Where the Mind Goes...

Have you ever been driving, arrived at your intended destination, only to realize you do not recollect at all much of the drive itself?

The car got you there. But your mind was in another world, it seemed. Perhaps you were dwelling on something you were dealing with in the moment, a recent argument, or a pressing worry. Perhaps it was just pure imagination, like a dream, that had occupied your thoughts. Maybe, even, it was good things, holy things, reflections on Divine grace, mercy, and love.

This doesn't only happen in the car. But this seems to be when most of us notice the habit; when our mind goes elsewhere, and our body moves on something like autopilot.

The truth is, our minds often yearn for more than what meets the eye. The mind is something of a mystery. No materialist, not even the most sophisticated neuroscientist, truly understands it. They something of synapses in the brain, impulses, how certain parts of the brain seem to activate when the mind is at work in a particular way—but they do not understand the mind itself.

How a brain can properly imprint memories, with such accuracy, remains a mystery to science. It cannot be explained, much less duplicated, by the scientific method. But the mind is real. Memories are real. While it is true that certain ailments, or injuries, can hinder our access to the memory, even this remains a mystery.

Our minds go places. Our memories come and go. And often, what impresses upon our minds is far more than what we see in front of us in the moment.

I say all of this only to point out that our minds are active in a way that's not entirely contingent on the world around us. The question, then, is how we direct our thoughts, how we live in our minds even as our bodies go about the world doing whatever it is that our bodies do.

Paul wrote his letter to the Philippians from prison. From prison. What would his mind entertain? He had every reason to dwell on the injustice of his situation, his fear about what was coming, his lack of provisions. But even from jail, he wrote to his beloved spiritual children who were not enduring such a trial:

"Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things." (Philippians 4:8)

He did not say, "complain about the food, your lack of freedom, the injustice of your situation." This is where most of our minds would go if we were in Paul's situation. He says almost nothing about his circumstances in this letter. He says to think on truth (clearly there was a truth that was more real to him than his cell), to think of what is honorable (not the dishonor of his situation). And what of justice? Well, he was unjustly imprisoned! But he does not dwell on that. He moves to what's pure, commendable, excellent, and worthy of praise!

The Greek verb used to "think" here is logizesthe. This is not a word that describes a passing thought. It's a kind of all-encompassing recollection that makes the world around someone almost disappear. It means to let these thoughts predominate in the mind, to dwell deliberately on these things.

When I am writing my novels, I am usually sitting in a room of about 10'x16'. I know that's the size of the room because I built it. It is filled with sacred art, books, drawings from my children. I have a computer, an extra monitor, and a Freewrite keyboard I often use to write so that I am not distracted by e-mails, or the news, or whatever other things that I might become preoccupied with on a computer.

But none of my stories tell you about this little room. In my mind, likewise, I am not fixated on my location. I am elsewhere, in a world of my imagining, a world where a story unfolds. And to write these books, I must go there in my mind, otherwise you'd get very boring novels about the little spider who is making a cobweb in the corner, or the dust bunny in the corner I should sweep up.

People aske me, quite often, how I am able to write so many stories, and so quickly at that. Well, I suppose it is on account of the fact that I have been blessed with a mind that rarely fixates on what's in front of me. Sometimes, I admit, this causes problems. Especially when my wife is trying to tell me about some task that must be done and I must pull my head out of the clouds lest I fail to her her entirely.

Well, without suggesting at all that there are not times when things of this world do demand attention, what we can learn from Paul is that these are not the foremost concern of the disciplined, Christian mind. He speaks of a discipline of attention that moves beyond what meets the eye. A steady choosing of where the mind will make its home.

And the tense Paul uses suggests a habitual kind of "thinking." Keep on reckoning these things. Return to them again and again.

Why does this matter so much? Because the alternative is vanity.

"Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity." (Ecclesiastes 1:2)

A couple of days ago I wrote about this verse, how the world for "vanity," hebel, means more than we usually think. It's not just about too much self-admiration. That's a part of vanity, but it does not exhaust its meaning. Hebel means, literally, breath or vapor.

A breath that comes and goes, that does not linger (even if you forgot to brush your teeth).

The things of this world are hebel. They are not evil; they are simply thin like a breath, quickly appearing, then fading away. We put so much weight on vain things, but a breath cannot carry any weight at all. Yet we fix our minds on such things as if they were a concrete foundation, or worse, a concrete prison.

What thoughts usually consume us during the course of an ordinary day?

How someone slighted us recently? How our children just won't listen, won't stop fighting with each other? What we want to eat for dinner? Who is going to win the football game today? What waits for us at work the next day, or the tasks we have to get done around the house? The anxiety about what others think of us? Whatever scrolls across our phones with the flick of a finger, and another flick, and another flick...

None of these things will exist in a hundred years. Most will not matter in a month. Many will pass away by tomorrow.

Paul says elsewhere that "the present form of this world is passing away" (1 Corinthians 7:31), and John says likewise: "And the world and its desire are passing away, but those who do the will of God live forever." (1 John 2:17)

If this is true, then to let the mind dwell endlessly on vanity is to build a house on a foundation as substantial as the fog. Why cling to it? Why give it even a second thought?

Now, do not get me wrong. Because the "clouds" are not substantial, either. The idea is not to keep your mind floating around in the sky somewhere.

Some hear “think on heavenly things” and imagine a kind of spiritual escapism, a mind so fixed on eternity that it floats above the laundry, the neighbor, the sick child, the unpaid bill, leaving such things neglected.

That is not what Scripture describes. God placed us on the earth. He made the soil and called it good. He took on flesh and walked dusty roads and ate fish on a beach. The heavenly mind is not one that ignores the earth but one that sees what's in front of through the eyes of heaven itself.

Consider how Paul writes to the Colossians: "So if you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth." (Colossians 3:1-2)

Yet the very same letter goes on, a few verses later, to speak about wives and husbands, children and parents, masters and servants, the most earthbound relationships imaginable. Paul does not contradict himself. He is showing us the order. First the mind dwells above. Then, from that height, it looks down on the ordinary world and sees it transfigured.

It is not a mind that remains in the heavens as if in rapture, but a mind that sees the world through a heavenly perspective.

Consider the difference between a tourist and a pilgrim.

Both might drive along the same road. The tourist sees only what's around him in the moment. That's his purpose for being there. To see the sights.

The pilgrim sees the road as the way to somewhere, and so every stone, every stranger, every meal along the way is charged with meaning.

The person whose mind dwells in heaven does not love the world less. He loves it more truly, because he no longer asks it to be his only, his fullness, his god.

St. Teresa of Avila carried a small prayer in her breviary: “Let nothing disturb you, let nothing frighten you, all things are passing away: God never changes.”

She did not write this in one of her many, lofty books. She wrote it in the book she used every day for prayer. It was a reminder... and if a saint required such a reminder, we do, too.

She does not say the passing things are worthless. No single breath is properly worthless. It's passing. And against the inhale and exhale, the mist, the fog, the vapor, stands an unchanging reality. God, Himself. The only thing worthy of the mind’s full weight, and reliable enough to bear it, to support it.

So how do we actually do this? Well, it's a discipline, and it might take time. Because our minds are often trained to dwell on temporary things, on passing things, on worldly things. Habits can change, but only through consistent, disciplined, redirection.

And it starts with a deliberate act of the will, in a moment. So pay attention today. Observe where your mind goes when it is left alone. Try to sit in silence for just five minutes. What thoughts bubble to the surface? Do not judge yourself. That's not the point. The reason for the exercise is diagnostic: to show us where our habits, where our minds are attached.

Most of us have never actually audited our thoughts, and the results are humbling.

Then pay attention during the course of the day. Notice where your mind goes. If you need a note, a little string on the finger, or whatever, to remind you to do this, do what you need to do. When thoughts come that you recognize as vapor, as though you're putting more weight on them than the situation can carry, practice redirection. Intentionally turn your mind to the kinds of things Paul listed to the Philippians.

Remind yourself of God's goodness, the love for you. Reflect on something from the Gospels, the Passion of Christ, the love God so consistently reveals.

When you catch the mind circling some vanity, do not beat yourself up over it. You can't "punch" away vapor with a rebuke. Instead, offer your mind something firmer, a line of a psalm, the name of Jesus, a single truth about God’s goodness.

St. Gemma Galgani developed the habit of, at every hour when the clock chimed, of saying, "My Jesus, mercy." What a beautiful little habit. She recognized that if her mind was not recollected to Christ at least hourly, she might go far too long consumed by things of infinitely lesser importance, by vanity.

Paul’s list in Philippians is a fine inventory. It's worth memorizing. Whatever is true. Whatever is honorable. Whatever is pure. Ask, of the thought you are holding: does it fit anywhere on this list?

Finally, let the heavenly mind come back down to earth.

When you have rested a moment in what is eternal, look again at the person in front of you, the task on your desk, the ordinary hour you are living. See it from a new perspective, from above. Ask what it looks like in the light of eternity. You will find that the dish you are washing, the conversation you are dreading, the small kindness you could offer are no longer vanity at all. Held rightly, they become the very places where heaven touches the ground.

 

God Bless,

Judah