Toward a Heart That Does Not Wander:
Meditation and Spiritual Dialogue

The hours of the monastic Liturgy of the Hours begin with the words, “O God, come to our aid.” For centuries, Benedictine monastic communities have opened their prayer with this supplication. It expresses a radical confession: left to themselves, human beings cannot make it. They have an intrinsic need to be saved, to be reached by Someone other than themselves, upon whom they must center their lives if they are to find stability and consistency. This plea already encapsulates much of the theology of monastic life. As emerged from the three “days of dialogue” on meditation held at the Monastery of the Holy Trinity in Dumenza, Italy, last May, it also touches on one of the pressing questions of contemporary spiritual life: How does one learn to remain in God?

The common thread linking the three sessions held at Dumenza—with Professor Maciej Bielawski, professor of comparative literature and spirituality (May 2); Dr. Giovanni Giambalvo Dal Ben, physician and Benedictine oblate of the World Community for Christian Meditation (WCCM) (May 16); and Father Daniele Mazza, a missionary of the Pontifical Institute for Foreign Missions (PIME) in Thailand and an expert on Buddhism (May 30)—was not simply meditation as a spiritual practice, but a fundamental question for monastic life: How does one become a person “wholly centered” on God?

Distraction as a Spiritual Illness
To understand the significance meditation can have for the spiritual life, it is helpful to begin with the very common phenomenon of distraction. A few years ago, Father Adolfo Nicolás, S.J. (1936–2020)[1], outlined this concern in a letter addressed to his confreres. In a text marked by extraordinary spiritual and ecclesial clarity, Father Nicolás observed that consecrated life risked losing its power of attraction and credibility, not because of a lack of generosity, but because of widespread inner fragmentation. He wrote:

The “experts” of religious life—Ignatius of Loyola, Francis Xavier, John of the Cross, Teresa of Ávila—were completely centered. They had been captivated by the Spirit, by the fire, by the life and way of Christ, and they remained there, completely centered, experiencing its depths, rebuilding their entire lives around this new center. In the presence of these saints, it seems that we are greatly and foolishly “distracted.”

For Father Nicolás, spiritual distraction is not the psychological absent-mindedness that occurs during prayer, but a genuine existential failure: a scattered way of being in life, at work, and in relationships, arising from having one’s mind and heart constantly out of place. Distraction thus becomes a chronic inability to inhabit the present and to dwell in the center, which is God.

Forms of Contemporary Distraction
Distraction manifests itself daily in manifold, subtle, and socially encouraged forms. Father Nicolás identifies them with precision, and his description resonates with the experience of anyone seeking to lead a serious spiritual life.

Distraction through identity-based and ideological grouping occurs when believers and consecrated persons project the idealism of their youth onto limited political, social, or cultural causes. The Gospel is reduced to a black-and-white ideology, depriving the spiritual horizon of the nuances and complexity of reality.

Perfectionism as narcissistic distraction consists in an exaggerated concern for one’s spiritual image, devotional appearances, or measurable spiritual progress.

The distraction of popularity and public opinion occurs when, in making decisions, one fails to seek God’s will through patient discernment and instead uncritically conforms to groupthink or to the approval of those one loves or respects.

The distraction of the media and the market arises from the compulsive use of new communication technologies and dependence on the constant flow of information, which can create a new and uncritical orthodoxy. Speed replaces depth; surfing the web replaces being rooted in Christ.

The ego as fundamental distraction is “the primary source of all fragmentation.” It never rests, demands constant attention, and interprets every daily setback as a conspiracy against itself, thereby destroying inner peace and the joy of the Spirit.

Father Nicolás’s analysis was echoed in the reflections of the other speakers. Dr. Giambalvo Dal Ben recalled that the Desert Fathers used a specific term for disordered attachment to oneself: philautia. It is selfish self-love, a self-centered force that turns one’s inner life into a self-referential mirror, preventing the vision of the Other and obscuring the presence of God.

Referring to the Theravāda tradition, Father Daniele Mazza added the Buddhist category of the five nīvaraṇa, the “veils” or obstacles of sensual desire, aversion, lethargy, restlessness, and paralyzing doubt. Meditation teaches one to recognize these obstacles so as not to be overwhelmed by them. The names may differ from those used in the Christian tradition, but the problem is the same: forces that prevent us from remaining present to God and to ourselves.

 Reclaiming “Meditation”
Faced with the fragmentation of inner life, it is first necessary to reclaim the authentic meaning of the word “meditation.” When words lose their precision, they also lose their ability to identify the experiences they are meant to name. Bielawski observed that today the term “meditation” has “ridden off on the white horse of history,” becoming an umbrella term encompassing everything and its opposite: from relaxation to mysticism, from psychotherapy to ecstatic experience of the divine.

He therefore proposed a concise and clarifying definition: Meditation is sustained attention, consciously practiced with a view to some change.

Attention is the primary spiritual and cognitive faculty. Though every human being possesses it innately, it ordinarily appears as fleeting and fragmented.

Sustained refers to deliberately training oneself to extend the duration of attention. It entails stability, constant practice, discipline, and patience.

Consciously practiced implies not only attending, for example, to one’s breath, but also the mental presence by which one becomes fully aware of attending. The vigilance that arises from this awareness helps prevent the mind from wandering.

With a view to some change means that meditation is not an exercise for its own sake but is goal-oriented. Whether the goal is union with the mystery of God, the search for authenticity, or the overcoming of suffering, meditation always implies a profound transformation of the person.

Bielawski’s framework draws a line between fleeting daily “moments of contemplation” and the sustained practice of a true meditative culture: patiently embracing an existential orientation and project capable of shaping the deepest structure of the person and training one to pause before the mystery of God.

Practice and Technique
One of the most valuable insights of this three-day program was the emphasis, shared from different perspectives, on a distinction that may seem subtle but is in fact decisive: the distinction between practice and technique.

A technique is a set of standardized procedures that, when correctly applied, produce a predictable result. It belongs to the realm of doing and using. A spiritual practice, by contrast, is a discipline that transforms the person who lives it. It is not a tool to be used and put away, but a way of being in the world; it belongs to the order of being.

The temptation of spiritual technique is a form of methodological fixation: the belief that one can produce an encounter with God by following an instruction manual. Against this tendency, Bielawski recalled the warning of the Dominican mystic Meister Eckhart (1260–1328): “Be careful not to be too earnest in looking for a method for reaching God, for you might find the method and lose God.”

In his talk on John Main (1926–1982) and Christian meditation, Giovanni Giambalvo Dal Ben expressed the same conviction with precision. Certainly, there are technical aspects, but to define Christian meditation as a mere technique would be inappropriate. For John Main, it was a contemplative practice and a life-transforming spiritual discipline, imbued with a dimension of faith and perseverance. What makes meditation Christian is not the technique but faith and the historical and cultural framework of the tradition with which we identify.

Ultimately, the difference between practice and technique is the difference between a relationship and a procedure. It is possible to use a concentration technique in a completely neutral way, without believing in anything. It is not possible, however, to live a spiritual practice without openness to transformation by the One encountered in the innermost recesses of the heart.

What constitutes the core of the meditative act is not the precision of a method, but faith, perseverance, and a personal relationship with God. Faith is not merely the horizon within which meditation unfolds; it is the wellspring of motivation, the fundamental impulse to begin and to persevere on the journey.

Without this attitude of faith, which is, above all, trust in those who have already walked the path of meditation, and without the guidance of those experienced in leading others along it, the practice risks becoming self-absorbed. Rather than opening us to an encounter with God, it can become yet another instrument of self-affirmation: a mask for the ego’s performance anxiety, expressed in the narcissistic perfectionism denounced by Father Nicolás. True spiritual practice, by contrast, is the space in which human beings set aside their pretensions and allow grace to work.

The Body as the Seat of the Spirit
The body is the primary and fundamental ground of the experience of the Spirit. An authentic spiritual anthropology cannot neglect the dimension of the flesh. Bielawski ironically denounced the risk of “armchair spirituality” or “sedentary rationalism,” which infects some forms of modern Western spirituality and reduce prayer to a merely intellectual exercise, losing sight of ancient bodily postures.

By contrast, the stability of the seated posture, the rhythm of the breath, and mindful walking are important means of becoming present to oneself and to God. This attention to corporeality resonates deeply with the central event of Christianity: the Incarnation. The Christian God does not redeem souls apart from matter but becomes flesh. The human body thus becomes the temple of the Holy Spirit and the place of grace.

Samādhi and Vipassanā
Father Daniele Mazza noted that the centrality of the body as the axis of inner transformation is an important point of convergence with Buddhism. In the Theravāda tradition, meditation is freed from intellectual abstraction precisely by its grounding in a specific psychophysical discipline.

The classic text of Buddhaghosa, the Visuddhimagga (5^th century CE), distinguishes two major and complementary approaches:

• Samādhi, or concentration, seeks to focus the mind on a single object, leading progressively to deeper states of stillness and absorption.
• Vipassanā, or insight, uses mental stability to observe physical and mental phenomena as they arise and cease, until one clearly recognizes the three universal characteristics of existence: impermanence (anicca), suffering or unsatisfactoriness (dukkha), and the absence of a permanent self (anattā).

Samādhi creates the mental stability necessary for insight; vipassanā leads to liberation from the illusion of the ego.

The practical psychology of Buddhism displays remarkable analytical acuity in mapping the human psyche through six temperaments: desiring, aversive, confused, trusting, intelligent, and speculative. Each temperament calls for a different object of meditation. Those dominated by sensual attachment, for example, contemplate the impermanence of the body; those dominated by anger cultivate loving-kindness (mettā); and those dominated by distraction remain anchored in the simplicity of the breath.

Meditation, then, is not a method to be applied in the same way to everyone. It is a personalized journey in which the practitioner is accompanied by a guide who knows the disciple and can offer direction appropriate to that person’s path.

Although parallels with Ignatian discernment and Benedictine spiritual direction may be readily apparent, we must not overlook the radical theological difference in the way each journey is grounded. From the Christian perspective, silent prayer is the space governed by grace: the free and transfiguring action of a personal God, who draws humanity into the very life of Christ: “It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.”

In the Buddhist tradition, the guiding principle is the Dhamma, the cosmic law and the Buddha’s teaching that map the mental processes by which ignorance and suffering are overcome. Yet, whether one surrenders to the divine initiative of grace or conforms to the universal truth of the Dhamma, meditation excludes self-sufficiency and finds a universal language in silence and bodily posture.

Patristic Roots and John Main
In a Christian setting, the profound need for psychophysical purification attested by Theravāda monastic experience is not an exotic import, but rather a rediscovery of ancient patristic roots. Dr. Giambalvo Dal Ben illustrated this rediscovery through the journey of the Benedictine monk John Main.

After learning the discipline of the mantra as a path to inner silence from Swami Satyananda, a Hindu master in Malaysia, Main discovered a Christian monastic counterpart through his study of the Spiritual Conferences of John Cassian, the renowned monk who brought the wisdom of the Desert Fathers to the Latin world.

The path proposed by Main is marked by the simplicity of its method: sitting motionless, with the back straight and aligned; remaining alert but relaxed; and silently repeating in the heart the Aramaic word Maranatha—Ma-ra-na-tha—without allowing the mind to wander toward theological ideas or spiritual feelings.

The mantra thus functions as a “mystagogical scalpel,” intended to shatter philautia, self-love, and self-referentiality. Human beings are ordinarily prisoners of their egocentrism, which sets a distorting mirror between themselves and reality, between themselves and God. The mantra becomes a means of dismantling this closed system of self-absorbed consciousness.

It is precisely at this breaking point of the ego that the deepest connection with the Buddhist practice of vipassanā and its recognition of anattā may be seen. In both traditions, meditation requires the individual to set aside egocentric will, enacting a kind of mystical death: a kenosis grounded in body and breath that loosens attachment to the ego and opens the person to what is essential.

Yet in neither tradition can this path be undertaken in isolation. Teacher, discernment, and the communal dimension remain indispensable for remaining on the path. Father Mazza reminded us that a practice undertaken incorrectly or without supervision can lead to serious psychophysical imbalances; wise guidance is necessary for interpreting mental states properly.

John Main’s own journey testifies to the importance of communal obedience. The World Community for Christian Meditation is structured as an international network of small groups, a “monastery without walls,” in which silence shared in community fosters intimacy and spiritual friendship across linguistic and cultural boundaries.

Silence and Interreligious Dialogue
Silence and the body thus emerge as true laboratories of interreligious dialogue: spaces in which dogmatic differences are not erased but engaged fruitfully.

Engagement with the East has offered modern Christianity a precious opportunity for rediscovery—not because its own contemplative heritage had been lost, but because it risked remaining buried beneath layers of rationalism and devotionalism. Dialogue with Eastern meditative traditions has helped refocus attention on Hesychasm and the Desert Fathers.

In this light, one can discern certain structural analogies between the traditions. Silent Eucharistic adoration and Hesychastic prayer of the heart share affinities with the unifying function of samādhi. Lectio divina and the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises display approaches that are, in certain respects, analogous to the analytical and experiential dimension of vipassanā. These are analogies, not equivalents, but they are sufficient to help explain why the dialogue can be fruitful.

The “sacrament of silence” names the space in which people recognize one another as brothers and sisters on the threshold of mystery, without claiming exclusive possession of it and without dissolving or confusing their respective identities. This recognition arises from lived experience. Those who have learned the rigorous discipline of dwelling at the center of being can recognize one another as companions in the spiritual quest. Father Mazza recounted an intermonastic dialogue in which Buddhist monks, moved by a longing for spiritual communion, set aside their own strict dietary rules in order to share meals with their Christian brothers.

Authentic dialogue does not blur differences. The foundations of the two faiths remain radically distinct. The Buddhist undertakes practices meant to dissolve definitively the illusion of the self (anattā). In the presence of grace, the Christian meditates in order to become as fully aware, transparent, and accountable as possible, within an eternal relationship of love with God the Creator and through incorporation into Trinitarian communion. It is precisely respect for these differences that allows each tradition to see itself reflected in the other and thereby to rediscover its own character with greater clarity.

Spiritual Fruits for the Community
These reflections did not remain merely theoretical; they have touched, even silently, the life of our community. The practice of mindfulness is not foreign to us. Last May’s series of dialogues provided a precious opportunity to recognize more clearly that what we experience in the Liturgy of the Hours, in lectio, in work, and in silence is already, in its own way, a form of meditation. It is not something to be imported from outside, but something to be rediscovered and deepened within our own tradition.

One monk’s question to Bielawski remains thought-provoking: Should a monastery limit itself to offering silence and solitude, rather than multiplying cultural initiatives? Bielawski’s answer embodied practical pastoral wisdom: the human mind needs study, clarity, rigor, and dialogue. Those who approach spiritual realities today often possess lively, restless, and wounded minds. Such minds cannot simply be disregarded by imposing silence; they need to be nourished with solid knowledge.

As an ancient Tibetan proverb states: “Meditating without studying is like trying to climb steep mountains without using your hands.”

Yet there is an opposite risk, one against which Father Nicolás had already warned. Study that does not lead to prayer and to the unification of the heart produces only professionals of religion: intellectually brilliant, perhaps, but spiritually “distracted.” One task of the Monastery of Dumenza might be expressed in this way: to show that culture and silence are not mutually exclusive; that study is necessary preparation at the threshold of mystery; and that silence is attentive listening to the Word dwelling in the cosmos.

Conclusion: “Lord, Come Quickly to My Aid”
At the end of this spiritual journey, the community finds itself not with a closed system of predetermined answers, but with open and fruitful questions. The invitation arising from these reflections coincides with the cry, “Lord, come quickly to my aid,” our response to the invocation, “O God, come to our assistance,” that begins a liturgical hour.

Authentic meditation, stripped of commercial distortions and the illusions of psychological self-centeredness, ultimately reveals itself as a progressive and radical surrender of the self. It is the poverty of spirit to which John Main pointed at the end of his earthly life. When asked about the ultimate core of the inner journey, he simply replied: “Repeat the mantra. Return constantly to the Word, accept your poverty, lay aside your selfishness.”

The cry, “O Lord, come quickly to my aid,” is not an acknowledgement of psychological failure, but the theological posture of Christian meditators who recognize their ontological dependence on the Creator. Monks and other seekers of God never possess the Center. Rather, they welcome it anew each day with empty hands, waiting in the stability of the heart for the inner desert to blossom once more through pure grace.

[This text originally appeared in the newsletter of the monastic community of Ss. Trinità di Dumenza : "Come pellegrini e stranieri" 43 (2026), pp. 9-18. It was translated by William Skudlarek.]