The Gospel is full of questions addressed to Jesus. Like stones tossed into a pond, they send out ripples that capture our attention. How far will they expand? We want to hear how God responds to human anxieties: “Do you not care that we are perishing?” (Mk 4:38); “How can a man be born when he is old?” (Jn 3:4); “How is it that you say, ‘You will be made free’?” (Jn 8:33); “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” (Lk 7:19).

Among these questions is the one posed by a learned scholar of the law: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” (Lk 10:25). This is arguably the most important question of our lives, because it touches on what we most desire: to dwell forever in God’s goodness, truth, and joy. The question promises an existential, revelatory answer; a kind of secret formula for happiness. Yet Jesus does not answer directly: He invites his listeners to spend time in reflection. He appeals to what his interlocutor, as a doctor of the law, should already know: “What is written in the Law? What do you read there?” (Lk 10:26). The Lord answers with two more questions.

Let us dwell on the second question: what do you read? It is a simple question, the kind one friend might ask another. Even people who have just met might pose similar questions to break the ice: what are you reading, and what do you like to read? What have you read in the past? We could ponder the question on our own, too. What kind of things do I read? When a celebrated Spanish poet was invited to speak at the inauguration of a library, he titled his address, “Tell me what you read and I’ll tell you who you are.”^[1] The observation is just: what we read, hear, and see shapes our way of looking at life, the world, and other people. Reflecting on the responsibility to care for our inner world and choose what we allow into our minds and hearts, St. Josemaría wrote, “Why look around if you carry ‘your world’ within you?”^[2]

Reading our own lives in literature

“Literature has to do, in one way or another, with our deepest desires in this life, for on a profound level literature engages our concrete existence, with its innate tensions, desires and meaningful experiences.”^[3] Pope Francis summarised the perennial value of reading in these words, in a letter on the role of literature in formation. They apply to everyone, and in particular to those who accompany others in their formation. In St. Josemaría’s words, people who spiritually accompany others have the mission of “opening horizons, helping form sound judgement, pointing out obstacles, indicating the appropriate means to overcome them, correcting deformations or deviations along the way, and always giving encouragement.”^[4] Seen from this perspective, reading is essential for all of us, both as people who accompany others and as people who are accompanied. Reading educates our hearts because it brings us into contact with other lives, enriching our experience by introducing us to many different points of view. If we allow what we read to act in us, it will make us more understanding and empathetic, because reading broadens our gaze — towards the world, towards ourselves, and towards others.

Literature is a catalyst for personal growth. Through our literary encounters with others’ lives and thoughts, we can reflect on our own lives, and we can recognise, better define, or consolidate our own inner world. “In weeping for the fate of their characters,” Pope Francis writes, “we are essentially weeping for ourselves, for our own emptiness, shortcomings and loneliness.”^[5] At the same time, consciously or unconsciously, when we read a story “we gain insights that will later prove helpful in our own lives.”^[6] This leads to a valuable inner dialogue, which is enriched still further when it overflows into outward dialogue with other readers. Indeed, the resonance a piece of writing has is different for each person: it is the encounter between the work and a unique inner world. “I tell my life, but you read yours,” a poet once wrote.^[7]

This is what happens with great literature. In Les Misérables, for instance, we are confronted with Javert’s moral rigidity, seeing how hard he is on himself and others; but we also witness Jean Valjean’s conversion through an experience of mercy. In The Count of Monte Cristo, Edmond Dantès allows himself to be poisoned by hatred until vengeance becomes the sole aim of his life. Similarly, in Anna Karenina, we watch how the protagonist subordinates her emotional and social life to a passion that will end up isolating and destroying her. We could give countless examples of other stories in which — whether through attraction to, or contrast with, the good — we come to understand the complexity of the inner dynamics that weave the characters’ decisions, and we empathise with their fortune or misfortune. Thus we come to understand aspects of the human person that are unknowable without entering, in some way, into the story of a life. “The ability to immerse oneself in another’s world and dive into distant waters not only enhances our levels of intimacy, but also our personal lives, daily conviviality, and social skills.”^[8]

Jesus, storyteller and teacher of readers

Jesus was a great storyteller. The Gospels show us that crowds often gathered around Him to listen to his narratives and discourses. Throughout the pages of the New Testament, we find forty-three parables He uses to convey his teachings. Given the many possibilities open to Him for revealing Himself to humanity, we might wonder why he chose this particular form of expression. “Jesus spoke of God not with abstract concepts, but with parables, brief stories taken from everyday life. At this point life becomes story and then, for the listener, story becomes life: the story becomes part of the life of those who listen to it, and it changes them.”^[9] Yet the transformation that a good story can bring about depends, in large measure, on the reader. C.S. Lewis argued that the real test of literature is not whether a book is good or bad, but whether its reader is literary or unliterary.^[10] Learning to read — to draw out all the richness a text has to offer — is a path of humility, and it takes time.

Some of Jesus’ parables are more straightforward, even when they conceal deep teachings. The stories of the prodigal son (cf. Lk 15:11–32) and the lost sheep (cf. Lk 15:3–7) are two such narratives. Both are vivid portraits of God’s mercy that readily lodge themselves in our memories and our hearts. But it would be a pity to settle for our first interpretation of the parables — good as it may be — because God always wants to reveal deeper and more interesting truths. It may be easier to stay on the slightly superficial level of recognising ourselves in the characters, especially when we think about our personal failings, than to dare to consider what the text tells us about God. Yet Jesus’ most important parables talk about just that: the kingdom of God and the logic of life with Him, even here on earth.

The meaning of the parables is not always obvious. The disciples listening to Jesus often needed fuller explanations, as with the parable of the sower (cf. Mt 13:18–23). They demand active listening, reflection, and a willingness to engage with Jesus’ words.^[11] If we pay attention and allow the narrative to carry us with it, we may sometimes find ourselves confused, perplexed, or asking new questions. That bewilderment opens up space within us so that, little by little, our understanding of God and his ways can mature. Being good readers of the parables can also help us be good readers of other kinds of literature. Examining one of Jesus’ stories more closely can offer us some insights.

A training ground for the way we see

We last saw the scholar of the law face to face with Jesus’ two questions. St. Luke tells us that he answers correctly, appealing to the commandment of love for God and for one'’ neighbour. Yet, wishing to justify himself, he adds one further question: “And who is my neighbour?” (Lk 10:29). This man knows in theory that he must love his neighbour, but he does not recognise his neighbour in the faces around him; he has not yet discovered God’s radical love for humanity. Through superficial readings, he has settled for caricatures of that love. Jesus then tells a story, inviting his listeners then and his readers now to be drawn in by his words.

The parable begins: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him and beat him, and departed, leaving him half dead” (Lk 10:30). Before the eyes of the listener-reader, a priest, a Levite, and a Samaritan all walk by. Each of them sees the dying man lying in his path. Perhaps because of our tendency to place people and situations in simplistic categories, we judge each of these figures according to firmly established stereotypes. Yet as the story unfolds, our mental images begin to waver. In the end, genuine love for one’s neighbour comes from the most unexpected source: a good Samaritan.

Literature allows us to navigate the hearts of very different characters in a much deeper, truer, and less reductive way. It helps us understand the complexity of human decisions: reading “teaches us how to look and see, to discern and explore the reality of individuals and situations as a mystery.”^[12] We abandon the security of our mental frameworks and learn to welcome people and reality in a far more open and merciful way. As Pope Francis put it, “literature teaches us patience in trying to understand others, humility in approaching complex situations, meekness in our judgement of individuals and sensitivity to our human condition.”^[13]

Writing about how spiritual reading nourishes prayer in The Way, St. Josemaría quotes a passage from his correspondence: “You write: ‘In my spiritual reading I build up a store of fuel. It looks like a lifeless heap, but I often find that my memory, of its own accord, will draw from it material which fills my prayer with life and inflames my thanksgiving after Communion.’”^[14] In fact, this holds true for the whole of our lives: the quality of our conversations, the depth of our thinking, and the richness of our understanding of the world can all be nourished by the store of fuel that enters through our eyes and reaches our minds and our hearts.

Reading as a path of contemplation

In a world where everything moves quickly — where we scroll through images and videos at full speed, where we chase results, goals achieved, and objectives fulfilled — we run the risk “that an excessive concern for efficiency will dull discernment, weaken sensitivity and ignore complexity.”^[15] In that context, reading becomes an act of resistance, of taking an interior breath; it is an opportunity to look at human life in slow motion and an invitation to pause over gestures, words, and motivations. This attentive gaze allows us to engage with our experiences reflectively; it helps us nurture contemplative wisdom when we face the reality of life, beginning with our own existence. That is why “we desperately need to counterbalance this inevitable temptation to a frenetic and uncritical lifestyle by stepping back, slowing down, taking time to look and listen.”^[16] This is one of the possibilities that literature offers us, and it is all the more necessary in our time.

A good piece of reading often helps us to “find peace of mind [and] open up new interior spaces that help us to avoid becoming trapped by a few obsessive thoughts,” healing and enriching our affectivity.^[17] Each of us will need to find the books that can accompany us on our journey, depending on our situation in life, interests, and openness to what is different from us. For this reason, “while always being open to guidance, we should select our reading with an open mind, a willingness to be surprised, a certain flexibility and readiness to learn, trying to discover what we need at every point of our lives.”^[18]

In the context of spiritual accompaniment — or any other kind of friendship — good readers may perhaps be more open, more sensitive, and more capable of listening. Having worked more carefully at self-knowledge, they will be better able to welcome the other in their individuality, with the unique traits that weave their story; they will know how to look at their past and project their future with perspective, as though through a telescope, because every life is a story that can only be understood as a whole.^[19]

* * *

That scholar of the law thought he did not know who his neighbour was. What became of him after Jesus’ “literary” answer and the challenge — “Go and do likewise” (Lk 10:37) — with which He crowned the exchange? Perhaps, we may hope, he started reading Scripture and the world in a different way; perhaps he received the grace he needed to cleanse his gaze and see with fewer prejudices and more openness to the surprise of each person. That is what it means to have a contemplative gaze, ready to see the mystery of life, the world, and each person.

^[1] F. García Lorca, Speech at the inauguration of a Fuente Vaqueros (Granada, Spain) library in September 1931.

^[2] St. Josemaría, The Way, no. 184.

^[3] Pope Francis, Letter on the role of literature in formation, no. 6.

^[4] St. Josemaría, Letter 26, no. 37.

^[5] Pope Francis, Letter on the role of literature in formation, no. 7.

^[6] Ibid., no. 17.

^[7] E. García-Máiquez, “El lector es un fingidor,” Casa propia, Renacimiento, 2004 (our translation).

^[8] I. Vallejo, Manifesto for Reading (excerpts), Instituto Cervantes at Harvard University, translated by Erin Goodman.

^[9] Pope Francis, Message for the 54th World Communications Day, 24-I-2020.

^[10] Cf. C.S. Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism.

^[11] See, for instance, C. Jódar, “Beyond the Plot,” on opusdei.org.

^[12] Pope Francis, Letter on the role of literature in formation, no. 32.

^[13] Ibid., no. 39.

^[14] The Way, no. 117.

^[15] Pope Francis, Letter on the role of literature in formation, no. 31.

^[16] Ibid.

^[17] Ibid., nos. 2 and 31.

^[18] Ibid., no. 7.

^[19] Cf. Ibid., no. 30.