That feeling when…I don’t do what I want to do

A few days ago, I attended a day retreat that was part of a series called Living the Hours. The series aims to introduce participants to the feel of the traditional monastic hours, a structure that incorporates work, prayer, and contemplation into the rhythms of the day. This particular session was on the hour of Lauds, which marks and celebrates the coming of the morning light. The contemplative stance encouraged for Lauds is one of gratitude — “Thanks be to God for another day”.

As part of our session, our retreat director had us make some art that expressed what God said to us in the darkness of the womb and how we moved from there into the light of our present lives. The five of us that were there that day all had some experience of contemplative practice and were open to the movement of Spirit. And the Spirit did move, interweaving each of our individual experiences in a really marvelous way.

So, of course, when I went home that day, I immediately incorporated this Grace into my life in a nourishing and lasting way. Or not. What I actually did was stay up until about 2:00 AM, watching YouTube videos of stand-up comedians.

Since I was planning to get up early, this also had the “benefit” of sabotaging the entire next day. My wife was away for the day and I had considered meeting some friends for breakfast, but I was too tired, so I didn’t go. Instead, I lay on the couch flipping through “stuff” on my iPad, had several naps, and ate leftover oatmeal for lunch. I managed to rouse myself long enough to get some take-out food for dinner, then later stuffed myself with potato chips and caramel corn.

What I did not do was go for a walk, call someone on the phone, read a book, clean up the kitchen, watch a movie, or see if anyone was up for a visit. What I really did not do was visit the sick, feed the hungry, or any other corporal act of mercy. All the while that I was not doing this, I watched myself, thinking, “This is all by my choice!” I was in that state where I was aware of myself doing something, but couldn’t find a way to stop. (Or start, in this case.)

Why do we do these things to ourselves? We all do. At least we are in good company — the Apostle Paul had a similar complaint about himself:

I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.

Paul goes on to say that it’s not really him that’s doing what he hates, but the sin within him. On first reading, this sounds like Paul is not taking responsibility for his actions (“Sin made me do it!”), but another interpretation is that Paul recognizes himself to be incompletely redeemed; he does not yet have the spiritual strength to do the good he would rather do. We can describe this as the False Self, the unawakened part of us, versus the True Self, which is in tune with the Divine and acts accordingly. We can also refer to these parts of us as Ego and Essence.

We all have some way in which we are incompletely awakened. In my case, its name is Acedia, also known as Sloth in some catalogs of the Seven Deadly Sins. “Sloth” sounds so harmless — when you are lying on the couch, you may not be getting anything done, but you aren’t really hurting anyone, right? Wrong! Acedia represents not merely the failure, but the outright refusal to engage with anything life-giving and it spreads to everything in your vicinity like an inverted halo. It’s a very destructive passion; everything may be crumbling all around you, but you don’t care and you’ll fight anyone who tries to make you.

Although it is counterintuitive, it is often after times of great enlightenment that we are likely to fall flat on our faces. Why so? Russ Hudson gave an excellent and succinct explanation of this phenomenon at a conference in Cincinnati in 2012. Basically he said that if you have received light, it will immediately shine into those unilluminated corners we still carry.

For me this dark corner is Acedia. If that’s not what it is for you, it will be some other manifestation of the False Self. Although painful and humbling, this is a natural and expected part of our growth. As one of the great mystics, Julian of Norwich, has put it, “First there is the fall, then we recover from the fall, and both are the mercy of God”