Teach Us to Pray
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July 28, 2019“Teach us to pray.” (Lk 11:1)
Today’s gospel opens with the sight of Jesus at prayer. We gather from the numerous refences in the gospels, especially in Luke, that this must have been a frequent and stirring sight for Jesus’ disciples. They saw him enter into an inner place of quiet communion, whether on the mountain, in a deserted place, or even in their midst while in the boat or on the road, whether during the hours of the night or at any available moment during the day. They could sense that this was a transforming encounter from which he emerged with new strength and purpose. These moments allowed them to glimpse his more than mortal beauty, to perceive it welling up from within. They felt irresistibly drawn to him and of course, they wanted a share in it, and so they said: “Teach us to pray” (Lk 11:1).
Having just come from eight days of retreat in which we have been invited to dwell in that inner place with Christ, we may emerge with hearts afire and faces aglow, or, on the other hand, we may find ourselves still crying out with unabated desire: “Teach us to pray” (Lk 11:1). Teach us, for in spite of everything – our great longing, our past experiences, the books we’ve read, the life we’ve committed ourselves to lead – we realize that of ourselves we cannot bring about a state of prayer; we do not know how to pray. Andre Louf says that prayer is already going on in the depths of our hearts before we are aware of it. Our task, if we can call it that, is to bring to consciousness the groaning of the Spirit within. The letter to the Galatians puts it this way: “As proof that you are children, God sent the spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying out, “Abba, Father!” (Gal 4:6).
How does Jesus teach us to pray? When he puts his prayer into words, it is the first word that matters most: Father. This one word is enough: Abba, Father! John Cassian has two Conferences on prayer, and with all he has to offer there on forms and means and compunction and contemplation, it becomes clear that the highest form of prayer is filial. All prayer is Christ’s prayer to the Father, poured into us by the Holy Spirit. Our goal when we pray is to enter into Jesus’ relationship with his Father, the filial dynamic of trustful intimacy, the state of being a child of God:
“And so a still more sublime and exalted condition follows upon these kinds of prayer. It is fashioned by the contemplation of God alone and by fervent charity, by which the mind, having been dissolved and flung into love of him, speaks most familiarly and with particular devotion to God as to its own father.” (Conf 9.18.1)
After saying “Father,” Jesus instructs us as children of God to ask, to seek to knock, to be persistent, assuring us that: “everyone who asks, receives; and the one who seeks, finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened” (Lk 11:10). Do we believe this? During our retreat, Mother Rebecca spoke of the love of God, of our need to fully accept and believe in this, and how we often doubt it and seek compensation, from other sources. “No human being will ever love you like Jesus Christ,” she said. And this love is not a feeling, but a reality, no matter what. Believing in the fatherhood of God means trusting that all things we need will be given in good time. “A weaned child on its mother’s breast, even so is my soul” (Ps 131:2).
In the letter to the Philippians, we find another echo of this teaching of Jesus:
“Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” (Phil 4:6-7)
Where does anxiety come from? – from the sinking feeling that Jesus does not in fact love and believe in me, from the fear that he will not hear or answer or give me what I need, and so I will be left to myself. So, if I find myself dumb before God, could it be that I have given up on his generosity, given up on expecting him to act palpably in my life? I do not experience myself as a child of God, as his beloved. Without realizing it perhaps, I feel that I have to rely on myself, my own resources and ingenuity. No wonder I feel anxious! To this, Jesus responds emphatically: don’t be anxious; for goodness sake, ask!
But how do we ask? It isn’t always easy to find our way into the presence of Christ on the level of our experience. All too often we’re there, but not there, taken up with worries and plans and surface matter. How do we get beneath the crust of inattention that obscures his abiding presence, to the fact that he gazes on us and smiles? Mother Rebecca said that “the gaze of God is life itself” and recommended asking: “How do you see me, Jesus?” I must admit to having asked this myself, and I find it a dangerous question. It is not a question to be asked in public, in an environment when maintaining one’s composure is paramount. It is a question that cuts to the heart. A friend of mine spoke of sitting opposite an empty chair, in which her mind’s eye saw Jesus sitting. Having got him where she wanted him, she then let him have it. As for me, I have sometimes written him a strongly-worded letter or taken him for a walk to a remote place where I feel able to speak out loud what’s on my mind. This may sound a little assertive, or even aggressive, but the point is to get beneath the surface of inattentive or clichéd speech.
Walter Brueggemann, in his marvelous book, Praying the Psalms, brings out the opportunity the Divine Office gives us daily to “tell it how it is” before God:
“I suggest that most of the Psalms can only be prayed by people who are living at the edge of their lives, sensitive to the raw hurts, the primitive passions, and the naïve elations that are at the bottom of our life. For most of us, liturgical or devotional entry into the Psalms requires a real change of pace. It asks us to depart from the closely managed world of public survival, to move into the open, frightening, healing world of speech with the Holy One.” (Praying the Psalms, 20)
Lament Psalms function to give “shape, power, visibility, authenticity” to our experience of neediness and distress. Praise Psalms are promissory words thrown up against the chaos of despair as an act of radical hope. In this context, asking is an act of courageous honesty, an insistence on relating to God as the one who looks on us with love and smiles – no matter what our feelings may be.
And what do we ask for? We ask for bread, or fish or an egg – for everything needed in our lives and the lives of those around us, for all the needs that cry out from the surface of the earth. As human creatures we are neediness itself; our whole being is want. Like chicks in a nest, we open our mouths to heaven in endless hunger. Ultimately, it is not bread, or fish or an egg that will satisfy us, but only God himself. The Father, who knows how to give good gifts to his children, sends his Holy Spirit to dwell intimately within us and make us like his Son. Father, teach us to pray; give us the deep-down conviction that we are loved, cherished, looked upon with infinite tenderness.
“Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” (Phil 4:7)
