Paradox of prayer
To live a life of prayer and contemplation, is to live a life of utter despair, yet at the same time, ultimate joy. It is a life of complete paradox, as opposite ends of a spectrum continually beckon one to and fro. Really, it is patently ridiculous to consider to pray. Consider it: if there is such a person such as God, so powerful, all-knowing, completely beyond any of our comprehension whose ways are so far above us, how could we begin to communicate with Him?
Prayer, as I am told by a Franciscan I know, is a relationship. I must resort to only quoting him about prayer since today is one of those days I don't think I've yet even begun to pray. I'd like to believe it exists, and if I stay persistent in this seeking it, the ludicrous concept that I could commune with an all-mighty, awesome God will probably return to me.
Prayer is not only a relationship with God, it is God. In true prayer, we become one with God. Athanasios the Great had the famous saying "God became man, so that man might become God." Jesus himself prayed "The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one. I in them, and you in me." Jn 17:22
Prayer to me, to borrow slightly from Teresa of Avila, is like a large majestic castle with many rooms. Soon as I become familiar with one room, and think I have found home, I find a door that leads to yet another long hallway, leading to many other rooms that I have yet to explore, or even knew existed. Some days I think I pray. I talk to God, maybe I'm really talking at God. Some times I think I'm listening, and hearing God's word of love and life in his kingdom. Some times, though never for more than a fleeting instant, I think I may have experienced "the faint, unperceived beginnings of passive contemplation" as Merton calls it.
And some days, like today, I wonder if prayer is beyond me. Not only myself, but any sane rational human. I think I'm praying nothing. I think I'm accomplishing nothing. Again to quote Merton, "there is no such thing as a prayer in which nothing is done, or nothing happens, although there may well be a prayer in which nothing is perceived or felt or thought." Comforting words to a novice like myself.
And while I'm quoting from Mertons "Thoughts in Solitude", it is his fault for causing all this pondering anyway. How could one make sense of a statement like this: "the only thing to seek in contemplative prayer is God; and we seek him successfully when we realize that we cannot find Him unless He shows Himself to us and yet at the same time He would not have inspired us to seek Him unless we had already found Him."
Such is the paradox of prayer. Such is the nature of God. It, or He, is entirely unattainable by human effort. I would be better off counting all the grains of sand on every beach on the planet than to think I can find God by trying. But as Yoda told Luke Skywalker, "do or do not, there is no try." So I meekly, yet confidently, return to pray. I pray with words. I pray at liturgy. I list my litanies. I think and say what is on my mind, to a Being who already knew what was coming. And like Elijah, I wait in sheer silence, for a still, small voice to return my call.
Prayer, as I am told by a Franciscan I know, is a relationship. I must resort to only quoting him about prayer since today is one of those days I don't think I've yet even begun to pray. I'd like to believe it exists, and if I stay persistent in this seeking it, the ludicrous concept that I could commune with an all-mighty, awesome God will probably return to me.
Prayer is not only a relationship with God, it is God. In true prayer, we become one with God. Athanasios the Great had the famous saying "God became man, so that man might become God." Jesus himself prayed "The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one. I in them, and you in me." Jn 17:22
Prayer to me, to borrow slightly from Teresa of Avila, is like a large majestic castle with many rooms. Soon as I become familiar with one room, and think I have found home, I find a door that leads to yet another long hallway, leading to many other rooms that I have yet to explore, or even knew existed. Some days I think I pray. I talk to God, maybe I'm really talking at God. Some times I think I'm listening, and hearing God's word of love and life in his kingdom. Some times, though never for more than a fleeting instant, I think I may have experienced "the faint, unperceived beginnings of passive contemplation" as Merton calls it.
And some days, like today, I wonder if prayer is beyond me. Not only myself, but any sane rational human. I think I'm praying nothing. I think I'm accomplishing nothing. Again to quote Merton, "there is no such thing as a prayer in which nothing is done, or nothing happens, although there may well be a prayer in which nothing is perceived or felt or thought." Comforting words to a novice like myself.
And while I'm quoting from Mertons "Thoughts in Solitude", it is his fault for causing all this pondering anyway. How could one make sense of a statement like this: "the only thing to seek in contemplative prayer is God; and we seek him successfully when we realize that we cannot find Him unless He shows Himself to us and yet at the same time He would not have inspired us to seek Him unless we had already found Him."
Such is the paradox of prayer. Such is the nature of God. It, or He, is entirely unattainable by human effort. I would be better off counting all the grains of sand on every beach on the planet than to think I can find God by trying. But as Yoda told Luke Skywalker, "do or do not, there is no try." So I meekly, yet confidently, return to pray. I pray with words. I pray at liturgy. I list my litanies. I think and say what is on my mind, to a Being who already knew what was coming. And like Elijah, I wait in sheer silence, for a still, small voice to return my call.
posted by Jeff at
4:32 PM
