Kathleen Norris, the spiritual writer, said it was a “force we ignore at our peril.”[1] She was talking about the spiritual affliction, the wicked thought, the sin called acedia—sometimes called sloth. Which happens to the best of us, many of us (which was Norris’ point).
It’s a strange thing, hard to describe exactly. St. Thomas called it “sadness for spiritual good.”[2] The Catechism actually calls it a “form of depression,” a “carelessness of heart.”[3] The ancients called it the “noonday demon,” borrowed from the Psalms, from the prayer asking God’s protection from “the sickness that destroyeth in the noon-day.”[4] The point, you see, is that at noon one should be on top of the world, at the height of one’s power, full of strength and ready to go—but, because of acedia, the demon of noon, you aren’t ready to go; rather, you’re listless and tired, depressed instead, wanting only to be alone in your bed. The root of the word: acedia really means “I don’t care.” That’s what it means; spiritually, it means “I don’t care.” It manifests itself as spiritual listlessness, as I said: boredom in prayer, in not wanting to pray, in resisting, with all one’s energy sometimes, all efforts to pray. To experience acedia is often to feel all prayer and worship is tedium.
The ancients talked about this, describing it in ways that seem as if they could’ve written it today. Evagrius is the spiritual master who still teaches us the most about all this. Acedia, he said, makes it seem as if the “sun barely moves…that the day is fifty hours long.” It makes the monk, he said, hate his cell; the monk suffering acedia will constantly look out the window, lose himself in daydreams, wonder what’s next, look and look and look for the next new thing to stimulate the mind; is a visitor coming? Anything but silence and prayer, that’s acedia—the disquiet of the mind and the soul, the noise of the brain unable to settle down, unable to pray. And it is the affliction, Evagrius said, that “causes the most serious trouble of all.”[5]
And it’s this that Kathleen Norris sees so much of today—acedia. “I think it likely that much of the restless boredom, frantic escapism, commitment phobia, and enervating despair that plagues us today is the ancient demon of acedia in modern dress,” she writes. Depression, of course, is often very much something else—although the boundaries between depression and acedia are indeed sometimes “fluid,” she says—one is a matter of mental health, the other a matter of prayer.[6] Norris’ point is that as we have thankfully become in our day much more sensitive to the needs of mental health, so too should we tend to our spiritual needs. Depression is real; mental health is a real need. Acedia is real too, and prayer is a real need too. That’s the point. And again, I think Kathleen Norris is correct when she thinks that maybe part of our spiritual suffering, our spiritual languishing and frustration, is due to the fact that we have forgotten about things like acedia, these ancient afflictions our ancestors—who shared the same human condition—also wrestled with just like us. She writes,
I am intrigued that over the course of the last sixteen hundred years we managed to lose the word acedia. Maybe that’s one reason why, as we languish from spiritual drought, we are often unaware of what ails us. We spend greater sums on leisure but are more tense than ever, and we hire lifestyle coaches to ease the stress. We turn away from the daily news, complaining of “compassion fatigue,” and we enroll in classes to learn how to breath and relax. Increasingly, we need drugs in order to sleep. We are tempted to regard with reverence those dedicated souls who make themselves available “twenty-four/seven” and regard silence as unproductive, solitude as irresponsible. But when distraction becomes the norm, we are in danger of becoming immunized from feeling itself. We are more likely to indulge in public spectacles of undemanding pseudo-care than address humanity’s immediate needs. Is it possible that in twenty-first century America, acedia has come into its own? How can that be when so few know its name? [7]
What Norris describes is so hauntingly like what the ancients described. And it’s us, really. Our souls doomscrolling Twitter, our addiction to the latest argument, the latest scandal, that dull, heavy, low-simmering anxiety, that feeling that if only we do this, change that, buy this, then all shall be well, losing ourselves in alcohol or pornography or whatever distracts us—anything instead of the simple, hard, slow work of prayer: that’s acedia. And I think—from hearing confessions, from talking to people, from my own, at times, painful self-examination—that this too is a pandemic. It’s real. And I bring all this up, trying (poorly, I think) to describe it, because I want to tell you that if you’re feeling any of this, if any of this resonates with you, please know you’re not alone; you’re not a bad Catholic, a bad Christian; you’re not fake. It’s okay to recognize acedia and its effects, to see it in your life, to admit that your spiritual life isn’t all glory, that sometimes prayer is impossible, that sometimes you’re just going through the motions, that you feel nothing. That’s okay to admit that to yourself. It’s okay to acknowledge spiritual struggle. Because in some form, we all struggle—you, me, all of us. You’re not alone. We’re together in this. And so, be gentle with yourself. Let’s be gentle with each other.
Which brings me to say something simple about this passage from Luke. It’s about prayer.[8] Luke, by the way, is a great evangelist of prayer. And the lesson is simple; it’s about the need to be persistent in prayer. The lesson is this: don’t give up praying, no matter what. It may feel like God is locked behind the door, not hearing, not listening. But he is behind that door. He is listening. And he will open the door for you. It is indeed a painful mystery why I must keep knocking, but he’s there. Don’t stop. That’s the point. No matter what you feel or don’t feel, don’t stop praying. Such is the painful, purifying mystery of prayer, that it’s when we refuse to give up that our prayer—sometimes so painful—opens for us the grace of sanctification. But only if we’ve not given up, only if we’ve kept praying.
And I know how unhelpful that advice can sound. Don’t give up? That’s all you got? Well, yes. That’s the wisdom of the tradition. That’s what the desert fathers and mothers would tell you. Don’t stop praying. And, don’t run away from things; stay in your cell, stay in your parish, stay in the vocation God’s called you to. Prayer, stability, work: that’s the blunt advice of Christian wisdom. And yes, there are exceptions to this advice (abuse, for instance; don’t think you need to put up with abuse), but aside from that, it’s still wisdom. Don’t give up. Keep praying. Even though it’s hard, keep praying. So many of us have been there. I’ve been there. But God is there; he’s really very close. He loves us even when we can’t feel any sort of love for him. I’m faithful to him no matter what; I struggle to be. It’s just like any genuine friendship, like marriage. Do your best not to give up. Because the grass isn’t greener over there. Because God’s prepared this mystery of purification, that the only cure for acedia is prayer—staying, praying, begging for the bread of grace. Because the world will only end in sadness. And only in God is happiness.
And because God will give us happiness. At the end of the parable Jesus talks about the gift of the Holy Spirit.[9] That’s a real gift, and it’s so sweet a thing; don’t give up, beg for the Holy Spirit, to feel him and taste him. Evagrius said that when acedia is defeated, what remains is “deep peace and inexpressible joy.”[10] It is so beautiful a thing, this peace and joy. Which, again, is what I want to say—that this is meant for you too, this peace and joy—whoever you are. No one here is beyond it; everyone here can receive it. But don’t give up. Let’s help each other not to give up. Let’s love each other that way. Amen.
[1] Kathleen Norris, Acedia & Me, 130
[2] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae II-II q. 35, a. 2
[3] Catechism of the Catholic Church 2733
[4] Psalm 91:6
[5] Evagrius Ponticus, Praktikos 12; On the Eight Thoughts 14
[6] Acedia & Me, 3
[7] Ibid., 46
[8] Luke 11:1-13
[9] Luke 11:13
[10] Praktikos 12
© 2022 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
