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.