Read verse 3 ten times aloud as before, focusing on the words as they appear on the page or screen.
Recite verse 3 aloud ten times.
Session Four
Recite verse 3 ten times.
Recite verses 1 through 3 in order.
Read verse 4 ten times aloud as before, focusing on the words as they appear on the page or screen.
Recite verse 4 aloud ten times.
Sessions Five through Twenty-One
Repeat the above process as outlined below. (You can see that it will take a bit longer each time.)
Recite the verse you memorized in the preceding session, ten times.
Recite the entire portion that you have memorized up through this verse.
Read the next verse aloud ten times, focusing on the words as they appear on the page or onscreen.
Recite this verse ten times.
If you work at this on a daily basis (even skipping one day a week), you will have memorized an entire chapter of the Bible in less than a month! To keep it in your memory, Dr. Smith recommends you recite the entire thing daily for another one hundred days. I find it helpful to practice reciting at other times throughout the day when I think of it. The more you speak the verses, the deeper those neural pathways grow. And because your brain likes the process, you will find you want to memorize more—it can even be addicting!
PART TWO
MEDITATIO
The inner meditative journey is not a weekend excursion to a land of sun and happiness. It is a way of life for people who actually feel a need for it and who have become conscious of their need.
MORTON KELSEY, The Other Side of Silence: A Guide to Christian Meditation
CHAPTER 04
MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE?
We can create a culture of attention, recover the ability to pause, focus, connect, judge and enter deeply into a relationship or an idea, or we can slip into numb days of easy diffusion and detachment. . . . The choice is ours.
MAGGIE JACKSON, Distracted: The Erosion of Attention and the Coming Dark Age
ONE TYPICAL SUNNY SAN DIEGO MORNING, I was happily heading to the library to return two books and check out four others I’d placed on hold. This is a library I am intimately acquainted with and have used for years. Yet this time, for some reason, instead of taking the books inside, I dropped them in the slot by the front door.
The thing is, my library has no slot for books by the front door. I realized too late that I had tossed them in the trash.
After enlisting the assistance of the maintenance man—he had to use a special tool to open the large concrete and steel contraption—I sheepishly went on my way.
I, like everyone else I know, am almost perpetually distracted. What is worse, I seem compelled to feed this dragon. Why else would I be trying to write this chapter at a Starbucks, where indie vibes dance across the airwaves while a steady stream of people strain to hear overworked baristas herald their name and drink of choice? Why do I leave my e-mail open and phone on, pausing every few minutes to check for mail or messages? Why do I stop typing midsentence so often, gazing around the room and conjuring up imaginary life circumstances of some stranger who just walked in? And how in the world did I drink two cups of coffee and munch through an entire bag of almonds with no memory of having done so?
In the past couple of decades a cohort of educators, psychologists, and neuroscientists have sought to address questions like these and many others, dedicating themselves to the burgeoning body of attention science. Not only have they discovered that our ability to focus relies on a variety of networks in our brains, but this “cognitive tour de force,” as Boston Globe columnist Maggie Jackson describes it, leads the orchestration of our minds, fostering the human species’ “unique capacity to find meaning, engage in moral decision-making and even achieve happiness.”[1] Indeed, it seems that our ability to pay attention is critical for the shaping of our very selves. It is of great concern, then, that by rewiring our neural circuitry, our pervasive digital engagement may be diminishing this essential capacity.
Meditation and Attention
The ability to interact with God through meditation has always required first finding a way to deal with distractions from without and within. Yet it seems this need has escalated exponentially as of late. The refrain I hear again and again when I talk to people who try to engage in prayerful reflection of any sort is that they struggle with focus: Their minds wander, they feel anxious, and their brains are overloaded with things they need to do or plan for. As a result, many don’t even try, or give up after a few frustrating days.
Meditation demands that we develop a single-minded kind of focus, to engage in what we might call unitasking. For example, philosophy professor Douglas Groothuis tells his students that the study of philosophy can’t be distracted by tweets—“and if not philosophy, how much more should we aim to unitask our study of God and our prayer life?”[2] Perhaps this sort of unitasking is what Jesus means when he assures us that if our eye is healthy, our whole body will be full of light (Matthew 6:22). But how do we get there, and what would it look like if we weren’t distracted?
Richard Foster suggests that there are three critical components to meditation, the first of which he labels recollection, which means “letting go of competing distractions until we are present ‘where we are.’” Foster goes on to note that this will likely be something we will have to work at diligently in light of our disrupted lives.[3] But, as neuroscientists so often remind us, what has been wired in can be wired out. Because of the plasticity of our brains, we can have confidence that single-mindedness is attainable through patience and practice.
This, then, is the purpose of this chapter: to sort out how attentiveness works and to offer some ways that can help us let go of distractions so that we can be present to ourselves and thus to God, as well as to the specific focus of our time in meditation.
Showing Up for Our Lives
Lately, I have been dealing with an uncomfortable reality about my cyberspace existence: Although the Internet has made an art form out of distraction, the only real power it has over my soul is that which I give it through the choices I make sitting in front of my computer or TV or tablet or smartphone screen, day in and day out. To be completely honest, I appreciate the Web’s ever-present availability, the way it enables me to take flight as many times an hour as I want. What I tend to dismiss, though, is the trade-off—the destructive downside of too much digital engagement. It can keep me from showing up for my life, from being mindful of God, from living in the present moment, whether set aside for work, rest, connecting with others, or even play.
Cognitive neuroscientists would say that my persistent exodus from the moment at hand may well be a function of the part of my brain they call bottom-up, which refers to the unconscious system that quietly and continually operates in the background, taking in external stimuli and determining what is relevant long before it comes to my conscious awareness. The bottom-up system is involuntary and automatic, operating at the speed of milliseconds as it relies on intuition, reflexes, impulses, and habits. This is why I don’t really have to think about things like brushing my teeth or tying my shoes. It also explains how I can end up across town and not remember anything about the drive itself. The bottom-up part of my brain handles these things on autopilot because they became routine long ago. Unfortunately, so did my cyber-life and pursuant propensity to flit from one thing to the other.
In contrast, when I am working at my computer and make any sort of conscious choice—for example, when I realize I’ve zoned out on social media and decide to get back to work—a very different part of my brain takes over. This top-down system, located in the prefrontal cortex, is slower and more meticulous. Often referred to as the executive function of the brain, this is what enables us to make critical decisions, to be self-aware, to reflect and plan and learn new things—in short, to pay attention. Because it cannot multitask, the top-down system switches back
and forth when presented with more than one stimulus. It requires effort, focus, intentionality, and willpower. It can feel besieged by cognitive overload if given too many options.
In the interest of efficiency, our brains are designed to function as much as possible on autopilot, or bottom-up. When ideas or actions are repeated often enough, the conscious, executive function of our brains releases them to our more instinctual bottom-up system. It’s almost as if the top-down system is determined to do its part well so that it can pass the job on to the bottom-up system, making room for new learning or more important things. So, for example, I have developed a routine of stopping every so often to save my work on the computer, and when I do, I take a few minutes to read e-mails, peruse social media, check the time, and look at my phone for messages. While this once required top-down awareness and decision-making, it is now automatic; my bottom-up system happily kicks into gear the minute I click on “file.” I no longer give the process much thought at all. This is perhaps only one way that I’ve unwittingly yielded control of my time to the screen that sits before me.
For many people, a similar automatic routine is triggered by pings, beeps, or little red numbers on their smartphone or tablet apps. Regardless of where these folks may be or what they may be doing, when they hear that familiar noise, or the number catches their eye, they look to see what it is. Indeed, this habit has become so ingrained, and the neural pathways that support it so deeply entrenched, that some rely on it constantly. Everywhere we go—waiting in lines, sitting on buses, working out at the gym, eating in restaurants, listening in church, and so on—people are interacting with their tablets or smartphones. There are even apps that split the screen on our device so that we can see what’s in front of us through our camera lens while we continue to check our messages.[4]
This explains, in part, why we struggle to focus in times of quiet with God: For us to stay present in the moment, to interact over truth with God’s Spirit, our top-down systems have to secure and maintain control, which takes a level of discipline to which most of us aren’t accustomed. As we have trained them, our bottom-up systems continually draw us away from where we are. The neural pathways that support a healthy balance between our top-down and bottom-up mental systems have atrophied, and we are wired instead for continual distraction. Our attempts to focus often feel like one more burden on our already-taxed minds.
The simple reality is that if we want to be able to think deeply about God, to meditate on the truth of his nature or ways or words, and to encounter him through meditative prayer, we must regain our ability to concentrate—to pay attention as we come into his presence. Studies show that our minds wander an average of 47 percent of the time,[5] so this will take some effort. But cognitive neuroscientists note that even recognizing when this happens and deciding to return to the task at hand can alter the circuitry in our brains. In short, anything we do to train our minds to stay focused, for even short periods of time, will begin to turn things around.
Finding Focus in the Quiet
Spiritual formation teacher Ruth Haley Barton likens her initial moments in solitude with God to an aircraft that lands hard on the runway, with the flight attendant asking people to remain in their seats until “Captain Crash and the crew have brought the aircraft to a screeching halt against the gate.” Before Barton can even begin to connect with God’s presence, she must clear away the wreckage of all her life distractions.[6] Evelyn Underhill, twentieth-century Christian mystic and prolific spirituality writer, agrees:
The first quarter of an hour thus spent in attempted meditation will be, indeed, a time of warfare; which should at least convince you how unruly, how ill-educated is your attention, how miserably ineffective your will, how far away you are from the captaincy of your own soul.[7]
I relate to both of these, which is probably why I rely on a daily quiet-time ritual that serves, at least in part, to prime my body and mind to focus. Each morning after I’ve made my coffee, I sit in the same spot on the sofa in the same corner of my living room. A small basket holds everything I need. I take out my Bible and journal, turn on some soft music on my tablet, and grab a pen to jot down a brief list of yesterday’s activities. So far, so good; because I’ve done this for years, my bottom-up system can handle it without me paying much attention at all. But when I try to begin my conversation with God—when I need my top-down system to take over—the wrestling begins.
In recent months I’ve established some simple focusing exercises to address this struggle. They not only serve to quiet my mind and body during my quiet time but also seem to have a residual calming effect as I go about my day. By engaging for a few minutes each morning in a combination of deep breathing, simple movement, and vocal sound (all while focusing on the presence of God), I’ve honed my ability to focus and learned how to more effectively connect with the moment at hand—and as a result, with God. I call this “God-focused deep breathing,” or GDB. I will share more in the practice at the end of the chapter, but first—a little background on the science and context behind each of these components.
Deep Breathing
There is a spirituality in slowing our bodies down to take in the air God provides. Yahweh breathed life into Adam’s nostrils (Genesis 2:7); Christ breathed his Spirit into the disciples before his ascension (John 20:22). We are embodied creatures, sentient beings, and yet we tend to compartmentalize our relationship with God, forgetting that our piety encompasses body, soul, and spirit. Learning to breathe deeply is a way to remind ourselves of this. Not only does it calm our emotions as we inhale God’s peace, but it enables us to recollect our minds as we exhale the distractions fluttering around in our brains.
The scientific evidence for the positive physiological effects of deep breathing is strong. We may not realize how shallow our breathing is most of the time, largely because of the stress of life. This reduces the amount of oxygen to our brains, hindering our ability to concentrate. Shallow breathing also causes a buildup of carbon dioxide in our systems, which can create anxiety and disorientation. Deep breathing is, therefore, a cleansing act, dispelling toxins and calming our parasympathetic nervous system. The physiological effects of this alone can be powerful—from lowering or stabilizing blood pressure to diminishing the symptoms of heart disease or asthma. Beyond that, deep breathing increases our mental alertness and cognitive processing.[8]
These recent scientific discoveries notwithstanding, deep breathing is not a new practice for Christian believers. For example, a thirteenth-century Eastern Orthodox monk named Nikiphoros wrote:
Seat yourself, then, concentrate your intellect, and lead it into the respiratory passage through which your breath passes into your heart. Put pressure on your intellect and compel it to descend with your inhaled breath into your heart.[9]
In his ancient wisdom, Nikiphoros was encouraging us to use breath to concentrate on heart issues, promising that by uniting our intellect with our soul in this way, we would experience indescribable delight.
Ignatius of Loyola, the sixteenth-century founder of the Jesuits and author of The Spiritual Exercises, called one of his three kinds of prayer “prayer by rhythm.” This included inhaling deeply, then speaking a word or two of a learned prayer while exhaling. “With each breath in or out, one has to pray mentally, saying one word of the OUR FATHER, or of another prayer which is being recited: so that only one word be said between one breath and another.”[10] A twentieth-century Christian writer described this process as being “almost like communication with the less conscious parts of one’s being, saying to them: ‘Simmer down and listen, there is something beyond this turmoil.’”[11]
I have found deep breathing to be immensely helpful at the start of my time of meditation with God. Not only does it settle my soul and help me focus, but it reminds me of the fragility of life, of how my very existence depends on the will of God who gives to all life and breath and everything (Acts 17:25).
Simple Movement
It is amazing
that so much good can come from something as simple as tapping your fingers or palms together, or patting your right foot and then your left. These simple movements can improve your ability to think, lessen feelings of stress or anxiety, and improve your memory at the same time. How? As we learned earlier, our brain cells communicate with one another by sending signals across synapses to each other. Every neuron contains both a sending point, called an axon, and thousands of receivers, called dendrites, which are critical for optimal brain functioning. The daily stresses of life damage those dendrites, diminishing our brain’s ability to process. Studies have shown that focused, repetitive movement can slow down dendrite deterioration, bringing healing to our brains and relieving us of feelings of stress, depression, or even anger. This explains in part why treatments that involve finger tapping have proved promising for everything from post-traumatic stress disorder to hypertension and fibromyalgia.[12]
Repetitive movement appears to engage a part of our brain’s attention network called our “orienting” response, which is what enables us to sort through a variety of stimuli to determine what is important. Your orienting response enables you to listen to the person sitting with you at a crowded restaurant, rather than the orders a waiter is taking across the way. Anything we can do to hone this ability is a vital asset, for it enables us to more quickly tune into what really matters and ignore what doesn’t. For many of us, our orienting response is in constant overdrive because of the bombardment of distractions that come our way on a continual basis. Repetitive movement has been shown to strengthen our orienting response. It makes sense, then, that it can help to hone our ability to listen for the gentle voice of God’s Spirit as we go through our days.
The Wired Soul Page 6
