Based on a talk by Rev. Fr. Pachomius Ma. San Juan, OSB

In today’s fast-paced world, many of us resemble a can of soda. We’re shaken up, fizzing over, and appear full. But only on the surface. Like soft drink poured into a glass, our lives seem to be brimming with activity, but underneath all the motion is a hollow emptiness. We are often so busy that we confuse busyness with purpose, and motion with depth.

This seeming fullness leads us to believe we’re living meaningfully, when in truth, we’re merely skimming the surface of life. We become like butter spread too thin, trying to cover everything, but losing all flavor. We give ourselves to so many tasks that we end up shortchanging what matters most: relationships, responsibilities, and often, our own health. In this rush, something sacred is often the first to be sacrificed, our prayer life. Especially personal prayer, the kind no one sees and no one monitors. It becomes the invisible casualty of a noisy, overextended life.

Losing our center

The cost of neglecting our inner life shows up subtly at first. Without prayer grounding us, we become edgy, impatient, restless. We resemble someone perched at the edge of a chair, never settled, always preparing to dash off. We try to soothe this unease with surface-level comforts: more work, more entertainment, more distractions. But none of these external remedies can give us the serenity we truly need.

When life is lived entirely on the outside, it becomes unstable. Without the quiet center of prayer, our hearts grow weary and brittle. Life becomes a constant performance. We pretend well. We become not just pretenders, but masterful actors. Yet beneath the role, we are tired. A soul without interiority will eventually unravel.

It’s ironic, really. Humankind has explored the moon. We’ve reached outer space. And yet, many fear to explore inner space, the landscape of the soul. It is more daunting than any galaxy, because it reveals our hidden truths: our greed, biases, lusts, and doubts. This is why people avoid silence. In silence, we encounter ourselves. And not all of it is comfortable.

Prayer and action together

Henri Nouwen once reminded us that prayer and action are not opposites. They are partners. Prayer without action becomes an escape, a kind of sentimentalism with no weight. Action without prayer becomes manipulative and hollow, a constant striving without center. In prayer, we meet Christ; in service, we meet Christ in others. These two movements, inner and outer, are not separate but interwoven.

Christian meditation is rooted deeply in this truth. It is not just a technique; it is part of a spiritual tradition with ancient roots. Meditation in the Christian context is not an escape from the world but a way to return to it with clarity and compassion. It prepares the heart to love, serve, and act with authenticity.

Simplicity, not sophistication

Christian meditation is a fruit of monastic spirituality. It arises from the ancient desert tradition, where men and women withdrew not to escape the world but to reform their lives and answer the call to radical conversion. Yet even within monastic life, fasting and service are not enough if they are not motivated by a deep personal love for Christ. External practices are not the goal. They are means, tools that become empty if they are not rooted in interior prayer.

The desert fathers taught the power of simplicity in prayer. St. Pachomius said, “Stretch out your arms and say, ‘Lord, have pity on me.’” If under pressure, he advised, simply say, “Lord, come to my aid.” No need for elaborate words. John Cassian, in his 10th conference, emphasized short scriptural phrases committed to memory. These were not mantras in the modern sense but sacred formulas that kept the mind and heart anchored in God. One such phrase, “O God, come to my aid, O Lord, make haste to help me,” became the ancient doorway to unceasing prayer, and remains the opening of the Divine Office today.

Stillness of body, stillness of soul

Meditation is not a mental exercise or a philosophical pursuit. It is a way of being present with God, of bringing our whole selves into the now. It begins with the body. Sitting still, with the spine upright, is not incidental. It is foundational. Jesus said, “Stay awake and pray.” In meditation, we stay awake not only physically but spiritually.

When we sit still, the first thing we often notice is the chaos of our minds. Thoughts chatter like monkeys. Memories, distractions, emotions all jostle for attention. This is not failure. This is revelation. In stillness, we see the state of our hearts. The task of meditation is not to fix the chaos, but to return gently, repeatedly, to the present moment.

This return is made possible through the repetition of the mantra. The recommended word is maranatha, an Aramaic phrase meaning “Come, Lord Jesus.” Say it gently, evenly: ma-ra-na-tha. Four syllables, one breath. Let the word carry you. Do not analyze it. Do not visualize it. Simply say it, over and over. The repetition stills the mind and draws the heart into presence.

A work of the Spirit, not of ego

We often wonder during meditation, “Is it working?” This is the ego talking. Meditation is not about results. It’s not about becoming a better version of yourself. It’s about letting go. Of outcomes, of images, of yourself. The mantra is like a plow: it helps you look forward and remain steady on the path. You are not trying to arrive anywhere. You are simply being faithful.

The transformation that happens in meditation is the work of the Holy Spirit. We do not control it. What we can control is our faithfulness. In time, the fruits of the Spirit begin to appear: peace, patience, kindness, joy. You don’t need to monitor your progress. Others will see it in you before you do.

This quiet transformation is what Jesus called “poverty of spirit.” In the repetition of a single word, we enter into that beatitude. We let go of noise and cling to the pearl of great price. And this simplicity, hard as it may be to embrace, is the path to true freedom.

Faithful to the mantra

Consistency is key. Don’t jump from word to word or method to method. Stay with one mantra. Root yourself in it. The word maranatha is recommended not because it is magical, but because it is ancient, grounded, and rich in the Christian tradition. Meditate twice daily, 20–30 minutes. Do not strive. Just sit. Just say the word. Just be.

In time, you’ll find the word planting itself in your heart. It becomes your prayer not just in meditation, but in life. It keeps you anchored when distractions swirl. It reminds you of your center when the world pulls you away.

The real journey is inward

We’ve conquered space. We’ve reached the moon. But the most important journey remains, into the quiet space of the soul. Christian meditation invites us into that sacred inner space, not to escape the world, but to re-enter it with peace, clarity, and love. It is not a method. It is a path of return, to God, to self, to the simplicity that lies at the heart of all things.

Meditation is not about thinking or doing. It is about being. With God, in God, and for God. As we learn to sit in stillness, to say our word, to let go of results, we find ourselves slowly, gently, becoming the person God created us to be. Not in theory. In presence. And in love.