Prayer

An old man would sit motionless in church for hours on end. One day a priest asked him what God talked to him about.

  “God doesn’t talk. He just listens,” was his reply.

  “Well, then what do you talk to him about?”

  “I don’t talk either. I just listen.”

-       Anthony De Mello, Taking Flight

A few months before beginning this journey, I visited my parents in St. Petersburg, Florida. One evening, as I walked into their bedroom to retrieve something, I found my father kneeling beside his bed in prayer. The sight evoked great tenderness—and 50-year-old memories of my own early prayers.

As I reflect on that moving image of my father, it dawns on me that only one person has cited prayer as a primary path to God. “Music” is common and “meditation” comes up frequently—but not prayer.

Perhaps that’s because our approach to prayer hasn’t fully matured. We don’t understand it—or haven’t moved beyond asking and thanking.

In The Book of Awakening, Mark Nepo shares an expanded view of prayer. “This is what the heart knows beyond all words if we can find a way to listen,” he writes. “(B)eyond our small sense of things a magnificent light surrounds us, more than anyone could ask for. This is what prayer as gratitude can open us to.”

I like the notion of prayer as an opening to light—enlightenment as it were, rooted in stillness and gratitude. John O’Donohue extends this idea and offers a simple practice in his book, Anam Cara:

“…All around you,” O’Donohue observes,

“there is a secret and beautiful soul-light. This recognition suggests a new art of prayer: Close your eyes and relax into your body. Imagine a light all around you, the light of your soul. Then with your breath, draw that light into your body and bring it with your breath through every area of your body. 

“This is a lovely way to pray, because you are bringing the soul-light, the shadowed shelter that surrounds you, right into the physical earth and clay of your presence.”

The ultimate goal, I suppose, is that life itself becomes a prayer—or, put another way, that our lives and prayers are indistinguishable.

I was recently encouraged to write a prayer for myself. In the late-afternoon light of the desert, this is what emerged:

 O Thou,

the One Source,

the One Love,

let me be a ray of compassion

for all in whose paths I’m blessed to walk

each day of my life.

Do you have a prayer that you’re willing to share? I’d be honored to hear it.

(Bloomfield Hills, Michigan)

PS. Here are two other “prayers” I like. The first is actually a compilation of passages from Rilke’s Book of Hours, and the second an Irish “Blessing for the Senses” shared by John O’Donohue in Anam Cara:

“I thank you, deep power

that works me ever more lightly

in ways I can’t make out…

I yearn to be held

in the great hands of your heart—

oh let them take me now.

Into them I place these fragments, my life,

and you, God—spend them however you want.”  (I, 62 and II, 2)

“May your body be blessed.

May you realize that your body is a faithful and beautiful friend of your soul.

And may you be peaceful and joyful and recognize that your senses are sacred thresholds.

May you realize that holiness is mindful, gazing, feeling, hearing, and touching.

May your senses gather you and bring you home.

May your senses always enable you to celebrate the universe and the mystery and possibilities in your presence here.

May the Eros of the Earth bless you.”

Backpack

I often carry a backpack.

Like many of my belongings,

it’s a present from friends,

who I remember fondly

each time I don it.

Inside, there’s a Swiss Army knife—

the gift of another friend

whose recollection evokes a similar smile.

I usually bring water,

and enough food to tide me until the next meal.

Invariably, the load lightens as I go,

and I always have room

for any little gems I find…

I sometimes think of the figurative load

we tend to lug around—

the one full of all the woes and worries

we’ve accumulated over days, weeks, months, and years.

It holds nothing by way of nourishment

and little space for unexpected treasures.

How heavy is that burden?

Can we learn to let go?

Is it possible to focus

so intently and intentionally on the now

(where the weight of both past and future disappear)

that we abide in the eternal present?

Perhaps that’s the place

God carries us…

(For Will Conwell)

Backpack at Bryce Canyon National Park.

Practicing

I spent last week-end in South Bend, Indiana—where, in addition to seeing friends and enjoying the Notre Dame-Michigan football game, I visited the place that inspired my quest for America’s most heavenly cinnamon bun: The Blue Gate Restaurant & Bakery in Shipshewana, Indiana. While the bun didn’t crack my top ten (sorry, Jessica Yoder!), the ride was sure fun. The rural landscape and country stores evoked bygone days and deep-rooted values. And much to our surprise, across the street from one of the other two Amish bakeries at which Susanne and I stopped, we discovered the Dutchmen factory where my RV was manufactured 11 years ago. It was probably good—both for the company and me—that the place isn’t open on Saturdays!

An unexpected highlight of my Indiana stay was an hour-long conversation with Audrey Tucker, a young woman from Oregon who I met two years ago. She’s now a sophomore at Notre Dame, studying Political Science and Theology.

“My father was an Evangelical Protestant,” Audrey shared. “And my mother a Catholic from the south. They met in the middle and became Anglican,” she laughed.

The home in which she and her brother were raised was one of open and intense theological dialogue—a reality evidenced by her comfort with all matters spiritual. She had an extensive grasp of scripture, and casually referenced a number of theologians she enjoyed—C.S. Lewis being her favorite, largely due to her admiration for his conversion from non-belief to faith. She takes her own faith seriously—and I got the impression that she enjoys being slightly outside the mainstream in the intensely Catholic setting.

“I find God everywhere,” she observed. “In nature, in literature, in people. We can find God whenever we want, wherever we look.”

“What effect does that awareness have on you?” I asked.

“I live by what the ancient Greeks called agape,” she replied. “Unconditional love for everybody on the planet simply because they’re human. Whenever I feel love, I know God is present.”

“We’re called to love each other deeply and unconditionally,” she concluded. “That’s how I practice my religion. As my youth pastor at church used to tell us, ‘Practice the gospel always. When necessary, use words!’”

I’m inspired by young folks like Audrey—whose convictions serve as an unshakable foundation for a deeply loving embrace of humanity. When it comes to living one’s faith, little else needs to be said—especially if practice truly does make perfect.

(Traverse City, MI)

Wonder

Last month, I wrote about “Grace”—sharing the experience of a friend who was introduced to the “fear of God” at an early age. I recently received an interesting response from a former colleague.

“I was brought up Presbyterian,” Cathryn wrote,

and I, too, had difficulty with the “fear of God” thing. I had one friend in grade school whose father actually used to say, “I’m going to beat the fear of God into you.” However, my best friend’s father was a strict Southern Methodist minister and theology professor at Willamette University. I remember having a lovely conversation with him about this concept years ago. Despite his strictness, his theory was this: Somewhere along the line, things were “mis-translated.” Instead of “Fear,” it should have been “Awe”—a loose synonym, he admitted. He reminded me of the trembling wonder I have felt at points in my life (the birth of my son, watching a sunrise over the Taj Mahal, Arches National Park in Utah). He said THAT was the “fear of God” he wanted people to feel and remember. I like that explanation way better.

I like it better, too. The trembling evoked by wonder is far more appealing than the quivering caused by fear. Such respectful awe is also more conducive to establishing connection and sustaining a relationship—with the Divine and each other.

As I travel, I’ve been toying with a set of spiritual compass points to correlate with geographic North, South, East, and West. “Wonder” is my symbolic West (the other three—Gratitude, Empathy, and Humility—will be the subject of future reflections).

As I re-calibrate each morning, I try to cultivate wonder in two forms: primarily, as the pure awe Cathryn associates with unforgettable events and places; secondarily as amazement or curiosity (rather than anger) about things I don’t understand or appreciate. This second kind of wonder lowers my blood pressure considerably. I just wish I were able to practice it more often when something (or someone) gets under my skin!

I’m reminded of the advice offered by William Makepeace Thackeray.  “The world is a looking glass,” he observed, “and gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. Frown at it, and it in turn will look sourly upon you; laugh at it and with it, and it is a jolly, kind companion.”

When I look through a lens of wonder, the world truly is wonder-full. And I can’t help but perceive evidence of a force far beyond the scope of my imagination.

What do you see when observing the world through a lens of wonder? I’d love to hear your reflections!

(Burr Ridge, IL)