Chapter 4: Lectio Divina

In the 1980s, as a graduate student and a chaplain at the University of Chicago, I once accompanied the scholar of Plato and professor of the humanities, Herman Sinaiko, to a freshman dormitory for discussions with new students during orientation. The students were young and brilliant and interested in a wide variety of subjects—some aspired to be scientists, some mathematicians, some writers and teachers, some historians. “No matter where you focus your studies,” Professor Sinaiko told them, “you will all learn one thing in common here at Chicago. Can anyone tell me what that is?” Bright young people that they were, they instantly offered several good answers: critical thinking, clear and fluent writing, logic, philosophy, cultural literacy. But no one came up with the answer Professor Sinaiko was looking for. Finally, he leaned forward, looked into the eager faces of the students crowded around him and said: “We are going to teach you how to read.” The students smiled and nodded, but they seemed a bit nonplussed. For, of course, they already knew how to read. Didn’t their perfect scores on the reading comprehension section of the SAT prove that?