Prayer

Do you know how to pray?

A good beginning is to be clear on what prayer actually is.  St. Ephrem the Syrian, a fourth century deacon who wrote numerous hymns, said this about prayer:

“Let our prayer be a mirror, Lord, placed before Your face;
then Your fair beauty will be imprinted on its luminous surface.”

That’s perhaps a different perspective than you have today, but contemplate it for a second:  the collective prayers of humankind, arising out of our life together, are the reflection of God’s beauty.  Imagine the fact of your own prayer - no matter how simple or eloquent - as part of the very image of God.

When we set aside the specific content of our prayers on a given day and step back to observe the instinct in us to express joy, to plea for help, to groan in agony, we begin to notice that this instinct itself says something about God and about us.  The instinct itself - this turning to a Person wholly other than ourselves - reflects the beauty of a Father whose love is so great that his children instinctively know they can confidently turn to him with naked hearts and find whatever they need to continue life’s journey. Prayer is the instinctive act of the babe, eyes sometimes peacefully shut and sometimes filled with anxiety, reaching toward the Mother’s breast for the comfort and sustenance needed.

So prayer is like breathing. It’s natural to us.  But it can also seem hard, alien, frustrating.  If we are to get beyond a superficial, sterile prayer life and discover the fullness that God intends for us, we have to learn to pray.

Learning to pray is like learning to play a musical instrument.  I remember hearing the beautiful jazz of a local master on the piano and wanting to be able to play so wonderfully.  Somehow my mother managed to get an organ into our living room and she drove me to lessons each week.  But the lessons were nothing like what I had heard and longed to play.  They were tedious and repetitive. Practicing my scales and other drills meant not doing something more fun.  It was hard to learn to play.  I kept at it, however, and eventually I had my musical moment.  After much work and practice, it all suddenly fell into place.  Through some gift from beyond, I heard the music the way it was to be played, and I delightfully discovered that my fingers stopped playing notes and starting playing the song as I felt it in my heart.  Eventually, I reached the point at which I was no longer playing, but listening, hearing, and delighting in the music that filled my soul; I became so lost in wonder that I barely noticed the role of my own fingers in sounding that song.  “Mary Had a Little Lamb” has never been played so well, I am sure.

I have no doubt that Mom overheard me playing while she made dinner in the kitchen and smiled.  No doubt she somehow knew of the times when I would play with tears streaming down my cheeks as a result of some wound I had sustained, and that she also knew when I pounded the keys, filled with anger at her and Dad for my world seeming to be in disorder. I know she heard me play with joy overflowing because I would see her peek around the corner and smile to herself; I would pretend not to see her so she would stay and watch.  And I have no doubt that she heard not just the notes, but the music I yearned to play and needed to have her hear, and that she understood even those notes I kept hidden inside.  I know that Mom simply loved me in each of those moments, never enabling our relationship to be determined by my emotions of the moment or even my clumsy actions but always by the love she felt even when I was just a “he kicked!” smile shared between her and Dad.

And that is why prayer is not just a list of things we mention in praise, supplication, or intercession.  Our notes are gathered up by a God on the edge of the divine throne, leaning towards us to hear not just our notes but the meaning behind them, and pulling for us to hit the right notes just as Mom pulled for me in my concerto about Mary and her little lamb,  and in every song I ever played.  Prayer takes practice and it engages us in constant learning.  But when we keep at it, we eventually hear God’s song to us, and the melody lifts us with joy to the far-off country that is our true home.  Nothing, neither death nor life nor things present nor powers nor anything in all creation can take this song from us, for it is beauty itself.  Prayer is the reflection of God we are called to be; it is our song;  it is our eternal destiny.

So, my friends, let’s learn together how to pray.

Tell-a-Friend