I was on one of my regular treasure hunts through a local used bookstore—one of those sacred places where the smell of old paper and forgotten wisdom hangs thick in the air—when I stumbled across a slim little volume that radiated quiet depth. The Practice of the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence. A short read, yes—but profoundly expansive in its implications. It struck me like buried treasure for the soul. This is not just a book; it’s a doorway into a radically different way of living.

Brother Lawrence, born Nicolas Herman around 1611 in the Duchy of Lorraine (then part of the Holy Roman Empire), was a man of humble beginnings. He was a soldier, a servant, and eventually a lay brother in a Carmelite monastery in Paris. He served in the kitchen and later repaired sandals. Yet through these seemingly menial tasks, he cultivated a spirituality that has outlasted centuries of more eloquent theologians. He developed the profound discipline of living in continuous awareness of God’s presence—a practice not reserved for the cloister, but for anyone with a heart willing to try.

“God has infinite treasures to give us…”

The heart of the book is simple but not easy: surrender to God, seek His guidance in all things, and cultivate the habit of constant communion with Him. Not just in church, not just during devotional time, but while stirring soup, mending shoes, sweeping floors. In Brother Lawrence’s world, the sacred is not confined to the sanctuary. The sacred is everywhere.

That concept stirred a memory—oddly enough—not from a monastery, but from Futurama. In the episode “Godfellas” (Season 3, Episode 20), Bender is hurled into deep space and becomes, quite accidentally, a god to a tiny civilization that grows on his body. After some calamitous attempts at divine intervention, Bender encounters a god-like entity who tells him, “When you do things right, people won’t be sure you’ve done anything at all.” It’s a surprisingly theologically rich moment for a satirical sci-fi show.

This vision of God—a being who maintains a careful balance between engagement and distance—resonates with what some theologians call epistemic distance. It’s the idea that God must remain just hidden enough not to overwhelm our free will, yet close enough to be found by those who truly seek Him. Not a deistic clockmaker who winds up the universe and walks away. Not a helicopter parent who micromanages every moment. Something—Someone—in between.

But I suspect Brother Lawrence would challenge even that gentle distance. He would say that God is neither aloof nor hidden but always present, always waiting. The issue isn’t God’s remoteness—it’s our inattentiveness. We’re the ones who drift, distracted by noise, ambition, or simply by forgetting to look. Communion with God, for Brother Lawrence, is not a mystical superpower. It is a practice—like learning a language, or training a muscle. It’s something we grow into.

“Our actions should unite us with God when we are involved in our daily activities, just as our prayers unite us with Him in our quiet devotions… Never tire of doing even the smallest things for Him, because He isn’t impressed so much with the dimensions of our work as with the love in which it is done.”

I’ve sometimes daydreamed about joining a monastic order—not out of piety, perhaps, but escape. The idea of shedding all modern obligations and embracing a life of simplicity, study, and silence is more than a little appealing. A cabin in the woods. A cell in a cloister. Somewhere I can read without interruption, pray without distraction, and—most importantly—breathe. But Brother Lawrence would gently rebuke that impulse. He would say: “You can commune with God just as easily in your kitchen as in a cathedral. The life of prayer is not found in the location, but in the intention.”

That reflection brings me to the one quote in the book that gave me pause:

“He remarked that thinking often spoils everything and that evil usually begins with our thoughts.”

Now, I know what he means. Sometimes, overthinking does spoil the moment—especially when it leads to anxiety, overanalysis, or prideful rationalization. But as someone who believes God calls us to love Him with all our mind (Luke 10:27), I worry this line could be misunderstood. We don’t need more anti-intellectualism in Christian circles. We’ve already seen what happens when thoughtful faith is replaced by unthinking dogma. I hope Brother Lawrence wasn’t dismissing reason, but rather cautioning against the kind of obsessive introspection that turns us inward instead of upward.

Even so, his message holds weight. I’ve had ideas—vague impressions, really—bouncing around in my mind for years. And if they ever solidified, I think they would land pretty close to what Brother Lawrence is laying down: the spiritual life is not about escaping the world but seeing it rightly, infused with divine presence. God is not out there waiting to be discovered at the end of some quest. He is already here, in the stillness, in the work, in the breath.

There’s a scene in The Lord of the Rings—another beloved touchstone of mine—where Frodo and Sam are trudging through Mordor, barely holding on. And Sam looks up and sees a star peeking through the dark clouds. “There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while.” In that moment, Sam feels something beyond the suffering, a glimpse of light that reminds him the Shadow is just a passing thing. I think Brother Lawrence would’ve liked that. He saw stars even while scrubbing pots.