A Disciplinarian Dad

My dad was the Discipline Guru. I found the title of his first book to be a confusing combination of words: Celebration of Discipline. The questions are obvious: Just how do you celebrate discipline? Is this a book about throwing a party whenever you spank your child? Maybe the book was a collection of narratives about the sadistic joys of self-harm. His book was about neither.

When the discipline book was 20 years old, Dad's publisher was planning a recognition party at George Fox College in Newberg, Oregon. Everyone who was mentioned in the original acknowledgments was to be flown to the gathering. For his line, "My children, Joel and Nathan, were incredibly patient in allowing their daddy to cut short games and stories more than once," I earned a plane ticket and a fancy meal in my favorite state, Oregon. It was time for me to read the discipline book.

I secretly became an astute student of my father's professional work. Dad's scripted phrase about shooting baskets encompassed the essence of the book. It really had nothing to do with basketball, and it wasn't nearly as complicated as I previously thought. What I discovered from his writings were things I already knew intuitively, but had been unable to articulate.

Dad's work was based on the premise that if I practiced something, I would get better at it. If I spend years practicing, then when the moment called for my skill, I would be able to respond appropriately. Dad couldn't make a basket when he wanted to because he hadn't spent enough time practicing. His work seemed to uncover a natural process for living. By practicing the spiritual disciplines—things such as prayer, meditation and confession—I was training for living as Jesus lived, and hopefully learning to respond to life more like Jesus would if He were to live my life. Dad's book was essentially a how-to manual for practicing 12 of these disciplines.

This was just what I needed in order to overcome my disillusionment with the religious process. I had all but given up on trying to live a spiritual life. Faking it was no longer an option. Dad's book engaged me and left me wanting to go and practice weird things such as fasting.

A Belated Appreciation

The recognition of Dad's work in Oregon turned out to be informative and inspiring. I had been unaware of the impact of my father's writing, and I discovered many people sincerely affected by his work. I witnessed tears as I heard people speak about the simple book he wrote. Amazing.

Apparently he was the first in modern times to write about the collective spiritual disciplines. Christian denominations often are trained in one or two disciplines but remain unschooled in or unaware of others. By studying various Christian historic movements and the writings of old saints, Dad was able to offer a holistic view of Christendom and the many treasures it holds for spiritual growth. "Bringing the Church to the church" was the original motto of Renovaré, the organization he founded.

Most shocking was to read what authors I greatly admired wrote about my dad. In his endorsement of Celebration of Discipline, Ron J. Sider, the evangelical champion of the poor, said that no other book apart from the Bible had been as helpful in nurturing his inward journey of prayer and spiritual growth. Eugene Peterson, translator of The Message (which was the main translation of the Bible I would read for the next 10 years), remarked once that my dad "found" the spiritual disciplines that the modern world had stored away and forgotten.

I was proud. Even so, questions remained. When I was steeped in legalism, why hadn't my father helped direct me? Why hadn't he guided me in my journey of faith? Had I really succeeded at hiding my faith from him? Had I closed him off that much? Yet his writing was affecting me like it had so many others.

A few weeks after the trip to Oregon, I received a copy of the 20th-anniversary edition of Celebration of Discipline in the mail. It was blue. The inscription read:

February 1998

To Nathan, wonderful son, now affirming friend.

I love you.

Richard J. Foster

Dad