The Knitting Theologian

So, I know I left something out: how I started praying to Jesus, and what that did.

It all began when I turned my heart over to Jesus in the chapel at Seattle University on one December Saturday in my first quarter at Seattle University. I sat there in the chapel lonely and sad, full of the recognition of what a wreck my life actually was, all exterior accomplishment and no interior fulfillment, and I asked Jesus to come to me. I had always prayed to God before, who was comfortably abstract and far away. Jesus, I knew, would mess up my life, and I liked it the way it was–until that day in the chapel, looking at Jesus on the crucifix, when I realized that actually I did not like my life the way it was at all.

This was the first time I had ever done such a thing. But I was so lonely. I think it was beginning to dawn on me that nobody could ever love me as I longed to be loved. The only person who could do that was Jesus.

I remember the prayer I said that day:

Oh, Jesus, come to me. Come to me. Be my brother, my father, my lover, my friend. Come to me.

I said it over and over, and I wept. And that’s how it started.

I have read so many times in different spiritual books about how all God needs is for us to turn to Him. He, like the father in the story of the prodigal son, will run to meet us. I know how true this is, because this is what happened to me.

I prayed that prayer in the chapel, looking at the crucifix, and then I began to pray with the Sacred Space book, which was my first introduction to mental prayer. And Jesus began to come to me.

Soon, I was praying daily, and then I was making it most important, praying first thing in the morning. In return, it seemed like my prayer life was deepening and growing almost every day. Soon I couldn’t do without mental prayer. I needed it.

Jesus granted me a lot of consolations through prayer in those days, as if to draw me deeper and closer in. It’s a good thing He did. I still panicked the first time I encountered a dry patch in prayer, but the Holy Spirit directed me to some texts on prayer and I learned enough about dry patches to soldier through, or at least to keep going.

I still pray daily. It is a constant in my life. Sometimes I think of it as my real work. And I have seen my life transformed by it.

I don’t have much to say. I had a blessed Easter season and was happy to return to Ordinary Time, which has its own liturgical rhythm. But consolation from God through prayer has been downright scanty, if not entirely absent, lately. As a result, I find I have little to post.

I have major distractions: my work has become very challenging, and I am writing a book. It has occurred to me to test the book by posting some bits of it here, but I am shy about doing so.

But I have not stopped praying, and I am reading interesting books on holiness and the discernment of spirits. I have learned that the absence of consolation in prayer does not mean that I am doing it wrong or have somehow displeased God. It might mean that God wants to know whether I will persevere, even without the consolations. The answer to that is Yes.

They really helped. I made it through the novena and have been experiencing the fruits of it, including a deep sense of peace. I am also having a rather joyous Lent, all in all. That might seem like an oxymoron, but I have learned the reward of opening my hands and giving over to God.

I used to have a recurring nightmare in which I was driving through the mountains on a foggy day. I was enjoying myself: the car was fun to drive, and I could see enough of the road ahead to feel comfortable with the speed at which I was travelling. The nightmare started when I suddenly came out of the mountains, into the sun, only to see that the ocean was on the wrong side of the road.

It’s difficult to describe the awful shock of this. Obviously the ocean wasn’t really on the wrong side; only my mental map was wrong. The problem was, though, that I now had no idea where I was or where I was going, and the map I had been using was clearly worthless.

The shock of this dream always woke me, so I never figured out what to do next. I haven’t thought of the dream in years, but I remembered it recently when I realized what a struggle these last days of this novena have become.

I thought the spiritual struggle of the novena would be like climbing a mountain. I would work hard but climb steadily, the way I have often done in real hiking. At the halfway point I would be at the summit of the mountain, take some time to enjoy the view, and then descend, keeping in mind that I must work on the way down, too, instead of relaxing and coasting back to the trailhead.

My map is wrong. This particular spiritual struggle is shaped like a valley instead. The first part was a descent down to the floor of the valley, which looked nice enough from the where I was. The descent itself, though difficult—I have never really liked descending while hiking—was certainly doable.

When I reached the valley floor, not knowing it was a valley, of course, I took time to enjoy the fact that I was halfway through. I remembered the graces I’d received so far. I kept going.

Soon after that halfway point, though, I began to tire. It was harder than I thought it would be to keep going. I had expected to work, but not like this. Doubts and fears began to assail me. They tested me on the way down, but were fairly easy to brush off then. Not anymore.

Sometime in the last week, I looked behind me and realized it seemed I hadn’t made any progress at all, and that’s when I realized that my map is wrong. I am going uphill, not downhill. The valley floor I am struggling to leave is still close by. The temptation to give up is very strong.

I only have nine more days of this. And what I’m doing is a small thing. I want to keep my promise to God, but the temptation to doubt that He even cares whether I do is constantly nagging in the background.

So I’m asking for prayers. If you could pray for courage and fortitude and perseverance for me, I’d appreciate it.

I am halfway through the Irresistible Novena. Yeah, I know: what’s a novena? It’s nine days of prayer. In a row. In the case of the Irresistible Novena, the prayer is the Rosary. Other novenas have other prayers associated with them.

So the Irresistible Novena, which is said to never fail (hence the name), is actually fifty-four days: six nine-day novenas in a row, for those of you following along doing the math. The way the Irresistible Novena works is you spend 27 days (three nine-day novenas) praying a rosary for your intention, and another 27 days praying a rosary in thanksgiving, whether or not your intention has been answered.

Like that little kicker? I can hear my non-Catholic friends right now; heck, I can hear my Catholic friends, and the voices are coalescing into just a few words: are you crazy? How can you give thanks if you don’t even know whether your prayers are answered? I wondered that myself.

The answer to that question is pretty simple: welcome to the Classroom of Faith, my friends. And actually I know that my prayers will be answered. I’m not sure entirely of the form in which they will be answered, but I’ve had enough experience praying to know that God always answers.

And why would I do such a thing? Because I have a couple of intentions I wanted to pray for, and the Irresistible Novena, about which I read a couple of years ago, came to mind immediately in a way that I’ve come to recognize as a nudge from the Holy Spirit. And because I recently resolved to take my fingers out of my ears and stop singing la-la-la when I sense those nudges, I went ahead and started the novena.

And so, halfway through, here I am, and I do have things for which I am grateful:

• An increased sense of God’s presence, not only during prayer but throughout the day.
• An increased recognition of the presence of God in others.
• An increased sensitivity to the graces present in the Eucharist. (I could write a whole other post on this last one, but I’ll just say here that there are many graces present in the Eucharist, and I’m sure I’m only scratching the surface of them. Trust me, they are there, and it’s the biggest reason I go to daily Mass so often. Gets me through the day like nothing else.)

I knew when I started that there was no way I could do this alone, no matter how stubborn I am. I have had to say to Jesus as well as to Mary and Joseph and practically the whole communion of saints, often, “Help! I can’t do this anymore.” They have come through, with help and support, every single time. It feels like being showered with “every spiritual blessing in the heavens.” (Ephesians 1:3) For all that, how could I not be grateful?

I do hear things in prayer sometimes, if I can shut up my brain long enough to let God talk. I don’t think I’m really that much of a chatterbox but apparently during mental prayer I am.

I was on retreat this weekend. There were sign up sheets for lectors, Eucharistic ministers, and so on for Mass on Saturday and Sunday. On Friday night my friend pointed to the empty spaces by “music minister” but I said No.

I don’t know, I figured there was somebody else who could do it better than I could. Yeah, I’m a cantor, and people sometimes tell me I have touched them when i sing, but I worry a lot about getting a swelled head. Besides, I was an English major! I’m not a real musician!

Later Friday night, I dropped into one of the tunnels I’ve become so well acquainted with over the past year, and spent time in the chapel praying over Psalm 38, especially verse 5:

My iniquities overwhelm me,
a burden beyond my strength.

Nothing happened right away, which is not unusual for me. But early Saturday morning in prayer I heard this:

You cannot let the weight of your iniquities keep you from using the gifts I gave you.

I signed up.

You can tell when my quarter is nearly over because I start blogging again. I suppose a better blogger would set up auto-posts or some such thing so that people who stopped by wouldn’t give up if there were three months between entries. If I could ever decide on the real direction of this blog I might do that.

Two quick things to share with you on this last day of Ordinary Time:

A quote from a 14th-century Muslim mystic:

Pulling out the chair
Beneath your mind
And watching you fall upon God–
There is nothing else for Hafiz to do
That is more fun in this world!

Shams-Ud-Din Mohammed Hafiz, Muslim mystic (1320 – 1389)

And this, from a sermon by my friend St. Augustine, who I encountered in this morning’s Office of Readings:

Even here amidst trials and temptations let us, let all men, sing alleluia. God is faithful, says holy Scripture, and he will not allow you to be tried beyond your strength. So let us sing alleluia, even here on earth. Man is still a debtor, but God is faithful. Scripture does not say that he will not allow you to be tried, but that he will not allow you to be tried beyond your strength. Whatever the trial, he will see you through it safely, and so enable you to endure. You have entered upon a time of trial but you will come to no harm—God’s help will bring you through it safely. You are like a piece of pottery, shaped by instruction, fired by tribulation. When you are put into the oven therefore, keep your thoughts on the time when you will be taken out again; for God is faithful, and he will guard both your going in and your coming out.

I’ve had a rough couple of days. Everyone knows that the holidays are hard for single people. Let’s just say I’ve decided on a different meaning for Black Friday: it doesn’t mark the shopping season, it marks the lonely season. And I am no different from anyone else in having to struggle through it. I can’t test out of it, or get a hall pass, or accrue anywhere near enough spiritual brownie points to make it easier.

I was arrogant enough to think that I wouldn’t have a hard time this year. These two passages help me to know that 1) my time of trial is not over but God will give me the strength to get through it; and 2) God has indeed caught my fall and all I need to do is surrender to Him.

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
       It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
       It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
       And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
       And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
       There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
       Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward springs–
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
       World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

I apologize for the awkward spacing; some of the lines are not quite right. Windows Live Writer, which I otherwise find exceedingly useful for writing blog posts, has its limitations.

Anyway. I had quite an experience this morning.

People have asked me, “how do you know what God wants?” I’ve asked that question myself. It’s not always easy to know. However much I might sometimes appreciate a well-modulated bass voice booming from the heavens, God is usually more subtle than that.

But there is a way, which has to do with paying attention to how you feel when you reach a conclusion or make a decision. You pay attention to feelings of consolation, feelings of rightness. That’s what happened to me this morning.

It’s my habit to pray and meditate first, then go for a walk. I often reflect further on my prayer as I go. This morning, reflecting on my prayer and on some advice I had received from a friend, I suddenly realized what it is I really want to do with my life.

Holding that realization, I walked headlong into the arms of God. There He was, in a patch of dappled early morning sunshine on the path. I felt His presence all around me, palpably. Joy rose deep within me and spilled over. I felt a holy Yes, and I remembered the first line of that poem, “The world is charged with the grandeur of God.”

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

Yesterday morning, just as I was getting ready to step outside to say Morning Prayer on the patio, my four-year old niece, Sophie, came into my room and climbed up on my bed.

“Can I look at that God book?” she inquired.

Somewhat surprised, because I didn’t think she knew how to read, I passed over In Conversation with God, and watched as she leafed carefully through the pages.

“How can you read this book?” she demanded. “It doesn’t have any pictures! I better look at another one.” She put ICWG carefully aside and picked up the Liturgy of the Hours.

Figuring that I was going to have company for prayer time, I sat down and began the series of vocal prayers that I say each morning. When I finished, Sophie looked up at me.

“You better keep praying,” she advised. “I have a lot of books to go through.”

She reviewed each one of my prayer books. When she finished she shook her head, almost in disgust.

“Don’t any of these books have pictures?”

“Well, no,” I said. “I just read the words.”

Sophie shook her head, climbed off the bed, and wandered out. Prayer must look a lot different to a four-year old.

In my class last spring on Contemporary Christian Prayer and Spirituality, some fun was poked at the expense of people who maintained a prayer list. I know other people who feel that praying for others by name is somewhat redundant, like telling God to do something that He already knows about and is probably doing already.

Well, I keep a prayer list and I pray for specific people by name. I have done this for years, and it feels right to me but it’s a good question: why do I do it?

I do in fact believe that God holds all of us close, cares for us, and does His best to answer our petitions, whether or not we speak them. For that reason, I don’t ask for specific intentions very often unless someone asks me to do so. I usually ask God to hold people close, hear their prayers, and bless them abundantly, which I figure should cover everything.

I guess for me it’s a specific act of love, to commend these folks to God each day. Many of those on my list are people I do not see every day, and praying for them by name helps me feel close to them and to think of them. I’m afraid that outside of prayer time, my brain is so busy that although I might think of someone, left to circumstance I would probably forget.

And then there are the people on my list who I don’t like. I’m not sure why I pray for them daily, by name, other than in hopes of effecting a change in my own heart. My pastor, Fr. N., once said in a homily that anyone you prayed for by name couldn’t remain an enemy for long. In hopes of that, and in some specific cases in hopes of healing, I pray for certain people who I would much prefer to ignore.

There is another reason. It has to do with being an extreme introvert (a reality show you will never see). People wear me out. I love them, and I want to hear their stories—and then I want them to go home. And sometimes I don’t want to see anyone for awhile. It is easier for me to love some people from a distance—and one of the ways I do that is by praying for them.