Lectio Divina in the Life of a Trained Speed Reader

Or, How Do I Learn to Slow Down?

When I was in sixth grade, in addition to the filmstrip and movie projector machines (yes, this was in the pre-VCR and DVD days), my well-meaning teacher introduced us students to an amazing new machine for the benefit of our learning. Like a filmstrip projector, it projected an image up on the white, pull-down screen at the front of the classroom. But instead of a full-screen image of words or pictures, it portrayed only one line of text at a time. Depending on the speed selected by the machine operator, it puttered along or rapid-fired selections for us to read. I even recall the strange sound the machine made, something between a swoosh and the slide a coin makes landing into a cola vending machine slot.

Line by line, the machine pushed us as a group to read faster. We started slowly, but insidiously the lines accelerated, until we barely had time to grasp one whole line before it disappeared and another appeared to take its place. Speed was the only goal. We were pushed to gobble hundreds of words per minute, then only briefly tested for comprehension.

It was a strange sort of contest. Groans of despair were common as portions of sentences and meanings slipped away from first this child, then that one, at their desks. Those children who ingested and retained the most words per minute were rewarded. Those who hesitated or pondered meaning were left behind and felt themselves not so intelligent. It was a race where only speed mattered.

So I became a speed reader, a race horse on a road of words. Imagine my difficulty, then, with lectio divina, the Benedictine practice of prayerful private reading. Lectio isn't complicated, it's just challenging because it's so very simple. My mind always wants to make it something it isn't, or to dash off and do the next thing. It's like an addiction, this need to read ahead. Lectio involves stillness, waiting, and a willingness not to move on to the next thing until every meaning has been distilled from the now. In that sense it is an amazing challenge and remedy for the ingrained restlessness of our spirits. It is a tonic for our overeager minds. Lectio also makes us aware of our status and stature as supplicants; we can only ask and wait for God to reveal meaning to us in this manner of reading--it is not in our control.

Benedictines of experience and wisdom have led me in learning lectio, but it is a lifetime practice. Rather than try to instruct you myself, I would rather direct you to someone with more experience to guide you, if you are interested in learning.

How to Practice Lectio Divina

So once again, the Benedictine way is an invitation to deeper prayer and something more challenging than what our speed-of-light information culture offers us. Will I accept that invitation? Will you?