It’s the devil we don’t know. Not by name. A vice
eviscerated in the sixth century when eight terrible
truths became seven deadly sins. A temptation so
pernicious it hides in plain sight. A condition as common
as the air we breathe.
Acedia. It is possible—perhaps probable—that the word
means nothing to you, that you were wondering how to
pronounce it until twenty seconds ago. You aren’t alone.
One member asked me before early worship whether
I was preaching on the stunning national park on the
coast of Maine. Not quite.
No, our acedia maps the soul, not the coastline. In the
earliest centuries of the Christian movement, the word,
literally meaning “not caring,” was included on lists of
evils for followers of Jesus to avoid. In the year 590, Pope
Gregory consolidated these various lists and declared
that there were seven deadly sins: pride, envy, wrath,
avarice, gluttony, lust, and sloth. Acedia, collapsed into
sloth, disappeared from the dialogue. But just because
we don’t talk about it doesn’t mean it isn’t real.
In 2008, struck by this realization, the author Kathleen
Norris wrote a book titled, Acedia and Me. That’s where
I first encountered the word. It felt like Norris was
reclaiming something vital, something that we in the
church need to discuss.
And so, I wonder…can we talk about acedia?
Acedia is numbness. It is not laziness, the way we
might understand sloth. It is the soul’s quiet collapse.
Overwhelmed, burned out, spiritually disconnected,
not caring. It is captured by what one sociologist calls
the creed of the crash-out generation: nothing matters.
Acedia is existential anxiety. It is nihilism born of felt
powerlessness. It is what it feels like to scroll endlessly
past headline after headline of horrific acts, image after
image of starving children, the empty words of so-called
leaders, all interrupted by the occasional ad for sports
equipment or AI assistants. It’s the bottomless pit of
tedious work emails, performative busyness. It’s the
mindless rush toward the latest technology or the most
upsetting scandal.
Acedia has questions. What’s the point? Why bother?
Who cares?
The Apostle Paul is writing to people he’s never met in a
city he’s never visited. His letter to the Colossians offers
wisdom, some practical advice, and—perhaps most of
all—undaunted encouragement. Aware of their struggles
and the persistent temptation to give up, Paul writes
these new Christians with a deeply pastoral, personal
assurance. He speaks from the heart. “Though I am
absent in body, I am with you in spirit.”
Now, I must admit, that line landed a little close to home
for me this week. After ten weeks away on sabbatical, I’m
back in body and (I promise!) in spirit, too.
But Paul’s language got me thinking about its inverse,
about the opposite. About those times when you are
present in body but absent in soul. When we show up but
feel empty inside. When the fire has gone out, when we
are disengaged, numb, indifferent. Acedia is so dangerous
because it can perfectly mimic productivity. It can feel
or look as if you are doing something, but it lacks deep
purpose. It even shows up when the goals are virtuous
and worthwhile, gnawing at us with that pesky question:
does any of this even matter at all?
Paul does not dismiss the struggle. He does not offer an
easy fix. His words aim deeper. He offers a grounding
truth, a word of encouragement, advice, and wisdom.
Continue. Continue. “Continue to live your lives in Christ,
rooted and built up in Christ, established in the faith.”
Continue. Keep going. Keep growing. Keep caring. Paul
warns against these unnamed, deceptive philosophies.
I think of them as smooth-sounding distractions that
impersonate depth but are hollow at their core. Sounds a
lot like acedia to me.
The prophet Jeremiah offers a striking contrast in
competing images. First slide: there is a shrub in the
desert. It’s dry, rootless, vulnerable to all kinds of heat
and weather. That’s us on acedia. Then, second slide: a
tree planted on the banks of a flowing stream, its roots
go down deep, its leaves bright green, its life drawn from
something unseen and yet quietly enduring. The prophet
and the apostle suggest we have a choice to make.
So, how do we counter the rootlessness of acedia
and rediscover purpose? This morning, I’ll offer three
recommendations grounded in the gift of time set apart
this summer and the fertile soil of sacred scripture.
First, weep. You see, one of acedia’s most destructive
effects is its theft of our ability to grieve. In such a world,
tears are a radical act of holy resistance. Jeremiah was
the weeping prophet. He surveyed the sin and sorrow of
his people, and he wept for them. He saw the suffering
of his people and wrote lamentations to describe the
depths of his pain. Our faith calls us to resist the seduction
of apathy. This requires a persistent commitment to see
the suffering that surrounds us. To see the friend facing
a daunting diagnosis. To see the victims of violence
on the streets of our city. To see families grieving the
unbearable loss of precious children. To see people taken
from their homes without explanation or justification.
To see the gaunt faces of fellow humans starving as we
stock our refrigerators. Acedia urges us to look away, look
elsewhere. Nothing can be done. Faith demands we open
our eyes and let the tears fall.
During my sabbatical, I kept a journal. The first entry
begins, “May 21 – I cried the whole drive home. When I
walked in the door, the boys were in the kitchen. Ben ran
up and gave me a hug and said, ‘Dad, I’ve never seen you
cry before.’” (That’s not true.)
“Why the tears?” I wrote. “Final goodbyes. The lifting of
pressure. The weight of fatigue. God give me the patience
to wait and the strength to listen for your voice.” In an age
of apathy, weeping is a spiritual practice.
A second recommendation to ward off acedia: practice
your faith in ordinary ways. This superhero summer, we
might be tempted to believe that superhuman powers are
required to make a difference in the world. One of the lies
we must resist is this one: if you can’t solve the issue, you
shouldn’t waste time trying. But here’s the truth. Practicing
your faith will not solve all suffering. It will shape you into
disciples who live with compassion and conviction.
On June 1st, this congregation—and the Church
universal—lost one of our leading lights. As a pastor,
teacher, scholar, writer, and longtime Vice President for
Religion at Lilly Endowment, Craig Dykstra thoughtfully
guided the Christian witness, particularly in the direction
of practices, the beauty and centrality of practices that
shape our lives. Craig was convinced that we are formed
by how we live, not only what we profess. He insisted
that faith is about our embodied virtues, our character. By
acting faithfully, we grow in faith. Now, I admired Craig
Dykstra’s work long before I knew him. But when he and
Betsy returned to Indianapolis, I quickly discovered that
Craig’s witness matched his work. I saw him volunteering
in the Food Pantry, greeting each client with a smile and
a gentle word. I watched him nurture friendships, lifelong
and brand new. I saw him mentor pastors and scholars,
even stopping to offer a concrete word of praise to the
preacher on his way out the door on Sunday mornings. I
hope he knew how much those words mattered.
Acedia says, “If you can’t fix it, why try at all?”
Faith answers, “Start where you are. Do what you can.”
Don’t get stuck in your head. Letting the world’s sorrow
reach your heart is a sign that your soul is still alive. But
when the permacrisis immobilizes us, it feeds acedia. The
witness of the saints offers a sturdier truth: our actions are
the sunshine and soil that grow our faith. So, when you
feel most helpless, when you are overwhelmed, here’s my
pastoral advice. Do something for somebody else. Serve
a neighbor in need. Make a gift that demonstrates your
values. Make peace with someone close to you. Write a
letter. Welcome a stranger. Show up. Practice your faith.
Finally, to pick up Paul’s agrarian metaphor, one more
recommendation: root yourself. You see, acedia aims to
separate our souls and our bodies, but the incarnational
faith we follow says we need both to be fully present.
And so, I worry about the ways that life these days
feels disembodied. I’m convinced that the ability to be
anywhere often leaves us nowhere. So, root yourself
somewhere. My journeys this summer, from the Northwest
corner of Montana to the Canadian Rockies to the Great
Smokies, followed this common thread: that place matters.
Physical spaces ground us in God’s faithfulness.
At every stage of my journey, I met people rooted in a
place, people whose rootedness shapes their faithfulness.
People like my new friend Tom Esch, a Presbyterian
elder in Kalispel, Montana, who came west as a sixteen-
year-old summer intern and never left Glacier National
Park. Fifty years later, Tom is a joyful force for good in his
church and in his city. Rooted. Grounded. Useful.
For the final weeks of sabbatical, our family returned to
the North Carolina mountains, the place where we most
experience renewal and rest. One morning, after taking
the boys to their summer clubs, I drove 110 miles from
Montreat to Woodleaf, the small farming community
where I lived for the first decade of my life. On the way, I
texted David Correll. David is a third-generation farmer
and one of my childhood role models. But the truth is,
I hadn’t spoken with him in many, many years. My text
message was last-minute and out of the blue. I wrote,
“David, I’m on sabbatical this summer and thought I’d
drive down to Woodleaf. I’d love to bring back some fresh
produce, and if it’s possible, to spend a moment in the
sanctuary at Unity.”
A response came two minutes later. “We can handle that.
Let me know what time you’ll be down.” Two hours later,
I was in the packing shed where tomatoes were being
separated by size and boxed for sale. David and I drove the
quarter mile to the church. The key, no kidding, was still
in the same spot it was kept thirty-five years ago. David
let me in, and I spent a couple hours alone in that space. I
walked to the cemetery outside, and the manse that was
our home. You know how it goes. Back yards that used to
stretch on for miles and miles now seem so small. Later
that day, I visited with Nancy, my teacher in the threes class
at Unity Preschool. I left with a heaping box of tomatoes
and melons—and something more. A deep sense of
rootedness. Of belonging. In a town where neighbors
know each other’s stories and care for each other’s needs,
where the sanctuary and the cemetery stand side-by-side,
reminding us that in life and in death, we are rooted, we
belong, body and soul, to Christ and to one another.
Acedia is the numbing sensation that we are unmoored,
detached, disconnected, cut off, all alone. You know the
feeling, even if you’ve never heard the word—a dulling of the
soul. A whisper in the night, “Nothing matters. Why care?”
Why? Because caring is the most important work in the
world. So let your heart break. Then do the good that is
yours to do, starting right where you are.
Root yourself. Trees by streams of water. Tomatoes
nourished by good soil. Memory anchored in sanctuary
and cemetery. Root yourself in Christ. Root yourself in
community. Root yourself in grace.
Friends, acedia is a lie. Everything matters.
This is it. The place you’re planted. The time you’ve been
given. Don’t miss it. Don’t waste it. What good will grow
because you showed up? Amen.