.” — Evagrius Ponticus, Chapters on Prayer, §60
The Threefold Grace of Lectio Divina
This incarnational dynamic unfolds with particular clarity in lectio divina, the ancient Christian practice of reading and meditating on Scripture as a living dialogue with God. While often approached as a devotional method, lectio divina bears within it a deeper structure of theological transformation. It confers a threefold grace that forms the true theologian—not only in intellect, but in life.
1. The Grace of Practice/Experience
The first grace is the strength and guidance to put the Word of God into practice. Here theology becomes discipleship. As St. James warns, “Be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves” (James 1:22, NRSVUE). The Word must take root in concrete decisions, habits, and attitudes, allowing Christ to be formed in us (cf. Gal 4:19). St. Thomas Aquinas emphasizes that theology is ultimately ordered toward the shaping of human life in accordance with divine truth: “Sacred doctrine is a practical science to the extent that it directs human actions to God.” — Summa Theologiae, I, q.1, a.4, ad 2 Link to full text. Through the obedient practice of the Word, one begins to experience it in the flesh. The grace here is directly and essentially given from God to our spirit (beyond perception).
2. The Grace of Understanding/Recognising
The second grace occurs in the conscious soul (mind and will) where, by having put the word into practice, we gain a new, living spiritual understanding of it. This grace proceeds from and depends on the primary, first grace: putting into practice. The experience here is of a different aspect: it impacts the conscious mind. Also, here we “recognise” through this experience—in a form of spiritual resonance (as in physics)—this word and the spiritual meaning it has expressed in other texts by other reputable authors.
We may say that this grace corresponds to the development of the spiritual senses, a key category in classical mystical theology (cf. Origen, Bonaventure, Ruusbroec), where the soul begins to perceive divine realities through new faculties—tasting, seeing, hearing the Word in a spiritual mode. But again, this is not the principal grace, which falls essentially in our spirit. This grace is intermediate.
3. The Grace of Transmission/Expressing
The third grace is the most outward-facing: the grace to express the experienced and understood Word in today’s words and means, so as to communicate spiritual life to others. This transmission has its “sacramentality”. It requires careful attention, choice of words and expressions in order to be faithful to the Word. This requires discernment, labour, and creativity. The Word, now fully personalised, becomes communicable—not as doctrine alone, but as living witness.
The theologian, then, becomes a link in the apostolic chain—not merely a scholar but a vessel of living tradition. Pope Benedict XVI affirms this in his Introduction to Christianity: “The true origin of theology lies in the personal encounter with the living God.” — Introduction to Christianity (1968), Part I, Chapter 1 (Ignatius Press edition)
This third grace is important. This means that the work of the theologian is preceded, accompanied, and perfected by this third grace. One cannot be a theologian if he escapes from the presence and guidance of the Holy Spirit.
As the incarnated Word is shared, it remains Christ’s Word, yet now spoken through a human voice shaped by this century, this culture, this personality. Theologians participate in the mystery described in John 1:14: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us”—not only in Christ, but now also in the members of His Body.
Theology as Participation, Not Observation
This vision contrasts sharply with what we might call intellectual theology—theology that remains on the level of ideas, untouched by prayer or transformation. While conceptual clarity is vital, it cannot substitute for the incarnated, lived Word. “Theology must kneel.” — Hans Urs von Balthasar, Theology and Sanctity, in The Glory of the Lord, vol. I Link (Ignatius Press) Only a theology rooted in lectio divina and nourished by the Holy Spirit can foster authentic renewal. Without this first step—hearing and receiving the Word through contemplative practice—theology remains sterile. But with it, Jesus can grow within the theologian, allowing ever-deeper levels of wisdom to develop.
Since Lectio Divina developed after Vatican II, this means that a new experiential theology needs to be born and to develop today as a fruit of this silent revolution: the new practice of Lectio Divina among the people of God.
A New Vision from Within
As this incarnational process continues, it changes the theologian’s vision. One begins to read Scripture with new eyes, to see the world with new light (God’s eyes and Light). This light is not derived from reasoning alone but emerges from within—a gift of the Spirit that illumines both understanding and discernment.
St. Gregory the Great described Scripture as a river, “shallow enough for a lamb to wade and deep enough for an elephant to swim.” Those formed in this incarnational theology move beyond surface readings and enter the depths of the Word, drawing forth insights inaccessible to the purely intellectual reader. “The one who has more love will understand more.” — St. Gregory the Great, Homilies on Ezekiel, II, 5, 1 Link (Benedictine edition, Latin)
Toward a Spiritual Theology
This mode of theological life—rooted in lectio divina, marked by lived experience, and culminating in transmission—is not a marginal approach. It is spiritual theology in the fullest sense. It returns theology to its original vocation: not only to explain the mystery of Christ but to communicate it by forming Christ in us and through us.
Such theology may appear unfamiliar, vulnerable, or even easily dismissed. But without it, the Church’s intellectual life becomes detached from her spiritual vitality. If there is to be a renewal of theology, it must begin here—with the incarnated Word, and with theologians who are first and foremost disciples.
Spiritual Theology: The Queen of Theology and the Heart of Transformation
I hope—and deeply desire—that spiritual theology will one day take its rightful place as the queen of theology, governing and guiding all other theological disciplines. Will this happen? I don’t know. But I believe it is not only necessary but vital. Without it, theology risks feeding people only intellectually, rather than nourishing their entire spiritual life. And frankly, people don’t want just intellectual food. When you attend Mass and listen to a priest who has truly prayed over the Scriptures he preaches, you can sense it. It becomes visible in his words and demeanor. I won’t mention names, but I know priests who embody this reality so clearly—it is obvious when someone has meditated deeply on the text, when the Word of God has burned within them. They don’t simply speak from their intellect; they speak because they are on fire with the Word.
If a theologian—or any preacher—is not consumed by the Word of God, if the Word is not incarnated in them, then what we hear lacks a vital sense of transformation. Without this inner process—this ongoing work of God digging into us, humbling, purifying, and transforming us—what is theology truly?
The difference is palpable. When a priest or theologian is truly formed by the Word, the sound that reaches you is entirely different. It resonates not just in your mind but through your entire being. It is the sound of incarnation. And in this way, the Church becomes truly alive, moving and breathing with the Word of God.
The idea that the Word of God should be at the centre of the life of the Church is not new. It has been a foundational concept for centuries, reinforced strongly before Vatican II and affirmed today without question. The Word of God as the heart of the Church’s life is a beautiful, undeniable truth.
However, living this truth out fully and consistently is another matter. While many priests and theologians do embrace this in some way, often it happens randomly, not with the regularity or depth it requires. It should be a daily, disciplined practice for theologians to immerse themselves in the Word through Lectio Divina. Reading and studying come afterward—first and foremost, the Word must be lived and prayed.
Methodologically, this process looks like this: every day, a word from Jesus enters the mind, becomes clearer and more precise, touches the will by God’s grace, and moves me to put it into practice. This experience burns in me and transforms me—bit by bit. With some effort, it becomes something I can articulate and share with others, a living word transmitted through my own life.
This movement—descent of the Word into life and its expression back out—is the essential method of theology for me. If anyone offers me a method that neglects this, I won’t accept it. Yet, strangely, this is almost never emphasised in how theology is formally taught.
Most theological education focuses on the “scientific method”: how to read and analyse texts carefully, how to cite sources correctly, and how to write clearly. These are necessary skills, of course—but they are only the basics, the elementary school of theology.
What is missing—and what is indispensable—is the transformative dimension. Theology is not just an intellectual discipline but a way to holiness. It is meant to transform the theologian’s life so that, in turn, they can help others transform theirs.
Unfortunately, theology today is often defined narrowly as the “understanding of faith” (fides quaerens intellectum). This definition emphasises faith seeking understanding—an intellectual activity. And while this is true to an extent, it misses the existential and transformative dimension that theology must also have.
Many deep theologians agree with this vision of transformative theology. Pope Benedict XVI himself would certainly affirm it if we were to discuss this with him. Yet, the prevailing academic approach remains rather cerebral and disconnected from lived transformation.
For theology to truly renew itself and fulfill its mission, this method—the daily incarnation of the Word in our lives through prayerful lectio and practice—must become central. Only then can theology truly feed the life of the Church and the people of God.
On the Method of Lectio Divina and the Guarantee of Transmission
Nobody today speaks clearly about the method. There are two beautiful documents from the 1980-90s, I believe—one on St. Augustine (see here) from pope John Paul II and another on The Ecclesial Vocation of the Theologian published by the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Both documents touch on the dynamic of “understanding in order to believe and believing in order to understand.” However, they do not clearly articulate that this dynamic constitutes a method—especially not a method of Lectio Divina.
They speak of two types of understanding. The first is the initial understanding—grasping the basic meaning of what is being said, as we do when we read a biblical text. The second comes after the act of faith: when one believes and puts the Word into practice, a new, deeper understanding emerges.
What I am saying here is not new—it’s already been said. But it has never been presented as a method of Lectio Divina. The usual phrasing—”you need to understand in order to believe, and believe in order to understand”—remains vague. That’s the word: vague. It doesn’t go to the very heart of the matter.
In the end, this is Jesus’ own method of teaching. As Saint John shows us, the more a person becomes like Jesus, the more their teaching will reflect His own. The more one is moved by Him, the more they participate in His function. But this must happen in our time—we do not belong to the first century or any other past era. We must be able to speak to the people of today.
Now, on this point, I invite you to read Jesus’ prayer in John 17. You will see that He prays for those who will receive the Word through the apostles. If you follow the Course on St. John and the spiritual life, you’ll notice that at a certain point, I analyse a profound process—miraculous, mysterious, and marvellous—in the Gospel of John. According to the Christ of John, there is a guarantee from God that the Word of Jesus will be transmitted in every generation.
Here’s how it works: Jesus speaks. Then there is an apostle—or even a disciple like you or me—who receives the Word, puts it into practice, and is then mysteriously able to utter the words of Jesus. These are no longer merely his or her words, but words that bear the marks and characteristics of Jesus’ own speech. They are not merely repeated or memorised; they flow from inner transformation. (See A Johannine Path for Every Baptised)
We must not exaggerate or idolise this process, but we must try to understand it. It offers us a guarantee of transmission—and that’s what tradition (traditio) means. It means to transmit, to move something from one place to another, to hand on something living. It is not static repetition but dynamic participation.
So how can we guarantee the level, quality, and purity of this transmission? According to St. John, there is a guarantee, provided the disciple undergoes transformation by receiving and putting into practice the Word of God. In John 17, Jesus prays, “I have given them your word.” He is speaking to the Father, affirming that a central part of His mission—the mission of the Incarnate Word—is precisely to give the Word.
This is something radically new in the history of salvation. Even Moses did not have this capacity: the ability to speak words that are Spirit, Holy Spirit, and eternal life.
Then Jesus says something extraordinary: “I do not pray for these only, but also for those who will believe in me through their word.” He’s worried—He’s going to leave, and He can only speak to a few people, in one place, on Earth. What will happen to His Word?
Put yourself in Jesus’ place: how do you ensure that what you gave—the purity, the light, the salt—continues to be passed on, generation after generation? Where is the guarantee?
But here is the marvel: Jesus does not say, “through my word.” He says, “through their word.” He entrusts the future transmission of His Word to their word—meaning the word of the apostles and, by extension, the disciples of every generation.
Yet this is not a matter of copy-pasting, recording, or memorising. It is not mechanical repetition. It is a transformative process. Jesus’ Word is received, lived, and then expressed through transformed persons. Their word becomes His Word—not because they quote Him, but because they have become one with Him, He is alive in them and utters with them and through them his words, his message.
This is the guarantee of tradition—providing that we live the Word in a certain way. As Jesus says repeatedly in John’s Gospel, “Whoever loves me will keep my word.” This is the condition: you cannot be His disciple without putting into practice His Word.
Of course, this is challenging. Not everyone can be a theologian in this sense. You fear God because you realise: how can I say something I am not living? And yet, you know your own sins, your darkness, your failures—how far you are from this ideal. But this is precisely the point Jesus is making. He prays for those who will believe in Him through their word—the word of His disciples in every generation. He is speaking about our time, about the Church one thousand years from now. And the condition for the ongoing transmission of His Word is none other than Lectio Divina—reading, listening, putting the Word into practice, and being transformed by it.
The Condition for Transmission: Living Lectio Divina
What is the condition for the transmission of the faith? It’s Lectio Divina—or rather, we could call it something else. Let’s remove the label. Just say: listening to the Word of God and putting it into practice. That’s the essence. It’s the summary of the Gospel.
Sometimes I even find myself resisting the term Lectio Divina, because it’s become trendy, a brand. People think they know what it means. But no—it’s simply about living the Word. It’s doing what the Gospel says: “Whoever loves me keeps my commandments” (cf. John 14:15, 21). It’s not just about hearing; it’s about living.
Paradoxically, the method—if we can even call it that—is really everything we do. It’s about understanding deeply the process of Lectio. But there’s something more: an extra effort, a step further, which asks: How can I express this to my brothers and sisters?
There’s an incarnational process happening within us. Through it, we perceive the new word—the living Word. But we can’t stop there. What is theology then? Theology is charity. It implies witnessing. You can’t keep Jesus to yourself.
This leads us to the third grace: witness. How am I called to witness what I receive? Of course, sometimes it’s too early—we must wait. It may take months or years until something truly meaningful has been formed within us through this process.
Yet, through that extra effort, something new begins to emerge. A fluency, like learning a language. We see this in our children—at first, nothing, no words. Then mysteriously, language builds, and suddenly, they speak. My daughter, for instance, now speaks English better than I do!
That’s the miracle: Lectio Divina teaches us a new language—the language of God. But it’s important not just to listen, but to learn to speak as well. And this is what “witnessing” is. Jesus said, “You will be my witnesses” (Acts 1:8), not necessarily “You will be theologians.” But to witness, you must speak—and the Holy Spirit teaches us how.
So, the work of the theologian begins here. It springs forth from this lived experience, through that extra effort to articulate what has been received. That’s when theology begins. As Fr. Lethel says: All saints are theologians, and only saints are true theologians.
The method is this: a process of incarnation, completed by the Holy Spirit’s work plus our effort to communicate. Only then can we truly utter something to others—only then can we truly witness.
Again, Jesus said: “You will be my witnesses”. He didn’t say, “You will be great scholars.” Witnessing is the heart.
Does this mean everyone must speak publicly? Of course not. I agree with that. Each of us has a different call, a unique vocation. But I do believe that in the future, true theology cannot exist without this process.
We need to move from a random practice of Lectio Divina to a regular practice. And from regular practice to Lectio Divina with that extra effort—the effort that generates the work of the theologian. This doesn’t mean the theologian should stop studying or learning technical things. But all of that must come from the perspective, depth, and wisdom gained through Lectio Divina. Because Lectio gives you a different sensibility.
When you begin to read Scripture with the eyes of the Fathers of the Church, you realise their experience isn’t something of the past. It’s present. And it’s also the presence of every future. That’s a miracle. But it’s meant to be the miracle of every generation.
A person who truly practices Lectio Divina will start to experience things as naturally as the Church Fathers did. They will see and live as part of the same spiritual family. Today, you’ll find laypeople living the same experiences as the Fathers of the Church. And it might surprise you. But yes—it is possible
There are, of course, stages. And now we understand that spiritual existence is deeply tied to spiritual growth. It’s not about personal achievement. I have no desire to become “knowledgeable” in the Bible—that’s the least of my concerns.
When you begin to share the experience of the Church Fathers, you realise that understanding the spiritual meaning of Scripture—Old and New Testaments—is not some elite pursuit. It’s meant to be common to all.
But today, unfortunately, it’s not taught that way. We treat the Fathers of the Church as a museum exhibit. In theology faculties, you study Patrology, the history of the Fathers—those great theologians from the 3rd to the 7th centuries: St. Augustine, St. Ambrose, Origen, St. Gregory of Nyssa, St. John Chrysostom, St. John Damascene… the list is immense.
Yet today, the goal is too often understanding the Fathers’ teaching about the spiritual sense of Scripture – thanks in part to Cardinal de Lubac and his influence on Nouvelle Théologie before Vatican II. But that’s not the true goal. The goal is Lectio Divina. That is the fruit.
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