Just in time for Lent: here is a wonderful new addition to the literature of Benedictine wisdom.

Running with Expanding Heart (the title comes from a phrase in the prologue to the Rule of Saint Benedict) offers a vision of how Benedictine spirituality can provide inspiration and guidance for twenty-first century Christians—including the laity. Sister Mary Reuter, a member of Saint Benedict’s Monastery in St. Joseph, Minnesota and a theology professor at the College of Saint Benedict and Saint John’s University, understands just how down-to-earth and practical Benedictine wisdom is, and uses storytelling, personal reflection, and thought-provoking, open-ended questions to illustrate just how relevant Benedict’s Rule continues to be. Beginning with an homage to her father whom she describes as an “extraordinary ordinary man,” the author goes on to show, in a variety of ways, how Benedictine wisdom can help Christians to find the extraordinary in all of life’s ordinary moments.

The chapters of the book cover the key elements of Benedictine wisdom, including hospitality, stability, obedience, the beauty of the ordinary, the spirituality of place, and the recognition that everything is holy. Although the book does not promote any sort of method or technique of prayer, the overall message will support all who seek to nurture a contemplative dimension within even the most down-to-earth corners of their lives.

This book can serve as an introduction to Benedictine spirituality for beginners, but also as a bouquet of new insights for those who have walked with Benedict for some time. It’s a slender little book (100 pages plus notes), making it ideal to read as part of an overall discipline of daily devotion. St. Benedict expected his monks to read a book for Lent; if you want to make Benedictine wisdom more integrally part of your life, this would be an ideal selection for your Lenten reading.

Many of the finest studies of Christian mysticism are just that: studies. While authors as renowned as William Ralph Inge, Cuthbert Butler, Evelyn Underhill, Louis Bouyer, John Macquarrie, Bernard McGinn and Robert Davis Hughes have made splendid contributions to our knowledge and understanding of contemplative and mystical spirituality, their erudite and scholarly works are, alas, often just too challenging for the ordinary, non-theologically-educated layperson. Although perusing their work can be a dazzling journey of insight and cognition, the casual reader may well be left wondering the all-important question, largely unaddressed by the scholars: “How do I apply this wisdom to my life?”

Enter Richard Rohr and his inviting, accessible introduction to the mystical element of spirituality written for the average seeker in our time. He understands that mysticism is far more than just “experiencing God,” and he refuses to reduce contemplation to mere psychological nurture or stress management. He deftly understands that mysticism often exists in tension with established religious authority, and yet at its heart Christian mysticism is about reconciliation and relationship more so than revolution and rebellion. Rohr has a clear sense of the paradox and play at the heart of mysticism, and manages to avoid both the trap of esotericism (mysticism as a retreat into private spirituality) and devotionalism (mysticism as a metaphor for super-piety). The title, The Naked Now, evokes a range of “present-moment” spiritaul masterpieces, from Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now to Jean-Pierre de Caussade’s Abandonment to Divine Providence. Like these previous works, The Naked Now recognizes the mysticism is a gift already given, not something we achieve so much as something we, by God’s grace, simply allow: in the undefended, un-judged (hence, “naked”) here-and-now present.

The key to this book’s accessibility and usefulness lies in its subtitle. Rohr does not promise his readers that The Naked Now will make them become mystics; instead, he promises to invite them to “see” as mystics do. He uses the metaphor of seeing and even of the “third eye” to unpack not only what is wrong with religion in general, but to present mysticism as a shift into all-embracing, nondual consciousness. He grounds this fundamental truth in the Christian tradition, discussing how mysticism relates to the Christian (particularly but not exclusively Catholic) life, and especially to the teachings of Jesus. Like Cynthia Bourgeault or even Ken Wilber, Rohr’s understanding of Jesus liberates Christ from the kind of metaphysical superhero who dies to placate a wrathful God and instead celebrates him as a wisdom teacher whose death and resurrection become the archetypal pathway for the life of mystical initiation: descent into the dark night (and surrender of the ego), followed by the resurrection into the “new mind” or “mind of Christ” (metanoia, conversion) that characterizes mystical seeing — and being.

In his introduction to the book, Rohr suggests that these principles epitomize what he is trying to say: “All saying must be balanced by unsaying, and knowing must be humbled by unknowing,” and “All light must be informed by darkness, and all success by suffering.” The key to these mystical axioms, of course, is unlearning the dualistic way of seeing and thinking by relaxing into the naked now: the “sacrament of the present moment.”

The Naked Now is a gentle book, and probably will not convert anyone who is not already predisposed to its joyful and expansive message. It lacks the polemical punch of Brian McLaren’s A New Kind of Christianity or Phyllis Tickle’s The Great Emergence; but it really has a different mission than either of those books. It’s not about convincing the ego of how “right” the mystical path is, but rather simply about accepting the invitation to walk the mystic path and see for yourself. Because Rohr is not interested in oppositional consciousness, so he is not particularly interested in meeting his critics (or the critics of mysticism in general) on their level. Rather, he simply invites everyone to “come higher” to the third-eye, naked now level of contemplative seeing. Those who accept the invitation will find this book encouraging and hopeful. Those who don’t probably wouldn’t read the book to begin with.

If you like The Website of Unknowing I can confidently say that you will love The Naked Now. If you’re not particularly familiar with my website, then consider if you are drawn to centering prayer, interfaith spirituality (Christianity in dialogue with Buddhism, etc.), Benedictine/Monastic spirituality, Celtic Christianity, or the emergent conversation. If any of these are of interest to you, get this book. It will inspire you to connect to the spiritual heart of all these creative movements within the Christian community.

A New Kind of Christianity by Brian McLaren features a series of questions that McLaren has been wresting with — questions he has had posed to him, all over the world, as he has travelled, speaking about the challenges the community of faith is facing as we enter more fully into the postmodern age. Some of the questions are very much in line with the kinds of conversations we have on this blog: “How should followers of Jesus relate to people of other religions?” “How can we translate our quest into action?” Other questions wade into areas I haven’t directly addressed here, but that every thinking Christian should be wrestling with: “Is God violent?” “Can we find a way to address human sexuality without fighting about it?” “What is the overarching story line of the Bible?” I suspect that McLaren will adress these, and the other questions he raises in this book with his customary love for scripture and Christian tradition, coupled with a keen awareness that all the old ways of “doing church” are increasingly obsolete in our day. It will be interesting to see where he goes. Incidentally, I was privileged to be part of a conference call McLaren  held last night for about 60 bloggers who are engaging in the emergent conversation. Over the course of 80 minutes he responded to our questions, showing a gracious respect for those who may differ or disagree with him, and an overall sense of openness to seeing just where God may be leading us (with the humility to admit that he, or we, don’t have very much figured out).

Prayer and Prophecy: The Essential Kenneth Leech is an anthology featuring some of the best writing from Ken Leech, arguably one of the most exciting Anglican theologians living today. Leech made a name for himself in the late 1970s with Soul Friend, one of the first books on spiritual direction to reach an audience beyond just clergy and monastics. Several other books on the spiritual life ensued. But this priest is more than just a teacher of prayer, and his ministry (in the east end of London for just about the entirety of his career) has had as much to do with care for the poor, feeding the hungry, engaging in community organizing, and learning to be good neighbors with non-Christians, as it has been concerned with prayer and meditation and the discernment of spirits. Thus, Leech held a space within the Anglican world where contemplation and action naturally came together — similar to the space that Richard Rohr holds among Catholics today. But Leech is simultaneously more orthodox and more radical than folks like Rohr or Cynthia Bourgeault or Tilden Edwards. He combines a rich Anglo-Catholic love for the sacraments and for ceremonial with a clear understanding that devotion to Christ in the Blessed Sacrament is only true when it is accompanied by devotion to Christ whose real presence is found most assuredly among the hungry, the homeless, and the downtrodden. In connecting these dots, Leech does not shy away from the political implications of his radical faith, but he always remains clear that his politics are in service to his vocation as a Christian, and not the other way around.

Okay, so it’s obvious that I’m enthusiastic about Brian McLaren and Kenneth Leech as persons and as ministers of the Gospel. I’ll write more about these books after I read them — but in the meantime, follow the above links and go buy copies of your own!

The Didache is one of the most ancient of Christian documents. Its name is related to the English word “didactic,” which gives a clue to its content: it is a teaching manual, offering spiritual and moral guidance to new converts to the community of faith. It’s not very long (in this book, the complete text of the Didache covers only sixteen pages) and it may very well have been several older documents patched together. It was an also-ran for inclusion in the New Testament, which means that, while the early church did not consider it sufficiently inspired to be regarded as sacred scripture, it nevertheless was respected enough to be considered. For centuries it was effectively lost, until a 1000-year-old copy of the manuscript was found in a convent library in Istanbul in 1873. Tony Jones calls the Didache “the most important book you’ve never heard of” and in The Teaching of the 12 he sets out not so much to provide a scholarly or academic introduction to this ancient writing, but rather to suggest that the Didache has immediate, practical application for Christians (both individually and within faith communities) seeking a simple, unadorned, down-to-earth vision of what it means to be a Christian — or a Christian church — in our time.

The idea of returning to the source holds powerful attraction for many Christians. Many Protestant and evangelical movements over the last five hundred years have been fueled by a desire to re-discover (or re-create) the authentic church as depicted in the New Testament (that is to say, before the accretions of history, empire, and worldly compromise slowly transformed the community of faith into the church institutional). Read the writings of Frank Viola (such as his flawed, but emblematic Pagan Christianity?) to see how this hunger for the primitive church continues to drive many seekers today. Tony Jones presents the Didache almost as a house church manifesto, interspersing his own commentary on the text with the ruminations of “Trucker Frank,” who is a member of a small faith community in Missouri called the Cymbrogi (Welsh for “Companions of the Heart”) that uses the Didache to guide their ongoing faith formation.

Because of this hunger for the primitive, which is in itself simply another point of view, some of Jones’ conclusions leave me unpersuaded: for example, his insistence that the Didache presents a pre-episcopal understanding of church governance. But overall, the enthusiasm and excitement he conveys in his appreciation for the Didache is rather infectious. Again and again, he enthuses that this ancient document calls us not to a set of propositional beliefs, but rather to Christianity as a way of life. I realize that, for Jones and the Cymbrogi and perhaps many others, the Didache has had an effect similar to what the Holy Rule of St. Benedict has had in my own faith journey: it has brought the experience of being a Christian down to earth, made it personal, and challenged the reader to actually live the gospel.

And those are good things indeed.

So, I’m not sure that the Didache is going to revolutionize the church, any more than the Rule or so many other writings of deep faith and devotion have. But I think it’s worth exploring. One aspect of Jones’ commentary that I particularly enjoyed is his explication of just how pragmatic this document is: in its discussion of Baptism, for example, the Didache says that baptisms should be performed “in flowing water.” But it goes on to say: “But if you have no running water, baptize in other water… If you have very little, pour water three times on the head…” Compare this common-sense approach to the kinds of insistence we have seen over the centuries from the various denominations that only one particular way of baptizing is valid. In fact, Jones paraphrases this entire teaching as “here’s the ideal way of baptizing, but if you can’t live up to the ideal, then do the best you can.” Ah, this is dangerous stuff: at what point does “do the best you can” slide into the ironic “whatever!” that adolescents say to annoy their parents — and that epitomizes the pervasive and center-less relativism of our age? Still, it’s a danger that I think we can all live with, for if we have no wriggle room in how we conduct our lives as Christians, contention and conflict will surely ensue (as the sad history of the church in its many divisions has shown). So perhaps the Didache does have something unique to say: strive to be perfect (Matthew 5:48), but also recognize that sometimes perfection just doesn’t happen. And in those circumstances… well, do the best we can.

So the Didache didn’t make me want to run off and join a house church, but I’ve got my Lay Cistercian community, which in many ways already does function like a house church. But for the many Christians who do not enjoy such an intimate, small-group experience of faith — and who are looking for that undefinable something-which-is-missing — this text, and Jones’ accessible commentary on it, just might illuminate the way.

Here’s your link to happy shopping: Mystical Christianity and Contemplative Spirituality Book List on Amazon.com (if you live in the USA, please do follow this particular link when you plan on purchasing; I get a modest commission on books sold through this link, which I then use to fortify my library).

And if you haven’t done so already, please pre-order a copy of The Big Book of Christian Mysticism — it makes my editor (not to mention me) happy to think that people will actually buy the book.

One of the reasons why I want a Kindle is because there is a growing selection of — you guessed it — mystical and contemplative works available electronically. And so here is a list of some of those books. If you have more luck with Santa than I do, then I hope you’ll refer to this list when choosing books for your Kindle.

• Revised Standard Version of the Holy Bible, Catholic Edition
• Anonymous, The Cloud of Unknowing and Other Works
• Anonymous, The Little Flowers of Saint Francis of Assisi
• Anonymous, The Way of a Pilgrim & The Pilgrim Continues His Way
• Anonymous, Theologia Germanica
• Benedict of Nursia, The Rule of Saint Benedict
• Bernard of Clairvaux, On Loving God
• Brother Lawrence, Practice of the Presence of God
• Dorothee Soelle: The Silent Cry: Mysticism and Resistance
• Evelyn Underhill, Practical Mysticism
• Evelyn Underhill, The Life of the Spirit and the Life of Today
• Evelyn Underhill, The Essentials of Mysticism
• Francis de Sales, Introduction to the Devout Life
• Gerald May, Will and Spirit: A Contemplative Psychology
• Ignatius of Loyola, Selected Writings
• James Hannay, Wisdom of the Desert
• John of the Cross, The Ascent of Mount Carmel
• John of the Cross, Dark Night of the Soul
• John Ruysbroeck, The Adornment of the Spiritual Marriage and Other Works
• Jonathan Edwards, Religious Affections
• Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love
• Martin Laird, Into the Silent Land
• Meister Eckhart, Selected Writings
• Meister Eckhart, Sermons
• Nicholas of Cusa, The Vision of God
• Plotinus, The Enneads
• Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle
• Teresa of Avila, The Way of Perfection
• Thérèse of Lisieux, The Story of a Soul
• Thomas Aquinas, On Prayer and the Contemplative Life
• Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
• Thomas Merton, Contemplative Prayer
• Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude
• Thomas Merton, When the Trees Say Nothing
• Various, The Cell of Self Knowledge
• Various, Selections from the German Mystics of the Middle Ages
• William Law, A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life

I’m sure many more are going to be added in the months and years to come. Now, if only Paulist Press would hurry up and get the “Classics of Western Spirituality” series on Kindle!

P.S. As more contemplative or Christian mystical titles available on Kindle come to my attention, I’ll be adding them to this list. So if you see someting that’s not on this list, please let me know.

Move over, Garfield, Dewey, LOLCats, and all those adorable cats by Kliban… here come’s “Simon’s Cat,” who insinuated himself (herself?) into my heart with a huge baseball bat. Twenty-five million Youtube fans later, Simon’s irrepressible puss has now landed a major book deal, with Simon’s Cat the first of what we can hope will be many releases. The drawings are whimsical, almost primitive, in their simple depictions of life, the universe and everything from a cat’s-eye view. Of course, everything revolves around the holy trinity of naps, playtime, and the food bowl. If you, or anyone you love, are owned by cats, you’ll find this book to be plenty of fun and dead-on accurate in its depiction of the glories of serving our four-legged masters. And I suppose I don’t need to point out that this is a wonderful holiday gift idea.

Now, if only they could figure out how to encode Youtube videos into the pages of a book (a non-Kindle-ized book, that is)…

I learned from he-who-knows-everything-about-religious-publishing, Mike Morrell, that Blackwell has an impressive list of “Companion Guides” to various aspects of Christian theology and practice. These hefty tomes consist of an anthology of essays, by leading scholars, exploring the topic at hand from a variety of perspectives. Here are a few examples:

The Blackwell Companion to Christian Spirituality is, for me of course, the juiciest book of the lot. It features essays by Mark A. Macintosh (“Trinitarian Perspectives on Christian Spirituality”), Robert Davis Hughes III (“The Holy Spirit in Christian Spirituality”), Diana Butler Bass (“Christian Spirituality in Europe and North America since 1700″, with Joseph Stewart-Sicking) and Philip Sheldrake (“Special Topics in Contemporary Christian Spirituality: Interpretation”). Essays cover not only a variety of special topics, but the history and theology of Christian spirituality as well as examining the topic from a variety of interdisciplinary perspectives.

The Blackwell Companion to Catholicism and The Blackwell Companion to Eastern Christianity, as their titles suggest, consider these specific ecclesial traditions from a variety of historical, cultural, doctrinal and praxis-related perspectives. Contributors to the Catholic companion include Luke Timothy Johnson, Frederick Christian Bauerschmidt, Peter Phan, Avery Cardinal Dulles, and Wendy Wright. While I’m not as familiar with the contributors to the Eastern Christianity companion and so I can’t as easily cherry pick the most impressive names (!), take a look at a few of the topics covered: “Byzantine Christianity,” “Coptic Christianity,” “Russian Christianity,” “Syriac Christianity,” “Eastern Catholic Christianity,” as well as essays exploring the liturgics, iconography, architecture and hagiography of the Eastern churches.

I don’t consider myself a theologian, but I say that not as a point of pride, but rather as a confession. I think all Christians need to be theologically informed (and those of us who blather on about our faith in blogs, even more so), but of course it’s a daunting task, bringing one’s knowledge of theology up above the mere Baltimore Catechism level. Particularly in our age, when the shift from modernity to postmodernity has created both new crises and new opportunities for Christian discourse. So with this in mind, I’d like to commend a few additional Blackwell books to you.

The Blackwell Companion to Modern Theology can help you figure out where we’ve been which is usually a helpful prerequisite to getting a grip on where we’re going. Broadly covering the seventeenth century through the mid-twentieth century, modern theology represents the rise of theology as its own scholarly project, independent of ecclesial control. This companion provides a history of theology from the patristic age, through the medieval and reformation periods culminating in the modern era; examines the relati0nship of theology to other disciplines, such as Biblical studies, history, philosophy and social theory; considers key theological doctrines such as the Trinity, Incarnation, and Eschatology, points out the key players of modernity, from Kant and Barth to Rahner and Von Balthasar, and finally considers a few key topics, including feminism, social justice, interreligious dialogue, and my two favorites: eco-theology and the revival of mysticism (conspicuous in its absence is an essay exploring the theological foundations of Pentecostalism and Fundamentalism, but no book is perfect).

Whew! What a roller coaster ride. But wait, there’s more! For as soon as you get comfortable with the kaleidoscopic world of modern theology, the light show really begins, as we turn to The Blackwell Companion to Postmodern Theology. Okay, all of you folks out there in blog-reader-land who are interested in the emerging church: here is the theological engine that is powering that grass-roots project. I won’t bore you with trying to define post-modernity, a term even more slippery than plain modernity, but clearly this represents the most recent trends in the great theological conversation. In this book we find a cornucopia of topics to explore; let me list just four of the essay titles so you can see what’s on the menu: “Earth God: Cultivating the Spirit in an Ecocidal Culture” by Mark I. Wallace, “The Poetics of the Impossible and the Kingdom of God” by John D. Caputo; “They Will Know We Are Christians by Our Regulated Improvisation: Ecclesial Hybridity and the Unity of the Church” by Mary McClintock Fulkerson, and “The Christian Message and the Dissolution of Metaphysics” by Gianni Vattimo. The essays are grouped into these categories: Aesthetics, Ethics, Gender, Hermeneutics, Phenomenology, Heideggerians and Derrideans.

Now, if all this is making your head spin and you feel like you need a more foundational look at postmodernity, there is The Postmodern God: A Theological Reader (Blackwell Readings in Modern Theology), which gathers together essays by pretty much all of the key figures in the postmodern conversation (Georges Bataille, Jacques Lacan, Roland Barthes, René Girard, Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida, and others), along with additional essays considering topics such as feminism, liturgics, metaphysics and phenomenology. Read it and your grasp of postmodernity will be as clear as mud (which is about as clear as it’s gonna get).

Finally: for all of you non-scholars out there (like me), who feel totally humbled if not outright intimidated by these theological tomes, let me recommend a few other Blackwell titles that might serve as a “remedial” curriculum in theology. Indeed, these titles (each written or edited by the respected Anglican scholar Alister McGrath) are designed for undergraduate courses in Christian theology, so pretty much any reasonably intelligent reader will find much to savor here. Plus (I know this is trivial, but I can’t resist) look at the covers: they are gorgeously designed books.

Christian Theology: An Introduction considers theology from a historical as well as a doctrinal perspective, and also considers some of the philosophical problems associated with the study of theology; The Christian Theology Reader provides close to 300 original writings by great Christian theologians from the 1st century to the present day, mostly in short (1-3 pages) excerpts; think of this as “Christian Theology’s Greatest Hits.” Finally, McGrath’s Christian Spirituality: An Introduction connects the dots between theology (theory) and spirituality (practice) in the Christian life.

Finally, a word of warning: like all good academic works, these books are all tomes (averaging about 550 pages each) and are not cheap (especially the hardcover editions). So just get one at a time. Or go talk your local library into ordering copies. They should for these are books for the ages.

Early reports about the movie suggested that Maurice Sendak (who wrote and illustrated the original children’s book) was happy with Spike Jonze directing the movie because he didn’t try to turn the wild things into just big cute, cuddly teddy bears. In other words, he let them stay wild. Apparently this made the movie studio nervous, and rumors swirled during the production of the movie that it was too scary for kids. Even more to the point, it doesn’t have a tidy, feel-good ending, even though its faithfulness to the book does offer a sense of resolution. Although Max follows the rules of the hero’s journey and makes his return at the story’s dénouement, we viewers are left with the unsettling implication that the wild things remain wild — and in the wild. You never know when they’ll show up again, or when Max will run off for another visit.

My daughter, who normally has a pretty low tolerance for movies with an edge, liked it, and she and I howled like wolves all the way from the theater to the van.

I’m reminded of one of the most important lines in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, when one of the characters (it differs from book to movie) notes that Aslan is not a tame lion. The truth is, we always want to tame God, just as we always want to tame anything and everything about our own deep wildness, and about the stories we tell about “the wild” —i.e., the otherworld. We want the fairy-folk to be cute cuddly garden sprites, despite the fact that in Celtic folklore they are not only not-so-small, but also both dangerous and unpredictable. Tolkien wisely gave us the diminutive hobbits as our ambassadors to his otherworld, forcing his readers to identify with small protagonists because ours is an age that insists on keeping our fairy tales small as well. From a hobbit’s-eye view of things, even a domesticated otherworld can still seem mighty big and dangerous. Something similar is at work with Spike Jonze’s reimagining of Sendak’s story, where a child has to encounter some life-sized monsters. Of course, the psychological punchline is that the wild things all live inside of himself. “Inside all of us is a wild thing,” proclaims the movie’s trailer, set to a spunky, bouncy soundtrack. Guess what? Aslan is inside all of us, too, and he’s waiting to roar.

We all want Aslan to be tame, and we want God to be safe and predictable. This is the temptation behind fundamentalist religion, where God is reduced to a robotic father-figure-in-the-sky who rewards the good and punishes the bad. And then there is the God of liberal religion, who just is a big nice guy who loves everybody unconditionally and who pretends that evil doesn’t exist. Where the Wild Things Are (the movie) takes aim at both of these kinds of domesticated deities and blows them to smithereens. It may not be an explicitly religious movie, but it makes some pretty important theological statements nevertheless.

So if the Ultimate Wild Thing isn’t just a robotic dispenser of justice or a feel-good postmodern psychotherapist, then just what are we dealing with? I’m not sure I can answer this question, for after all, we are dealing with Mystery here. Part of why Aslan remains Not a Tame Lion has to do with Aslan being the Ultimate Mystery. But just as in the book version of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, the beavers assure the Pevensie children that while Aslan isn’t safe, he is good, I think we can start with that small measure of comfort. After all, if God isn’t good, then the universe is meaningless, and we all have to create our own good, much like Max and and the Wild Things build their fort. But without a deeper and higher meaning, sooner or later we tear down the forts we build. But some things endure, like love, compassion, noble acts of self-sacrifice for the good of others, the belief in fairness even when life seems pretty unfair. That these things persist over time, to me is evidence enough that good exists, not as a convenient human construct but as a real ontological principle, somewhere deep inside the ultimate Wild Thing. And that makes me willing to get on the boat and join Max in the adventure. Even though I suspect it will get pretty dangerous out there (or is that “in there”?).

Parker Palmer’s first book almost didn’t happen. As he explains in the new introduction to The Promise of Paradox (first published in 1980 by Ave Maria Press and now reissued in a gorgeous hardcover edition by Jossey-Bass), he didn’t imagine himself as capable of writing an entire book, but when an editor pointed out to him that paradox was a recurring theme in a number of his essays and that they ought to be gathered together and published as a book, not only did Palmer agree, but he realized that he had underestimated himself: as he humorously puts it, “In a moment of satori worthy of a Zen wannabe, I realized that not only could I write a book, I already had! … The Promise of Paradox was an accidental book. But once I held a copy in my hands, I knew I could write more books if I wanted to.” So we all who love Palmer’s gentle and honest wisdom owe that editor at Ave Maria a huge debt of gratitude.

The primary weakness of The Promise of Paradox is, not surprisingly, that it reads like a collection of essays — which it, in fact, is. But this is a weakness I am happy to live with, since there is so much that is strong and good and true about this book. Although paradox is the golden thread that unites all the chapters/essays, each section brings a distinctive perspective on this central theme: from the opening essay which unpacks the concept of paradox through a look at Thomas Merton and his playful concept of being “in the belly of a paradox,” to Palmer’s creative re-imagining of the Stations of the Cross (not unlike the stages of grief), to two luminous essays on the nature and value of community, to meditations on scarcity and abundance and the spirituality of education. And so the book’s weakness is also, paradoxically, its towering strength: each of these essays stands on its own, each filled with wisdom, insight, and gently dry humor. Palmer has a perceptive and discerning mind, and is able to offer keen criticism of the foibles and blind spots of modern life without ever coming across as mean-spirited or angry. There’s not only much wisdom in what he says, but in how he says it.

In his new introduction, the author confesses to being uneasy with how much Christian language informs this 30-year-old book, not because he is no longer a Christian (to the contrary), but because he has become increasingly uncomfortable with how religious language can be divisive and exclusive and how some Christians have hijacked the language of the faith to their own political ends. Perhaps herein lies another paradox. I found myself agreeing with Palmer’s discomfort, and yet also enjoying the explicitly Christian feel of the essays themselves. I was left, by the end of the book, feeling really glad that he made no attempt to revise or rewrite the essays. Yes, it’s a problem that such language has been hijacked by those whose values seem to be at odds with Christ’s. But how wonderful it is to hear Palmer use that very language in such a Christ-like way.