Lectio Divina

Can you read this?

If so, you (and I) are deeply fortunate. Reading is the first lesson at school, yet millions of kids never step into a classroom—deprived of education and denied the simple power to read. It happens to this day, often out of poverty, sometimes due to sheer discrimination. Toni Morrison, activist and truth-teller, recalls racialised times when African Americans were forbidden from reading. To touch a book and seek knowledge was illegal. They resisted in silence, learning in secret, with hunger and heart, until language became the medium of freedom. Morrison remembers days in the library, reading with insatiable hunger, devouring book after book. “I’m not a writer who reads,” she once said, “I’m a reader who writes.” Reading was not mere preparation but genesis—the heart of spiritual formation. What she wrote emerged from the overflow of a mind that bathed in learning.

To read—what a gift! An indescribable profundity in the still, slow, solitary communion between reader and text. The wise safeguard this sacred right amidst the passions of the modern world. Enchanted, we gravitate towards screens, dazzled by entertainment, swiping from one moment to the next. Media has its moments, yet it rarely captures the depth of a book. A simple truth endures: when knowledge enters too swiftly, it rarely penetrates deeply. Keep books close. Dwelling in the forests of Vraja, Sanātana Goswāmī carried the Bhāgavata as his constant companion. He called it his closest friend, his guru, his source of joy and the power that uplifted him every day. He carried the Bhāgavata, and it carried him through this world and beyond.

Nowadays, I turn from one page to the next, journeying through the world of books and papers—some that inspire, others that perplex, many that intrigue and occasionally those that challenge. We keep pace with focused reading, quick assimilation, critical analysis and conscious joining of the dots. At a recent gathering, we slowed the pace, setting aside the intellectual sprint for an encounter with contemplative reading—lectio divina. This Christian discipline, shaped by Origen, Benedict, Guigo and others, turns away from analysis and critique toward the deeper act of entering the text and finding communion. This mystical approach mirrors the Vedic pedagogy: śravaṇam—absorbed reception; mananam—thoughtful reflection; and nididhyāsanam—intentional embodiment.

We were given a sheet containing ten single-paragraph excerpts and invited to select the one that quietly drew us in. Then, the practice began. Lectio—to read, slowly, attentively, respectfully. Meditatio—to locate and sit with a single word or sentence that resonates or intrigues. Oratio—to pray, entering dialogue with God about how that detail has spoken to us. Contemplatio—to rest in loving silence within that conversation, without analysing or concluding. A candle was passed around. The first participant shared their chosen line, then lit the candle of the person beside them. They did the same; the light moved around the circle, each flame accompanied by a voice adding to the collective wisdom. The candle came to me and I read my line—drawn from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Divinity School Address of 1838. Perhaps you may want to take a moment, to sit in meditation, enter the dialogue, and see if it moves you:

“Through the transparent darkness the stars pour out their almost spiritual rays. Man under them seems a young child, and his huge globe a toy.”