Noticing (In)Attentive Moments

But the righteousness that comes from faith says, “Do not say in your heart, ‘Who will ascend into heaven?’ ” (that is, to bring Christ down) “or ‘Who will descend into the abyss?’ ” (that is, to bring Christ up from the dead). But what does it say? “The word is near you, in your mouth and in your heart” (Romans 10:6-8a, NRSVUE)

I remember very vividly two especially important moments from my spiritual formation. In both cases, what I received were glimpses of the interior lives of significant role models. They brought me up short.

First, in probably 2008, a surprising disclosure from my first spiritual director: Mother Hilary is a nun in the Order of Julian of Norwich, which used to have a gorgeous monastery not far from my parents' house in Waukesha County.

I can't remember the exact context, but we were talking about spiritual practices in some way, and she shared one of hers at present. She said something like, "I'm doing my best, when I celebrate the Eucharist, not to fiddle with the ribbons in the altar book. It's an attentiveness practice."

Second, the convener of my field education lay committee said something strange in an introductory context during my final year of seminary in 2011: "I'm hoping God will someday give me the gift of paying attention to the whole mass. I'd like to make it through an entire service without my mind wandering off."

Especially in that first encounter, and probably well past the second, and plenty still today if I'm being honest, my curious heart and novelty-seeking mind are deeply threatened by this glimpse into the spiritual path of two disciples I'd like to emulate.

It's scary to realize that I have everything I need to dwell and grow in relationship to the Living God, and I mostly squander it by not paying attention.

I'm thinking about this realization as I process the experience of our recent, once-in-a-lifetime family vacation.

During the most difficult days of our family's caregiving for Elke—when it became clear that we were talking about weeks until her death rather than months, we started to dream about the trip we would take this summer. We knew we would need a chance to really step away (far away!), take stock, and continue the grieving and healing processes.

We went to Mo'orea, a short ferry ride from Tahiti in the South Pacific. Yes, it's as jaw-droppingly beautiful as the tourism materials make it out to be. And while it's a bit more affordable and family-friendly than many similar destinations, living there for two weeks—one of them in an overwater bungalow—was a non-trivial challenge to the sensibilities of what a past mentor has called my Thrifty Inner Midwesterner.

I have a history of squandering time away: not being able to let go of work, fixating on some imagined problem, or otherwise refusing the invitation to Vacation Mode. The stakes of this trip seemed to ramp up that pressure.

Forget "fiddling with the ribbons" or letting my mind wander a bit during worship. I was worried I'd be that guy who got to visit paradise but never really even saw it. We left a week after my recent layoff was finalized. And we'd be sharing hotel rooms with our five year old. I worried the circumstances were setting me up for failure.

How did it go? Well, I think pretty well, especially because I got myself out of the rut of worrying about how well I was doing at it. As I once heard a yoga teacher say to a grunting man in the back, "Sir, you're trying to win at yoga, but you can't win at yoga."

I didn't win at Vacation Mode. I didn't dwell ceaselessly within it, taken by some beatific trans. I didn't do nothing but gaze out at the turquoise water and feel the ocean breeze on my face for hours at a time.

I sometimes fiddled with my phone. I sometimes got annoyed at the constant negotiations of parenting. I sometimes took the beauty and the luxury for granted.

But not all the time. Sometimes the water and the wildlife and the sunshine and the food really did do their magic on me as an individual, and I think on us as a family.

I wrote in this newsletter back in November that play is a dial, not a switch. I think that's true of Vacation Mode, of Worship Mode, of Rest Mode, of attentiveness in general. When I stopped asking "Was I in Vacation Mode today?" and started noticing it in half-hour chunks or even breath by breath, that's where the real insight was waiting for me. At least I think so.

Perhaps, like me, you've been fretting about the attention crisis. Well, I've decided the feast-or-famine framing we're seeing so much of isn't helpful.

Maybe attentiveness, like the inbreaking of the Reign of God, is something we glimpse in fleeting moments, in fits and starts. And however much we fear that we might be broken, it is always available to us.

Maybe our job as spiritual leaders is primarily to help people learn to recognize the moments of attention and the moments of distraction—and to welcome each as they come. Maybe God will help us work out all the rest.