Don't read all about it! Spiritual reading and education is big business these days. But could reading that one more book about the faith perhaps keep us from actually living it?

By the time my grandmother Anna died at age 94, she was on a first-name basis with God. Daily Mass, the rosary, and reading her prayer book were a big part of her life until the end. She prayed, she gave plenty of her meager pension to the missions and to the poor, and she made sure that my sister and I were well introduced to the practices of our faith.

Had you asked my grandmother, "Anna, what do you do for spiritual reading?" she would have looked at you like you were from Pluto. Spiritual reading? We didn't even have a Bible. Maybe she had read a pamphlet about the life of some saint or leaflets from missionaries. She read her missal and her prayer book. That was it.

Today her granddaughter has a few shelves of books that might qualify as spiritual reading. Heck, every bookstore is infested with spiritual reading. For those who say, "I'm deeply spiritual, but I just don't believe in organized religion;' there are books on how to have your own little congregation of one. There are whole books about spirituality and activities from sports to cooking, and an entire series of books apparently pertaining to spirituality and soup. And sex, oh my! Sexuality and spirituality is, pardon the expression, very hot these days.

Everyone, it turns out, has something to say about how to be spiritual. Good-looking actors who have dabbled in some kind of spiritual practice, usually Eastern, are apparently more credible in this area than your parish pastor.

Alternatively, we have the "10 Ways to Become Less Stupid" genre. Disdaining meditations on violet scarves floating in the sky, home altars with fruit and sacred rocks, or sacred beings, they offer 5 Ways to Do This, 11 Ways to Do That, 14 Steps to God Knows Where, and 12 Spiritual Secrets of People Who Aren't Losers.

We love it. We snap up books on forgiveness, on surrender, angels, holiness, and every kind of spirituality. We read books, take courses, and teach courses on prayer and meditation of every ilk. We get together to discuss the books we read. We have retreats on finding inner peace, feminine spirituality, and healing ourselves, our relationships, and our pets through spirituality. You name it.

Others prefer to become experts on facts. We memorize the Bible, chapter and verse. We scrutinize Vatican II documents and the revisions to the General Instructions for the Roman Missal. We cross-check references in the Catechism of the Catholic Church. We know who said what and when, what the rules are, and how we aren't doing it right in our parish. We get several Catholic periodicals, know who's in trouble with the pope, and who's on the A-list for being the next pope. We memorize and quote encyclicals and pastoral letters, especially the parts we like.

I myself am an avid little reader. When I was hot on the trail of enlightenment-via-any-path-other-than-Catholicism, however, a teacher once made a comment about the difference between reading the menu and eating the meal. You can, for example, read a wonderful description of a McIntosh apple. You could see a picture of a McIntosh, read about its slightly acid tartness, its hard crispness when fresh, the glossy smoothness of its skin, the little "crack" it gives when you first bite into it.

Or you could eat one.

Nothing will teach you as much about that apple as putting it in your mouth and taking a big bite out of it, hearing that "crack," juice dribbling off your lip, your mouth full of the cool, sharp sweetness of it, your nose full of the unique, indescribable smell of a McIntosh. It becomes part of you, of your body, of your memory, of your longing, of your experience. Up until that point, you knew about apples. With that first bite, you begin to know apples.

How much of our reading, our courses, and our discussion groups is a way to know about our faith, a way to know about God, a way to read the menu without eating the meal? It's a worthy goal, of course, knowing about God, knowing about our faith. Through our books and articles, our reading, courses, and discussion groups, we find that we're not alone. We bolster one another when times are tough, we celebrate, we form and strengthen our community in all of these ways. It's good to know what's on the menu, to check out different menus, to share what we know and experience.

Sometimes, though, we seem afraid to order, to take a bite, to eat the meal. It's risky and potentially messy. Maybe I won't like Harry's Tacos Internationale. I could drop the whole thing down my front. I might not be able to sit in prayer for 15 minutes. I don't know what I'd say to my elderly neighbor in the nursing home. Maybe I'd need that hundred bucks after I put the check in the collection. I don't know who else is going to show up to "Gospel Singing for Catholics." If I give her a ride to the church supper, she'll call and want a ride somewhere every week. I'm not much for cleaning, public speaking, fundraising, organizing, teaching CCD, visiting shut-ins.... I might fail. I might not like it. I could look like an idiot. It could change my life.

Maybe I'll just read a book.

If all we do is read the menu, we end up hungry. Listless, chronically sour, we complain and are never satisfied. We can hide our voracious hunger in expertise, in the counseling of others, in knowledge and technical skills. Sometimes we carp about those who are eating the meal. They don't do it exactly right, of course, and they can get pretty noisy. They don't take things seriously enough. Their understanding isn't as deep as ours. They have a childish piety. The meaning of liturgy escapes them. Oh boy.

We must look for a balance between reading about our faith and engaging in actions that proclaim it. Reading and discussion are springboards for action, for prayer, for participation in the sacraments, for engaging with others in faith and love. If we find ourselves restless and dissatisfied, reading one book after another, joining this group, and taking that class, maybe it's because reading the menu doesn't satisfy our hunger. We have to risk making a selection, if only an appetizer, and eat it.

Before we pick up another book, join another book club, or sign up for another discussion group or class, let us consider:

* Do I set aside time for prayer every day?

* Do I ever get to Mass during the week?

* Do I celebrate Reconciliation regularly?

* When was the last time I visited a homebound parishioner, gave someone a ride to church, or shoveled a walk for someone?

* Do I prayerfully, planfully, and sacrificially share of my financial resources? Have I ever given up something I wanted so that others could have something they needed?

* Do I contribute to the life of the parish? Do I help out?

* Does my behavior proclaim my faith at work, at school, at the store? Does anybody outside the parish know that I'm Catholic?

* When did I last spend time quietly reading scripture and reflecting prayerfully about what I read?

Certainly there are times when the best thing to do is to pick up a book, take a class, join a discussion group. When we face new situations, for example, or when we try to change a way of living, reading can help us discern, consider alternatives, and educate ourselves about how our faith supports us in this endeavor. In times of sadness, pain, and difficulty we can find support and comfort in the thoughts and words of others. Reading and talking with others can help us turn to God when we are shaken and uncertain, and can challenge and guide us to a deeper understanding of our faith. For all the spiritual reading that we can do, though, for every discussion group and lecture series, let us ask ourselves, "How am I eating the meal of faith?"

It's not that we shouldn't read or discuss or listen--these are important in our life of faith. But we need to keep in mind the difference between living our faith and reading about, talking about, or listening to lectures about living our faith. We need to ask ourselves how we put into action the words that we read and hear and say. We need to ask ourselves how we make those words, and the Word, come alive.

ANN LEBLANC, a psychologist in Maine and the author of How to Go to Confession If You Don't Know How (St. Anthony Messenger Press, 2003).