The Spiritual Discipline of Learning Something New

Our university president explained one time how he challenged himself to pick up a new hobby and learn something new every year or so. That year he was learning how to program and play an electronic drum set and he gave a demonstration in chapel one day.

I liked the idea, in part because it was funny to see such a stately older man discovering electronic drums, but perhaps mostly because my range of interests is wide and my attention span short, and so doing something of the sort would allow me to dabble while keeping pressure low, until my collection of hobbies would resemble my collection of instruments that I don't really know how to play.

But then life happens, and things like busyness and stress and a desire for ease and comfort squash such trivial aspirations. If you can't seem to find the time for hobbies, what makes you think you can find time for new hobbies? Not to mention learning takes effort, and effort takes energy, and energy is a limited resource.

In September I decided to go for it. I started saxophone lessons. My wife gave me a needed solid nudge in the right direction, and then as if he knew I would need it even the professor took the initiative and suggested a meeting time instead of waiting for my call. There was no escaping: good thing.

OK so it's not exactly learning something new. But after 15 years (!) of collecting dust it might as well be. It's moreso an attempt to finish what was started, and sometimes that's just as hard, and the process is proving to be just as valuable. I've been thinking that learning something new is a strange sort of spiritual discipline.

Perhaps it's as simple as any discipline being spiritual discipline. The forcing of oneself to do something that doesn't come naturally, there is something deeply spiritual about that. Progressing on the saxophone is at its most basic a matter of finding time, making time, or just taking the time to practice, an activity that is both laborious and boring, a tiring drudgery. And yet, this banality and the discipline required to carry it out are the only means to reach the much more enjoyable and interesting end. It's a striving, an ongoing fight, and that sounds familiar.

When I arrive early to my lesson I hear the professor -- a member of the national orchestra in Versailles -- practicing a few things himself. Or, there are the moments where he plays the piece I'm working on "just to give me an idea." He sounds like a warm silver knife melting through butter, and though I'm no squawking rookie, next to him I am convinced my saxophone sounds something like a hedge trimmer piped through a bullhorn. To make matters worse, I'm trying, he's not. It's work for me and play for him. Do I let his effortless example demoralize me and give up? Or will I let it inspire me and press on? I suppose others might be wired differently, but I know my instincts and in these moments I've got to fight them off. Will I choose pessimism or optimism? Or to put it more spiritually, cynicism or hope?

No matter what the new hobby might be, an inherent humility comes into play. You'll be forced to admit that you know nothing, and you'll be pushed to ask for help. You will have to admit a need. In the case of getting that help from a teacher, coach, or mentor, you'll expose yourself to endless criticism, even if it is constructive, and a submission to their authoritative experience will be required.

I've had my student model saxophone for 25 years and it was bought used. The first question I got was "What kind of sax you playing?" and the quick response was, "Never heard of it. And after so long it's going to need a tune up." But in all those countless critiques -- flat notes, uneven volume, clacking keys -- I'm waiting for him to blame my instrument as a convenient scapegoat. There have even been times I've sheepishly suggested it. But no, apparently the problem is still me, and that's a healthy humble pill to swallow at every turn.

As we get older it becomes increasingly natural to pursue the path of least resistance and remain inside the safety of what we know and what we've mastered. Within our comfort zones, we can pick and choose what we pursue in order to minimize embarrassment and thus reinforce our pride. It's a question of control, and it can be a relatively cozy place to live. But in the Christian life we are called to live by faith, existing in a place of trust, being pushed outward into unknowns, called to weakness so that the Spirit's power might be revealed. This is harder for some of us than others, and these are muscles to be developed in the spiritual discipline of learning something new. 

My saxophone case still has a bunch of embarrassing stickers from all the Christian ska, punk, and hardcore bands I listened to last time I played. No respectable saxophonist listens seriously to punk and he wouldn't dare to tarnish a sax case in such a way. To make matters worse, these bands aren't even known, many would say they aren't even good! I hesitated for a moment and almost ripped them all off before my first lesson, then decided to let it go, to own it as a piece of my history. The prof sees them, the smugs at the music conservatory glibly grin at them, I even paraded all over Paris with them when I went to the instrument repair shop (where I noticed nothing but clean black cases on the shelves).  Or there was the time the prof asked me what saxophonists I listen to. I knew he wasn't asking about ska bands so I named the first I could think of and had trouble naming a second. I did, but when I got home I looked it up to find he was actually a piano player. He rattled off names and I confessed my ignorance to his surprise. He wrote them down for me to discover them in my own time.

The point is, there will be many moments in learning something new where you'll risk looking stupid and feeling foolish. This is a spiritual experience, for the Christian believes a truth that is foolishness to onlookers. For those of us afraid of humiliation and attempting to maintain a certain image, the Christian life will be inherently difficult. I suppose it's the continual question of basing your identity on what others think of you versus on the security found in what Christ has done for you.

And then, there's wonder. It happens as I walk out of my lessons, or when I left the saxophone shop in Paris: I feel like a saxophonist again, a title I flippantly cast aside at the turn of the century. Since then I've picked up the bass, but have never been a bassist; I've picked up the accordion, but have definitely never been an accordionist, and the list could go on. In those moments, I've had the flashback more than once of opening my new saxophone for the first time and the age of 9 in the family living room. It was shiny, complex, heavy, half my size, and it was mine, and there was a new world to discover. It's good to get that back again, a wondrous homecoming of sorts.

In these experiences, horizons are opened to new dimensions. And each time we learn something new about the world we learn something new about its Creator.

I'd much prefer either sticking to what I know or dabbling in something that comes easily and looks good. Neither are good or realistic options. The other option is at times messy, embarrassing, painful, or tiring. The spiritual parallels are many. The payoff is worth it.