How is Edification Like an Eggplant? On the Gathering, Preparation, and Digestion of Old Spiritual Texts

 

In the past few posts on old spiritual texts, we have moved from those instances and soundbytes that have become our favorite memes into the more uncharted and less spiritually titillating sea of textuality that sometimes bores us; we have also seen the ascetic benefits of bearing with patience such ascetic doldrums, trusting that we ought to be there because those we trust have been there, waiting for the reality that unfolds itself in the silence when no one is looking. Having dealt with the apparently boring quality of old spiritual texts, as well as the reason to contemplate them anyway, this third post asks how we do this – how do we approach such texts, particularly when they seem closed to our usual fast-food modes of interpretation? Books can be and have been written on the subject, but for this post, I confine myself to two answers: tradition and familiarity.

As intimated in the prior posts, navigating the sea of spiritual texts can be as dangerous as real marine navigation; without guidance and maps, it can become a relativistic enterprise in which we simply find the words of the fathers or mothers that seem best to back our own pet proclivities, and then twisting them until we have fashioned for ourselves a Christianity of our own – “give me text and a discursus long enough, and I will leverage the world.” This is why I would, while not suggesting we limit our exposure to the content of the liturgical hours, nonetheless suggest them as an excellent introduction and focal point. A culinary analogy might help.

I am not good at preparing eggplant. So, given a raw eggplant, it is doubtful that I will be able to use it to prepare myself an amazing meal. But I have had eggplant – prepared by those who know what they are doing – and it is exquisite. Effectively, this is what the hours do – they wrap the text in prayer and serve it with those bits of Scripture and other liturgy chosen precisely for their capacity to complement and bring out the full flavor of the text. In such an exercise, the raw text, considered only as data in the strata of modernity, is tenderized and simmered and sautéed till its full flavors have been brought out – indeed, the kinds of flavors so familiar in the premodern monastic setting outlined by Jean LeClercq and others. This, of course, is only a start in the way of reading old spiritual texts within tradition – other ways will include familiarity with fourfold (or threefold, depending on one’s authority of choice) medieval exegesis; extensive engagement with the work of Henri de Lubac, perhaps the prime modern exemplar of such textual engagement; and consideration of the texts in relation to living liturgical activity in the Church. But however one approaches the “how” question, the first rule must be to read with tradition – other Christians – in past and present.

The second means of approach is familiarity. It is impossible to digest texts you haven’t encountered or read. And it is impossible to encounter texts, particularly the rare ones beyond the hours, without frequent exposure to them. This is why my suggestion would be to incorporate into your practice some pre-reflective browsing of classical spiritual works. This browsing need not be particularly pious or contemplative itself; it is more a process of curiously searching with an openness of heart toward topoi that you might revisit later. For myself as a Medievalist, much of this browsing occurs when I am simply doing research – as I familiarize myself with the texts in a professional way, I also take note of things to revisit, treasures I can keep in my heart, pondering them along with Scripture and tradition as I seek their meanings. To be sure, most readers won’t have this immediate professional reason to engage old spiritual texts. But it is not necessary – it is sufficient to have a simple willingness to sit down daily and suffer a few pages of a text that does not “grab” you the way a modern text does. Gradually, one discovers patterns, rhythms, and ways of reading. Indeed, one gradually discovers love. But I leave this matter for a forthcoming colloquial postlude on this series, which will discover the inescapable romance of reading old spiritual texts.