Spiritual Discipline in a Time of Pandemic and Other Horrors

This was written in response to a Facebook post that asked the question, “What are you doing to survive spiritually in a time of pandemic and other horrors? It feels like we’re in a physical and a spiritual war.”

This may be more than you wanted, but your question about the spiritual struggle of living with the pandemic (and other events) has been on my mind every day for quite some time. I alternate between despair and determination, sometimes hourly, so here’s how I try to cope.

(I derive the general structure of my day from Wayne Teasdale’s book, A Monk in the World: Cultivating a Spiritual Life.)

I begin with the daily scripture readings for the Catholic Mass, and I recite my own petitions, which include my hopes for my family as well as a great many petitions related to what I read in the news. The COVID-19 pandemic features prominently in my petitions, but climate change, war, and preparations for war are always present. I offer the petitions not in the hope for miracles, but as an act of witness and defiance. Suffering must have a witness, even if it lacks an end; our humanity, I believe, requires that we defiantly acknowledge human cruelty and failure, even if we are powerless to stop it.

For me, though, ordinary prayer isn’t helpful. “Our Fathers” and “Hail, Marys” feel wooden, especially since our society is throwing a proverbial “Hail, Mary” pass just to survive. There is so much suffering and evil stalking the people of the world that I uneasily identify with the 8th century monk who forlornly prayed, “From the fury of the Northmen [Vikings], O Lord deliver us.”

I rely on meditation — sometimes guided, sometimes on my own — to calm my mind. I do this three times a day, for 15 to 20 minutes each time. I listen to segments of Buddhist Dharma talks as well (another 15 or 20 minutes), which contain much wisdom about our place in the universe. Viewing “me” from the perspective of the universe helps, because my oversized ego is the root cause of my dissatisfaction. The universe ignores my ego.

I then try contemplation — reading and imaginatively entering into a text — at least twice a day, for about half an hour each time. This practice is derived from Ignatius of Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises.

I find that many of the Psalms are too violent for contemplation, although I know they can be read metaphorically. But the language, at the moment, feels like an assault on my senses. I’ve had greater success with the synoptic Gospels, and I also read snippets from liberation theology books or articles, which encourage us to accompany the poor and oppressed. Both the Gospels and liberation theology, however, create in me a mostly unsatisfiable urge to act, which is frustrating.

Since April contains Earth Day, I’ve also used Pope Francis’ Laudato Si’ for contemplation, but I encounter the same contemplation vs. action problem. I can’t resolve this, so I try to follow Buddhist advice to simply acknowledge the tension, to treat the tension and myself gently, without allowing it to consume me with worry. I use the word “try” deliberately.

During one of my contemplation periods I devote time to the “Book of Nature” and the “Book of Gratefulness.” The “Book of Nature” is simply me observing that bit of the natural world that I can see from my porch. I don’t actively think about anything, I just observe. The forces of nature proceed at their own pace, sometimes majestically, as in a thunderstorm, but always with unhurried purposefulness that doesn’t rely on, or even require, me. The perfect symmetry of the red maple tree has nothing to do with me or my kind, nor does the flight of the bright yellow New World Warbler as it flashes by my window. They are singing their own songs, freely offered gifts of beauty and grace I can’t create or control. I find being a part of that movement comforting, and it reminds me (again) that I’m not the main event of the universe.

The “Book of Gratefulness” is my personal list of things for which I’m grateful. Most of these are quite simple things, like the thoughtfulness my wife extends to me, or the happiness of my children. I’m also grateful to live in a safe, warm, and dry house, surrounded by my books. I have more than enough good, healthy food to eat, and I can relax with a cup of hot tea anytime I desire. Others are more complex, such as the doctors, nurses, medication, and oxygen that keep me (and now many others) alive because my lungs don’t properly function. There are also the structures created by our founding documents, and the laws and norms derived from them, that allow me the freedom to think and write as seems best to me. I find that reminding myself of these and other acts of love, form, and function creates a temporary diversion of the stream of bad news that flows from the media. The “bad news stream” never runs dry, but at least I don’t feel as if I’m without a life jacket in a flood.

In the interstices between meditation and contemplation, I read, think, write, and engage in activism. All monks, according to the rule of St. Benedict, are required to work, and reading, thinking, and writing are the foundations of my activism, and all four activities, taken together, are my work.

I eat simple meals in the manner of the Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh; that is, in silence and with deliberate awareness. When you sit, he says, you sit. When you walk, you walk. When you eat, you eat. No distractions, no TV or radio, just an awareness of the present moment. By doing so, all of our activities become a form of meditation.

I end my meditation and contemplation sessions with the Prayer of St. Francis (“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love…Where there is despair, hope…”), which I find comforting and encouraging. Finally, I recite a statement, attributed to Rabbi Tarfon, from the Jewish work, Pirkei Avot: “It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it …” I take more than a little solace in the rabbi’s words.

Because much of my discontent is related to a frustrated urge to act, I also engage in online activism of various kinds, which is the only form of activism that’s readily available to me. Coordinating events (all virtual now), sharing information, writing emails, and attempting to clarify confusion or to counter misinformation are my ways, however small, of standing up against evil. There is one concrete action I’ve taken: I’ve donated money to a local food pantry. Since I’m in a COVID-19 high risk category, I can’t do much else, like offer to run errands for someone who is housebound, since I’m housebound myself. But, happily, I have been the grateful recipient of offers of help from a neighbor, and that has found a prominent place in my “Book of Gratefulness.”