MINDFULNESS, which is both a philosophical approach to life and a technique, is growing in popularity - to such an extent that the Church is beginning to take notice. Put simply, it is the cultivation of an awareness of the present moment. Those who practise it are taught to be life-affirming and accepting. It is used to disrupt habitual behaviour, and break addictions, cycles of stress, and depression.

Mindfulness is taking off in secular settings, and, as it is taught at present, is not explicitly religious. "Mindfulness can be considered a universal human capacity, proposed to foster clear thinking and open-heartedness. As such, this form of meditation requires no particular religious or cultural belief system," say two scholars ("Mindfulness in Medicine", David Ludwig and Jon Kabat-Zinn, Journal of the American Medical Association, 2008).

Of course, nothing in this field appears from nowhere, and mindfulness (you will often see it with a capital "M") has many origins and orientations. It is aligned with ancient Hindu and Buddhist philosophy and practice, which aim to conform all aspects of one's spiritual, physical, mental, and social life to an integrated discipline.

For Jews, mindfulness is traditionally practised through family rituals, which are de-signed to remind participants of their relationship with God, from the great reminding of Pesach (Passover) to the small gesture of touching the mezuzah as you walk through a doorway.

Christians might recognise it as "the practice of the presence of God" (from Brother Lawrence, the 17th-century Carmelite mystic), or the cultivation of "attention" (which both Simone Weil and Thomas Merton wrote about during the 20th century).

In my experience, what seems to happen when people of no particular religious faith pursue mindfulness training is that they are transformed in a way that Christians would recognise as "bringing forth the fruits of the Spirit". The conscious choice to practise mindfulness is to return to awareness of what is, and therefore puts us in a resting place of clarity and truth.

WHEN I first began exploring mindfulness a couple of years ago, I realised that I had been exposed to something similar, long before it had been given a name. When I was at theological college, the only education I remember receiving in the practice of the theological and cardinal virtues, i.e. how to be good, were the occasional talks given by Brother Patrick Moore, a member of the de la Salle Brothers. His life's mission is to awaken people to the holiness of "leisure".

In that very driven setting, ordinands had barely unpacked their bags before they were engaged in anxious conversations about their first parishes. Leisure, even to study and pray, came with gold-plated guilt about how much this was all costing the parishes. Besides, hadn't selection for ordination automatically conferred virtue upon us?

The lesson that Brother Patrick wanted to teach us was already in front of us, in the collect for grace from BCP morning prayer, a gift from Thomas Cranmer for all to pray before launching into each day's agenda.

As he read it in his soft Californian voice, he would give the slightest pause: "that we . . . fall into no sin, neither . . . run into any kind of danger". The temptations surrounding us are, of course, most easily avoided if we pause humbly, and look where we are going. But, like St Paul, most of us are confused by the muddle of our inherited codes of morality and upbringing, habitual methods of survival, and the need for approval from our friends and consciences.

Most of all, we are rushed by the expectations of ourselves and others to achieve whatever needs achieving next, in the desire to please, get, succeed, or driven by fear of not being good enough. It needs a little time - the sacred pause - to glimpse the possibility of the goodness that all the time lies within ourselves, and where we want to put our efforts next.

The Revd Terence Handley MacMath is an NHS Chaplain, and a teacher of Mindfulness in Christian and secular settings.

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