There may be no more mystifying and befuddling aspect of the Christian life than prayer. We may claim to know what prayer is, and yet, many of us struggle to pray. One reason is that our modern propensity to talk without ceasing (whether audibly or through silent text messages or on social media) is, paradoxically, a deterrent to true prayer. If we were to ask many Christians what prayer is, they might say, “talking to God.” And herein lies the problem. We often conceive of prayer as an extraordinary effort on our part, something that we initiate, and this fails to recognize that prayer is already happening in the life of God. Prayer might be better characterized as being in conversation with God, not talking at God.
In 1 Samuel 3:10, Samuel says to God, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” This, I think, captures the posture of prayer. But, as a humorous riff on that verse points out, our unspoken address to God is usually, “Listen, Lord, for your servant is speaking.” Because our lives are full of words, it’s extremely difficult for us to stop talking and listen. It’s harder yet to stop being so action-oriented in prayer and become more passive, not forcing ourselves into conversation with God but allowing our lives to join the constant, eternal flow of prayer between the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve written about two parts of the traditional threefold Anglican rule of life: the Daily Office and the Mass/Eucharist. The third part is “private prayer.” And while no prayer is truly private, we know what private prayer is referring to, which is the prayer that occurs not in public liturgies but in the depths of our hearts, whether when on our knees by the side of our beds, or as we drive to work, or at the hospital bed of a dying loved one, or as we read a collect from the prayer book alone. Private prayer takes many forms, which our prayer book categorizes as adoration, praise, thanksgiving, penitence, oblation, intercession and petition, and corporate worship (p. 857). While these categories might be helpful, hopefully, as our prayer lives deepen, prayer simply becomes who we are and less what we do.
St. Paul’s exhortation to pray without ceasing is less a daunting assignment and more a beautiful invitation to allow God to weave the fabric of our lives into his eternal life of prayer. It’s also St. Paul who reminds us that “the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words” (Romans 8:26). What an encouragement this is! When we are too tired to pray, when we lack the words, when we are so broken down and burned out that we don’t even have the energy to formulate a sentence, all that “stuff” that we bring before God is our prayer, and the Spirit is interceding on our behalf. Prayer isn’t really so much about us as it is about the trinitarian life of God drawing us into a dynamic energy of pure love.
Having said all this, prayer can become so esoteric in our minds that we must be disciplined in order to experience the liberty of prayer. This is the benefit of having structured times of prayer such as the Daily Office and the Mass. And when it comes to private prayer, we will need to be intentional in setting aside specific times of the day in which to pray. Whether it’s a moment of thanksgiving early in the morning or a few minutes of self-examination at the end of the day, Lent is the season in which we can give form and shape to our lives by setting aside time for private prayer.
A parishioner recently shared about their Lenten practice of reaching out to someone whose name pops into their head during the day. This is a wonderful way of “praying without ceasing.” I encourage you to listen to the nudges throughout your day. If you think of someone, offer their name up to God or contact them to say you’re thinking of them. You might take our Sunday Mass leaflet home each week to pray each day for the individual or family listed. At the Daily Office, we pray for all who regularly worship at Good Shepherd, as well as for all Friends of the parish. When we engage in this kind of intercessory prayer with intention, we become more aware of “all whose lives are closely linked with ours” (BCP, p. 388). If you notice that someone isn’t at Mass on a Sunday, pray for them and reach out to them; let them know they’re missed.
I’m constantly reminded of how much prayer seems to elude me. But I suspect that it most eludes me when I try to control it. When I think I have to “get it right,” or “succeed” at prayer, then prayer does escape my grasp. It’s meant to do so. But if I can sit for ten to fifteen minutes in silent prayer, with no words and with simply an intentional receptive stance towards God, no matter how much my mind wanders, I can rest assured that, bit by bit, I’m beginning to dip my toe in the eternal stream of ceaseless prayer in the eternal life of God.
Prayer takes time, and we’re an impatient lot. Prayer isn’t about how we feel or about immediate results. Prayer is the long, slow process of relinquishing control so that we can share in the life of God. It was St. John of the Cross who purportedly said that silence is God’s first language. When we learn to listen first, then God’s voice can be more clearly discerned beneath the noise of our world. When we learn to listen first, we remember that God is in charge, not us. When we learn to listen first, we recall that God first loved us, and because God did so, our only task is to love him in return.
Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle