In 1978, Quaker writer Richard Foster published his book Celebration of Discipline, which examined spiritual disciplines such as prayer, fasting, meditation, simplicity and solitude. Some evangelicals branded him as “New Age.” Christianity Today later named the million-selling modern classic one of the 10 most important books of the 20th century.

Meanwhile, Foster’s son Nathan was growing up in the shadow of his famous dad. Here’s his story about his father and his faith.

In my junior year of high school, my teachers recommended that I learn a trade because I had little hope of continuing my education. Rather than attending normal classes, I spent half of each day learning carpentry at a vocational school. That year, I went ahead and got my GED. No one had any expectation that I would go to college.

“Today I summit the largest mountain. Today I graduate!” read the invitation. I had done it. I wasn’t nearly as smart or stuck up as I had imagined a college grad to be. Climbing mountains was much easier than academic work. If it wasn’t for the assistance of my brilliant wife, there’s no way I could have finished. (I offered to frame half of my diploma for her, but she declined.)

As a challenged student, Dad had been my role model. In college, he would stand on his head to keep awake as he studied through the night. (I never had that type of fortitude.) Perseverance and a willingness to remain teachable kept my father from facing any significant consequences from his academic impairments. Dad was determined to learn, even as an adult.

So a man of average intelligence, with no real means and plagued with horrible spelling and grammatical skills, became an author. After the summer sun had set, the moon illuminated the stage of the child athlete. The wind transformed small trees into shadowy spectators waving applause. A worn basketball exposing its woven core was my trophy, marking another season of school-less days and late bedtimes. When I was 10, I could have shot baskets all night. Occasionally, Dad would join my brother and me on the magical court. Following the cadence of his pounding palms against the orange orb, his announcer voice would begin: “The disciplined person does what needs to be done when it needs to be done. Now I can take a basketball and put it in a hoop.” Then he would unleash a wild shot that would hit high on the backboard and bounce into the grass. Comically shrugging his shoulders, my dad would continue with diminished enthusiasm: “But I can’t do it when it needs to be done.” I’d laugh so hard I’d nearly pee.

Dad’s monologue was his catch phrase: The disciplined person does what needs to be done when it needs to be done. My entire family had it memorized, and we always repeated it in a deep and sarcastic tone. Funny how you can memorize something and have no idea what it means. Of course, the bit about his basketball ability was true, too. I remember a lot of dramatic grunting. Even today I can picture him darting wildly toward the hoop, often falling over, seldom making a basket.

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