Hieropraxis» Christian Life

The Anglican Rosary as a Spiritual Discipline

Holly Ordway — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 17:40:17 +0000

Most Christians have heard of the rosary, but relatively few know that using beads as a tool to aid in prayer is an ancient practice that can be found in Anglicanism and Orthodoxy as well as Roman Catholicism. Since I’m Anglican, I’m going to focus on the Anglican rosary as a spiritual discipline.

The Anglican rosary (like the Roman Catholic rosary and the Eastern Orthodox prayer rope) is intended to be used as a tactile aid for contemplative prayer: the person praying repeats a short, traditional prayer while holding each bead of the rosary in turn. Far from being the mindless repetition that Jesus condemned, repeated prayers such as these are an attempt to take seriously Scripture’s call to “pray without ceasing.” (1 Thessalonians 5:17).

Over the past few years, I’ve been amazed at how the repetition of a simple prayer helps settle my distracted thoughts and center them on God. When I’m stuck in traffic, or in an argument, or just anxious and stressed over my work or personal life, I often can’t articulate a specific prayer, but I can turn to the Jesus Prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, have mercy on me, a sinner” or more briefly, “Lord Jesus, have mercy.” I have also found that repeating “Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy; Lord, have mercy” is a powerful way to invite God’s presence into my life when I need Him most.

That said, why use beads? It’s certainly not necessary to have beads in hand to say the Jesus prayer. Might it not be more “spiritual” to pray mentally without using a devotional object like a string of rosary beads?

Are beads necessary – absolutely not. Are they helpful? Often they are, especially depending on your personality.

The modern English word “bead” actually comes from the Anglo-Saxon word “bede,” meaning “prayer.” Beads offer a tactile link to God’s creation. We seem to have a modern resurgence of the Gnostic idea of “spirituality” as something other-worldly, divorced from the grubby here-and-now of our bodies. But God made us as embodied spirits, and Paul quite firmly reminds us that we will be embodied in His new creation. The resurrected Jesus wasn’t a disembodied spirit (nor a mere sense of comfort in the lives of His disciples): He was a real, physical human being who ate and drank and could be touched.

Holding a physical object as we pray can be a reminder that we pray with our whole beings, “our selves, our souls and bodies” (from the Book of Common Prayer). I have found that having a physical cross to hold in my hand is incredibly helpful in reminding me to call on Jesus for help. So, too, with a rosary.

One of the strengths of the Anglican rosary for Evangelicals is that it balances tradition with personal choices about prayer. The Anglican rosary itself is not associated with a specific prayer; there is no “right” or “wrong” way to pray the Anglican rosary. On the other hand, the short prayers often suggested for use in the Anglican rosary provide a link to the countless saints of centuries past who have prayed the same prayers – many of which are drawn directly from the language of Holy Scripture. For instance, I might choose to pray the Trisagion (“Holy God, holy and mighty, holy Immortal One”); the Jesus prayer; the Gloria (“Glory to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit…”); or the Agnus Dei (“O Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, have mercy on me… grant me Your peace”). One might also pray reflectively on a selected passage of Scripture, holding the rosary as a way to keep one’s hands occupied and mind focused.

There are always ways to go wrong with rosary prayer – for instance, seeing it as an end in itself, which it’s emphatically not – but that’s the case for any spiritual discipline. When used in the spirit in which it is intended, the rosary encourages a habit of contemplative prayer. The key is to remember the purpose of the discipline: to help us pray, to develop our relationship with Him, to become more able to hear His voice and respond to Him.

I haven’t used my rosary much this past year, but my experiments with rosary prayers helped me develop a habit of using short, ancient prayers throughout the day, a habit that has deepened my relationship with Christ. Often I don’t even know exactly what I need to pray about, but by calling on the sacred name of Jesus, I know I am inviting God to do His work in me and through me.

Let us bless the Lord. Thanks be to God!

Trusting and Taking Risks: A Reflection on J.P. Moreland’s Lecture on “The Spiritual Life”

Holly Ordway — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 03:21:18 +0000

Over the past few weeks I’ve been challenged to think more deeply about spiritual growth. At the summer residency for Biola’s graduate Christian Apologetics Program, I attended an outstanding lecture by J.P. Moreland on the spiritual life, in which one of his topics was the impact of the Fall on our lives.

Dr Moreland explained that because of the Fall, we are in a state of separation (from God, from others, and from ourselves) and thus we experience a fundamental loneliness. We look for ways to overcome this loneliness, often with strategies that are sinful. Our corresponding fundamental need is attachment, and God’s deepest way of relating to us is through attachment. Dr Moreland then posed a question: “What are our attachment strategies that are not healthy, that don’t help us become more like Jesus?”

Ouch.

My typical strategy for dealing with loneliness is to try to have everything under control – most especially my own future.

God has been very good to me, these past four years. I think He called me to be alone, so that in that quiet space He could do important work: to help me know who I am, be comfortable with myself, to do a lot of necessary healing, and to grow spiritually. Along the way, He helped me recognize a real vocation for teaching and writing.

Now, though, I recognize that He is calling me, slowly but surely, away from solitude – even though being alone is, in many ways, the “safer” option for me. He has shown me that I need others, and that means taking the risk of friendship, trust, and love. Four years ago, I was nervous even to have a friend. What if people don’t like me? Can I trust anyone? Four years of living as part of my parish family has taught me that yes, I can trust people to care about me.

The difficulty arises in that although I want to live according to God’s plans for me, I struggle with wanting to know exactly how it all works out. If I am sure of how God has called me to live the past few years, I automatically want to extend that to the rest of my life: I want to have the plan, in black and white. In answer to Dr Moreland’s question, then: my (unhealthy) strategy for dealing with loneliness is a rigid self-sufficiency that means that I don’t have to risk disappointment.

Considering all the ways that God has challenged me to grow outside of my comfort zone in the past four and a half years – including, but not limited to, being baptized, going back to school, and writing a book – you would think I’d stop being surprised when He asks me to grow. But this time I thought I had everything figured out, my life planned ahead of me. I had friends; my professional work was sufficient to keep me very busy. Family? Don’t think about it. Loneliness? Under control, thank you very much!

Dr Moreland spoke of a second effect of the Fall: the inception of shame and guilt, with accompanying fear. We ask ourselves, “Will people reject me if they learn I am not as I ought to be?” We need a sense of safety and forgiveness – including forgiving ourselves and no longer punishing ourselves for our failures. (Dr Moreland, were you speaking directly to me with this talk? It sure seemed like it!)

I have experienced the grace of God’s forgiveness for the wreckage in my past; over the last four years I have experienced the grace of His healing. Now it seems that God is calling me to fully accept that forgiveness. To live it out! Frightening – and exhilarating.

Dr Moreland said that the third effect of the Fall on human nature is a loss of real purpose; left to ourselves, we become bored, and seek various kinds of pleasure to deal our boredom. In my own life, I am rarely bored, but I recognize that if I cling to control over every aspect of my future, then I will not look for God’s real purposes for me – and I will lose sight of Him. Oh! this is a hard thing to face. It means I have to actually, in practice, trust God as I move into a future unknown to me!

Given these three effects of the Fall, Dr Moreland told us, our only hope is to become a full disciple of Jesus Christ. Discipleship, he said, is both hard and easy. It is hard because all new skills are hard at first; it is easy compared to the difficulties of not following Christ. (True, that.) And, he added, “the spiritual life has to start with facing the truth about ourselves.”

What truth do I need to face? It is my fear of disappointment and rejection. It is easier for me to deny the need for attachment than to risk pain. But over the last four years, bit by bit, through mentors, friends, and father figures, God has helped me learn about right relationship, with Him and with others. This past year I have discovered that there is a grace that God gives when I manage to move forward in trust and hope, persevering even in the face of self-doubt.

As I reflect on Dr Moreland’s lecture, I begin to think that God is inviting me to be more of a risk-taker, to trust in Him even when I myself don’t see how things will all work out. That’s difficult for me; perhaps it is difficult for all of us, and that is why God has to remind us that with Him, all things are possible.

As my favorite poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins, said:

“My own heart let me have more pity on…
… leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what…”

Useful Restlessness

Holly Ordway — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 03:32:35 +0000

“Restless” literally means “lacking rest.” That doesn’t sound good – but in fact restlessness can be a good thing. St Augustine famously wrote in the Confessions that our hearts are restless until they rest in God; restlessness can be the spur that drives us to arise from our entrenched state of alienation and dissatisfaction to seek after what we really need.

On a more practical level, “restlessness” is an interesting word, because it covers two quite different states of mind. These two states could be described as “bad” and “good” restlessness, but actually it’s a little more complicated than that.

The first kind is probably the one I know best – the restlessness of being tired and yet having work to do. While I’m trying to concentrate on grading papers, or paying bills, or doing the assigned reading for a class I’m taking, I’m distracted by a thousand and one things that seem more appealing than what I’m doing right now. What are my friends posting on Facebook? Are there any interesting new articles on the news sites I read? Is there anything to eat in the refrigerator? Sometimes even doing laundry seems like a better option than whatever it was that I’m supposed to be concentrating on.

The curious thing is that I know, consciously, that the work I’m (supposed to be) doing is important. I love my job, I find my classes interesting, and, well, I don’t like paying bills but I do enjoy having un-interrupted electricity and phone service. I also know that the little distractions are, ultimately, much less important… and yet I allow myself to get distracted anyway. I check my email. I eat a cookie. (Am I really hungry?)

The fidgety kind of restlessness usually means that I’m over-tired… not necessarily physically, but mentally and emotionally. I have too much to do, and I can’t face the thought of it, so – I don’t. Yet in that mood, I don’t really enjoy goofing off, either. I procrastinate, avoid, and fritter away time doing little things that are neither productive nor relaxing.

When the bad restlessness really kicks in, sometimes I just want to put my head down on the desk and cry.

On the other hand, there’s a good restlessness. When I am rested, both physically and mentally, I find myself eager to do interesting things. I have energy – it’s not enough to just sit around doing the same old thing. I want to go out and do a good workout, write essays about all the ideas rattling around in my head (and on the endless slips of paper on my desk), go on trips to visit different places – all things that I can’t, or won’t, do when I’m tired.

Yet I would not dismiss the “bad” restlessness as all bad, nor embrace the “good” restlessness wholesale.

The “bad” restlessness is an important signal flag. It means I am pushing myself too hard. When I feel so fidgety, sometimes I do need to tell myself “Stop it! Get to work!” but often, what I really need to do is take a break. Not sit at my desk and half-work, but step away from my desk and do something completely different. Take a nap, or read a chapter in a fun book, or go for a walk. Then, when I get back to my work, I’ll be more productive. I don’t always succeed in building in that safety valve of resting when I need to, but when I do, it helps.

The “good” restlessness is insufficient. Left unchecked, it leads to lots of grand plans and half-finished projects. I have to discipline myself with that energy too: to recognize that if something is a good project, I will continue to want to work on it tomorrow, so I don’t have to finish it today.

Both kinds of restlessness show up in my prayer life. Having a regular routine, the Daily Office, helps keep me steady. On the bad-restless days, when I can hardly concentrate on any particular prayer for more than 30 seconds, the liturgy keeps pulling me back, again and again, and reminds me that even if my prayers are scattered and unfocused, I’m praying. On the good-restless days, I tend to be over-confident, thinking that I can just spontaneously pray and lift up all that I do to God, without needing any structure… but then I often realize at the end of the day that I haven’t consciously prayed much, if at all. When I am rested and have energy to spare, the liturgy helps me stay focused, so that I have a structure around which to build my extemporaneous prayer.

Now, dear readers — what are your distractions, and how do you keep focused?

What Is Prayer? (3) Why Bother?

Holly Ordway — Wed, 26 May 2010 19:45:26 +0000

Christians pray. But why? What’s the point? What do you say to the One who knows you better than you know yourself?

After a lot of discussion with my Christian friends and mentors about their prayer lives, I finally understood that prayer can’t be seen in isolation as an action that we do in order to get something. Rather, prayer is about relationship with God. As we pray, we are drawn up into the deepest relationship there is: the most holy Trinity, the eternal loving communion of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

In prayer, we don’t tell anything to God that He doesn’t already know. But that’s also how it is when we speak with our friends and family – when our relationships are at their best.

If I send a card to a friend saying “Happy birthday,” what purpose did that serve? She already knew it was her birthday! The message is that I care about her – but wait, she already knew that, too; we’ve been friends for years. What’s the point?

The point is in the act of communication itself: in saying “Happy birthday!” I am actively expressing love and, doing so, adding to our friendship. What kind of a friendship would it be, if we always took each other for granted and never said a word of congratulation or comfort or encouragement? Sure, good friends often understand what the other feels without having to say it… but the friendship will weaken if those words are never said, or the sentiments never acted on.

When we say “I love you” to a child, a parent, a beloved friend, it should not come as a surprise, but as an affirmation of what is already known. The fact that it’s not a surprise doesn’t remove its value, but in fact underscores it.

On His side, God’s friendship with us is already perfect; He loves us with infinite love, and did so even while we were still alienated from Him. But the reverse isn’t true. We don’t have a perfect relationship with Him, not yet, but we can grow closer to Him by sharing our fears, doubts, anxieties, hopes, dreams, successes, and indeed anything that matters to us.

In the sorest need, we can cry out for help and accept it even from a stranger – and God is so gracious that He hears us even then, as He heard me in my first, hesitant prayers to this God whom I had just encountered and did not know at all. But it would be a lonely life if all those whom we met remained strangers to us – and every dear friend was once a stranger, until we got to know him or her more fully. Sharing ourselves with Him helps us to know Him, just as sharing our thoughts and experiences with a friend helps us to know both that person, and ourselves, better.

When I look at some of my Christian friends, I see a that they have a relationship with Christ that is far beyond mine: deeper, richer, stronger. I want to have that relationship, to know Him the way they do… and all too often, I accuse myself of failure or inadequacy because I am not where they are. But then I have to remember (or be reminded by my friends and pastors!) that these brothers and sisters whom I admire have been walking with the Lord for thirty, forty, maybe fifty years. It’s a comfort to me to remember that, because I’m impatient. God is not an abstract idea, but a Person whom we come to know more and more fully over time. That is, if we want to know Him, and seek to know Him – and that’s a choice we can make every day.

The Christian Past and Future

Holly Ordway — Sat, 22 May 2010 05:01:36 +0000

Christ has died.

Christ is risen.

Christ will come again.

Past, present, future. They’re all there – all true – all part of the Christian life.

In 2007, on my first trip to Durham Cathedral in the north of England, I thought a lot about the depth of history. The cathedral itself is almost a thousand years old, and a small community of Christians worshiped on the site before the cathedral construction began, so as I knelt in prayer there, I was aware that I was part of a millennium of continual worship of Our Lord at that very spot. Ten centuries of people lifting up praise and thanks, prayers and petitions to God, aware that He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

Two great figures from medieval Christianity are buried at Durham Cathedral: the Venerable Bede and St. Cuthbert. Could they have imagined the twenty-first century, with its technology and gadgets, its world wars and its radical philosophies? I bet they’d see right through the post-modern fog, cut through all our excuses for why we don’t follow through on what Christ calls us to do, and challenge us to look for the one truth who is Christ. God called Cuthbert, a shepherd, to be a bishop; he called Bede to be a scholar, historian, and monk. He calls each of us to do His work – today just as much as in the seventh century when Cuthbert and Bede were alive, or in the time of Jesus Himself.

Durham Cathedral isn’t just full of old stone and medieval art – the “Millennium Window” is a modern stained glass piece, the banners for St. Cuthbert’s tomb are modern, and there are several modern-art sculptures of Christ. Some of the modern art I liked, and some I didn’t. But regardless of my aesthetic preference, I felt that the modern work there sent an important message: that this is a place of living faith, where Christians come to worship God in 2007 and beyond, not just to look back at history. The depth of Christian tradition is immeasurably valuable… but pairing it with modern work helps us understand why it’s so important: not just for its own sake, but because tradition is essential in helping us become and remain true disciples of Christ now and in the future.

Past, present, future. He has died; He is risen; He will come again. We must hold all three in our awareness. Past: the tradition that has been handed on faithfully for us to learn from. Present: where we must act out what we have learned. Future: that day, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in another millennium, in which Christ, who is already King of the world, will return in glory.

Just Ignore the Lion in the Corner? Facing the Reality of the Enemy

Holly Ordway — Sat, 17 Apr 2010 04:54:45 +0000

“My dear brothers, never forget, when you hear the progress of the Enlightenment vaunted, that the Devil’s best trick is to persuade you that he doesn’t exist!” – Baudelaire

Our culture has largely forgotten God; should we be surprised that we have forgotten the Enemy as well?

The idea of a malevolent, personal entity that exists in opposition to God, and with the intent of keeping us from God, seems patently absurd to most people. I’ve gotten some strange looks even from Christians when people hear me, a college professor with a Ph.D., say straight-out that the Enemy is real – not a metaphor, a literary device, or a quaint superstition.

Yet most people recognize that there is such a thing as evil. How do we explain it and deal with it?

For the “spiritual but not religious,” the forces of evil get vaguely described as “bad karma,” “bad luck,” or the equivalent: in other words, as something that is neither personal nor possible to oppose. You can’t fight bad luck; you can only keep your head down and hope for the best.

As a culture we seem to believe readily enough in forces that shape our culture, society, and individuals in negative, even horrific ways – but we call them things like “the economy,” “racism,” “stress,” “peer pressure,” and so on. The terms take on a solidity beyond what they describe: racism, for instance, is often discussed as if it were a literal disease that can be eradicated, like polio. The trouble is that we cannot really do anything at all about “racism”: we can only address specific instances of unfair treatment and educate and (more to the point) civilize our children so that they will treat others with respect regardless of skin color or national origin. That approach – despite having had marvelous results in the U.S. in a remarkably short time – doesn’t satisfy us at a spiritual level, though. Whatever we do is never enough; we must address not just actions but intentions, feelings, thoughts, at an ever-finer level: in short, racism takes on the characteristics of a permanent Enemy. Why? Perhaps because we know there is one, but we don’t want to admit who he is.

If we do we have an unsettling intuition that it is not just “forces” that assault us, but a Being, that might account for our tendency to demonize specific institutions and people. In the absence of a known Enemy, we attack whoever is at hand. For example, it is not uncommon in liberal circles (or at least academic ones) to hate Starbucks. Honestly, I am not quite sure what Starbucks has done to merit such opprobrium, except that it is a successful company that sells a product people enjoy, but a certain subset of people basically hiss and give evil eyes at the very mention of Starbucks. Never mind that Starbucks supports organic and fair-trade coffee growing, and water for poor children in developing countries; never mind that Starbucks is an employer noted for excellent benefits to part-time employees; it is a large and successful corporation, and it must be evil. Perhaps Starbucks has done enough environmental penance to be absolved of its sin of success; never fear, another target will be forthcoming.

Even among Christians, who acknowledge to at least some degree the reality of the supernatural, we tend to lose sight of the fact that there are evil forces out there. Forces that mean us harm; forces that work consciously, deliberately, and maliciously to turn us from God.

What better playing field could the Enemy possibly ask for?

Our culture’s failure to recognize the spiritual forces of evil as real is a significant problem: it essentially gives the Enemy a free pass to mayhem. The failure of Christians to recognize the reality of the spiritual forces of evil is also a very bad thing. Not only has the country been infiltrated, but the warriors are asleep at their posts.

As Christians, we need to recognize the reality of the Enemy as a personal and malevolent force, no matter how un-cool that makes us seem. And yes, it does make us sound like freaks.

Yet we should not despair. Scripture tells us that the Enemy has been defeated by Christ, in His saving work on the cross. As Christians, we need have no fear about the ultimate outcome of the war between good and evil: Good wins.

However, we in the Church Militant are still on the ground of that warfare, despite being en route to joining the Church Triumphant. Let us be watchful and wary, for our adversary “prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” (1 Peter 5:8)

What Is Prayer? (2): God Is Not a Vending Machine

Holly Ordway — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 23:36:59 +0000

A glance at the Christian Inspiration shelves in a bookstore will reveal numerous books touting the power of prayer – to heal, to comfort, to inspire, to get what we want. We should tread carefully here. It is true that our Lord tells us to pray for “our daily bread”: we are indeed called to live in constant humble reliance on our heavenly Father, who hears us and responds to our prayers.

However, we must not fall into the error of thinking of God as a cosmic vending machine: insert prayer, receive desired outcome. That way lies madness. It is a distortion of God, cutting Him down to a size and shape that we find convenient.

Prayer is communication with our heavenly Father, through His Son our Savior, in the power of the Holy Spirit. When we ask our Father for something, the answer may indeed be Yes. Our Father delights in giving good gifts to His children!

But God’s answer to prayer may also be No, or Not Now, or Yes, but not in the way we expect.

The No is as important as the Yes for our relationship with God – maybe more so. Our Lord himself models this for us in the last days of his earthly life. In the garden of Gethsemane, the night before the Crucifixion, Jesus knelt in agonized prayer, knowing what lay ahead: humiliation, pain, abandonment by his friends, death on the cross. Sorrowful and troubled, Jesus asked, “My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will” (Mt 26:39).

The Father’s answer – to the prayer of His own Son, perfect in every way – was No. The cup did not pass from him.

Jesus shows us that it is not wrong for us to ask for the easier path and desire the lighter load; he also shows us the perfect response when the answer is No. Three times he prayed, and then, waking his disciples, he said, “Rise, let us be going” (Mt 26:46). Jesus’ prayer was answered by the knowledge that the fulfillment of his work indeed lay on the Cross. The cup, not having passed from him, was his to drink to the last, bitter drop – and he did.

Every No thus has a flip side, a Yes that we can embrace. If we don’t ask in prayer, fearful of that No, we miss out on the opportunity to respond to God’s answer in love and obedience.

When He says Yes to our prayers, we can be thankful, with a grateful appreciation of all that our Father gives us – but more than that, we can rejoice in the union of our will with His.

When He says No, then we can rejoice in the opportunity to conform our will to His – to trust in Him. Just as Jesus followed the way of the cross to its bitter, bitter end – all the way to the grave, and through it, to joy and life – so too we can rejoice in the opportunity to follow our Lord on the way of the cross, the way that leads to life and peace.

Easier said than done – but we have our Savior to lead us, and our whole life to practice, God willing. No better time to start than today.

What Is Prayer? (1) It’s Like Gravity

Holly Ordway — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 22:40:47 +0000

Prayer is an example of Christian truth – it is true “all the way down.” Being true at one level, it is true at all levels, but it is not the same at each level.

Consider gravity: a child of three can comprehend that if he drops a toy, it falls to the ground; if he throws the toy up into the air, it goes up and then down. Without any comprehension of how gravity works, he can have many hours of fun tossing, bouncing, and throwing balls.

A mathematician can work out the equations that describe the effects of gravity on everything from rubber balls to entire galaxies. On the basis of minute calculations and sophisticated mathematics, a team of dedicated scientists and engineers can send a rocket soaring out of the confines of Earth’s gravity. The child’s toss of the ball is subsumed within the launch of the rocket, implied in it.

Prayer is like that. A child of three can, in simplicity and total sincerity, speak to Jesus. Holy men and women can explore depths of prayer as it takes them into ever-deeper communion with God. Prayer is something that the newest, rawest Christian can do, and it is also a lifelong journey, going ever deeper into the heart of the mystery that is our Triune God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

No one expects the child to understand the mathematics that the scientist understands; in that same way, the beginning Christian should not and need not expect to immediately be able to pray with the depth of a mature Christian. Nor does every Christian grow up to be the praying equivalent of a rocket scientist: as St Paul explains, we all have different gifts in the Body of Christ. But we would look askance at someone who, growing up and attending high school and college, persisted in staying at a three-year-old’s understanding of math. Rightly, we expect each person to learn enough mathematics to function at an adult level – to pay his or her bills, at the least! Prayer is what it is, regardless of our level of understanding of it, but we ought to seek to grow in that understanding the best of our ability.

In this way, prayer is like gravity.

But in another, much more important way, prayer is nothing like gravity.

Prayer is communication: we address our God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. As we enter more deeply into the mystery of prayer, we learn and grow, but not in a mechanical sense of learning more facts about God or in facility in manipulating information about Him. Not at all! As we enter more deeply into the life of prayer, we come to know Him more fully – to know Him, not to know about Him. To that joyful increase in knowledge there is no end. When we love someone, we continue to get to know that person all our lives. Shared experiences, shared concerns, over a lifetime draw us closer and closer to that person – not in the sense of a gathering of facts, but in the sense of a deepening of connection. If we never talk to a friend, that relationship remains just a potential; it is the act of communication and the sharing of experiences that truly makes the relationship all that it is meant to be.

Prayer is something that a child can do, that the newest Christian can do – but the joy of it is that the depths of prayer are inexhaustible. We can always seek to know God more fully, to freely share more of our selves with Him – but this doesn’t happen automatically.

I find it very easy to just learn more about God, and harder to reach out to include Him in my life. It is easy to read books about prayer, harder to stretch and grow in prayer. Every time I do stretch to pray more, I am rewarded by growth in my relationship with Him – although, to be honest, not always in the way that I expected or wanted. I have to start somewhere, even if it is just the desire for a deeper relationship with Him – or the desire to have that desire. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, have mercy on me, a sinner!

Dear readers, what have been your experiences with moving forward in prayer?

“Strive to Enter by the Narrow Door”: the Reality of the Christian Life

Fr. Doran Stambaugh S.S.C. — Sat, 13 Mar 2010 01:11:59 +0000

If we open our eyes to see the Christian journey as it truly is, we may find the sight to be terrifying – and exhilarating.

Luke 13.22-35

He went on his way through towns and villages, teaching, and journeying toward Jerusalem. And some one said to him, “Lord, will those who are saved be few?” And he said to them, “Strive to enter by the narrow door; for many, I tell you, will seek to enter and will not be able. When once the householder has risen up and shut the door, you will begin to stand outside and to knock at the door, saying, ‘Lord, open to us.’ He will answer you, ‘I do not know where you come from.’ Then you will begin to say, ‘We ate and drank in your presence, and you taught in our streets.’ But he will say, ‘I tell you, I do not know where you come from; depart from me, all you workers of iniquity!’

There you will weep and gnash your teeth, when you see Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and all the prophets in the kingdom of God and you yourselves thrust out. And men will come from east and west, and from north and south, and sit at table in the kingdom of God. And behold, some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last.” At that very hour some Pharisees came, and said to him, “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.” And he said to them, “Go and tell that fox, ‘Behold, I cast out demons and perform cures today and tomorrow, and the third day I finish my course. Nevertheless I must go on my way today and tomorrow and the day following; for it cannot be that a prophet should perish away from Jerusalem.’ O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, killing the prophets and stoning those who are sent to you! How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not! Behold, your house is forsaken. And I tell you, you will not see me until you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!’”

When I was in college I spent an entire summer at a science station in the Black Hills of South Dakota. This educational outpost was designed to serve the needs of two very different types of students: science majors and science failures. Each summer, the science station community is an eclectic mix of those who are gifted and considering careers in the sciences, and those who have little or no hope of even fulfilling their basic Gen-Ed science requirements.

You can probably guess which category the priest fell into.

Yes, I was there to fulfill my allotment of science requirements in one fell swoop. And I must say my experience that summer really did make science fun! The campus is situated right in the midst of the Black Hills. For astronomy class we would wake up at 2 AM and set up telescopes under the stars. For geology class we would spend entire days exploring the ancient granite mountains, and when we weren’t studying, we would do much the same thing. We spent as much time camping and hiking in God’s classroom, as we did in the log cabin science labs.

Clean cool rivers and a network of trails reach out from the property, inviting adventurous students into the surrounding wilderness. Many a hidden cave or picturesque waterfall awaited discovery and exploration. Several nearby overlooks and rock outcroppings were popular venues for the evening’s dramatic sunsets.

But of all the nearby opportunities for natural adventure, there was one particularly ominous destination that literally stood out above the rest. About a 30-minute hike up a steep nearby mountain stood the infamous Razorback Ridge.

Yes, its name says it all.

Upon my arrival at the science station that summer, word quickly spread of this must-see, must-do, natural wonder. I soon realized – to my great surprise — that crossing Razorback Ridge was some sort of initiation rite for new students. It seemed – from the way folks talked about it – that crossing Razorback Ridge was not an option. And so it was – barely a week into my stay – that a group of “friends” informed me that “we” were going to take on the ridge. Hmmm.

So, being the ignorant fledgling young man-ling that I was, I mustered up as much bravado, machismo, and self-denial as I could, to cover up the fact that – in spite of my long and grizzly beard – I was quite possibly the most chicken 19-year-old male on the planet.

And up we went to Razorback Ridge.

As we climbed up through the rocky forest trail I could feel my optimism straining for something – anything – to soothe the burgeoning terror from deep within. “Maybe it won’t be nearly as bad as people describe it? Maybe there will be a railing? Maybe we’ll get lost and won’t be able to find it! Hey! Maybe I’ll get bit by a rattlesnake and have to go home.” Alas, any hope of a comfortable, safe, reasonable, and civilized experience quickly vanished as our destination came into view.

Climbing up a series of gigantic granite boulders, we came to a clearing – a breathtaking vista actually – and there before us was a thin, rocky path that seemed to just float there in the sky.

Sure enough, the trail along Razorback Ridge narrows to be a mere three feet wide. On either side of the trail is a sheer granite rock face that drops straight to the ground several hundred feet below. If you look straight down one side of the ridge you can see the long blue ribbon of Rapid Creek flowing gently along the bottom of the cliff. If you stand very still you can hear the faint gurgle of the water far below.

Now, there’s usually at least one maniacal adrenaline junkie in every pack of young males, and ours was no exception.

So in those first moments – as I was still struggling not to throw up, fall over, or pass out – my yahoo friend had already skipped and hollered halfway across the ridge. And one by one, the rest of my friends cautiously followed.

Now my memory of crossing Razorback Ridge that day is a little fuzzy. But there are a few things I will never forget.

I remember my experience along that trail being a particularly prayerful time in my life.

In fact, at one point I was literally on my hands and knees; granted this was mostly out of fear and to keep my balance. But still, my crawling along the ridge was an outward and visible sign of my inward and spiritual prayers for deliverance.

Another thing I remember along that trail was my intense focus and concentration.

I scrutinized every loose pebble and fissured rock. I made sure my footing was secure before shifting my weight forward. Every step was filled with great intention. I was keenly aware of the dangerous drops on either side of me.

And lastly, once I began to cross Razorback Ridge, I remember that strong sensation of being committed. There was – as they say – no turning back. Not if one wanted to reach the other side. There was only one way to go.

The same is true for the path of salvation. There is only one way to go. We don’t always see it this way, but in truth, the Christian life is much like Razorback Ridge.

In St. Matthew’s Gospel Jesus says quite plainly, “The gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.” In today’s Gospel Jesus bids us to “Strive to enter by the narrow door.”

That word “strive” in the Greek means to struggle, to fight, to do one’s best to compete and to accomplish the task at hand.

So let’s just ask the obvious question here: Why does this journey have to be such a struggle? Why does the door have to be so small, and the path so narrow? Why can’t it be larger, and broader, and easier? Why can’t everyone find it – and finding it, cross safely to the other side? Why would a good God make the path to salvation so difficult?

The answer is that Our Good God didn’t make the path so difficult; we did!

In choosing sin, we have invited and unleashed the spiritual forces of evil into our lives and into this world. We humans have done this both individually and corporately.

The path is narrow then, because of the many dangerous forces that we are up against: sin, and human weakness, and the spiritual forces of evil that seek tirelessly to corrupt and destroy the creatures of God.

The truth is that God wants everyone to find the narrow path, and cross it safely to the other side. This is precisely why he sent his Son into the world: “not to condemn the world, but that the world through him might be saved.” (John 3.17)

That is precisely why his Son counsels each one of us to strive – to struggle – to enter through the narrow gate. Jesus understands the reality of the fight we are up against. He understands the reality of the dangers of sin – he sees the cliff edges all around us. His words to us are a loving plea of guidance from the one who knows just how difficult and dangerous the journey is.

It was not difficult for me on Razorback Ridge to take each step with great intention, focus, concentration, and prayer. As you might imagine, these things came quite naturally; the dangers of the path were in full view.

The Christian life is just like Razorback Ridge. And when our eyes are open to the reality of the dangers of temptation and sin that surround us, it is quite natural for us to negotiate the path of salvation in the very same way: taking each step with great intention, focus, concentration, and prayer.

May our eyes be open wide, that we might see with perfect clarity the narrow path of salvation ahead of us: both its dangers and its beauty. And may God give us the grace and courage to persevere in our struggle along its course. Amen.

Lessons from Fasting Failure

Holly Ordway — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 01:53:57 +0000

This year for Lent, I took on the discipline of fasting before the Eucharist. It doesn’t quite rank up there with St Antony of the Desert’s heroic efforts of asceticism, but my spiritual director felt that they would be a good discipline for me. My tendency is to want to take on more, do more, accomplish more, and so any discipline of letting go, of self-denial, is going against the grain for me – and is therefore all the more necessary.

I can tell that it’s a necessary discipline, because it’s going quite badly.

To begin with, the idea of fasting before morning mass filled me with trepidation. I like breakfast. I feel that breakfast is necessary. What’s more, my schedule means that if I don’t have breakfast on the days I go to church, I won’t eat until lunchtime. I go to the 9 AM mass on Tuesdays and Thursdays, then have just enough time to have coffee or run an errand or two before I go to work, and on Sundays I go to the 10:45 AM mass, which means that I’m not home from church till probably 1 PM. I explained all this to my spiritual director. “My blood sugar might get low, and I’ll get a headache,” I said.

“Well, then, bring a granola bar and eat it on the way to work,” Fr Doran replied.

He wouldn’t let me off the hook.

That first Tuesday I anxiously contemplated the lengthy stretch of time before I would be able to eat, but lo and behold! I survived. Even Sunday was not a problem. In fact, when I got home from church I even just had a light meal, a bowl of soup, and felt completely satisfied.

First lesson learned: as a well-fed American in good health, I am not going to starve to death, or have any ill consequences whatsoever, if I skip a meal a couple times a week. (I found myself reflecting on the difference between my own self-chosen circumstances and those of people who have no choice but to go hungry.)

Second lesson learned: my anxiety was about control, not hunger. I was afraid of being hungry; I was afraid of not feeling well. My fears dictated my actions, so that I didn’t just prefer to eat breakfast, I felt that I had to eat breakfast, whether or not I felt hungry at that moment. I began to see that fasting was a way of recognizing the ways in which our bodies control us, rather than the other way around.

The next week, I thought: “I can do this!” My confidence was raised higher by the fact that one day, I ended up not having a chance to eat lunch either, and yet I managed to get through the day just fine. “Now that’s discipline!” I told myself. Rising above the physical, subjugating the desires of the flesh to the control of a well-ordered mind, and all that.

As you might guess, I was headed for a fall.

I remembered the desert fathers and thought, “If they could live a prayerful and productive life with just one simple meal a day, I can too!” (O Lord, have mercy on me.) I skipped breakfast, didn’t worry about having a snack, didn’t worry about fitting in time for lunch into a busy day…

… and by the end of the day, found myself exhausted. True, I didn’t feel hungry. I also didn’t feel like praying. I didn’t feel like reading. I didn’t feel like writing or working, either. In fact, I didn’t feel like doing anything but sitting apathetically in my armchair. Finally I roused myself sufficiently to reheat some leftovers in the microwave.

An hour later, I felt enormously better. All of a sudden I had energy! I felt able to do some work – to think clearly!

And I realized the obvious: I need to eat. I am not some sort of spiritual superwoman; if I don’t eat, I don’t have energy to do the work that I need to do – certainly not to do it well. I felt like a failure. “I can’t do this. I need to quit this discipline. I can’t handle fasting! I’ll tell Fr. Doran that I’m giving up.”

To put the final icing on the cake, as it were, this past Sunday at church a few of my fellow parishioners were talking about fasting before the Eucharist, which it turns out they all do as a matter of course. Here I was, thinking I was actually doing something worthwhile by taking this on as a Lenten discipline, and it’s something most people take for granted. I felt like an idiot.

I think I’m starting to see the point of fasting.

I’ve managed to hit the extremes: obsessive attention to making sure I eat regularly, and careless inattention to whether I eat at all; cowardice about suffering any bodily discomfort whatsoever, and spiritual pride over being able to ignore my bodily needs; a sense of personal merit for taking on this discipline, and a feeling of personal embarrassment at being behind when I thought I was ahead.

To discipline something is to train it in the way that it should go. If there is one thing that I have seen so far in this experiment of fasting, it is my own need for discipline.

My nature is to go to extremes – and most of all, to go to the extreme of trying to do more, be better, work harder. My natural response to failure is to castigate myself. What an idiot I was, to be proud of myself, to think I was doing so well, to consider even for a moment that there was special merit in taking on this discipline. What was I thinking?

Since I recognize (rather belatedly) that I am not going to climb the summits of asceticism, at least not during this particular Lenten season, it is tempting to give up on the project altogether. It’s easier to turn aside from the path than to recognize that I am only one tiny, tiny step forward on it, and that the path leads up, up, up ahead of me, with many people farther along than I am (not just older and wiser, but younger people too).

Fasting is not really about managing my desire for food, but about managing my desire for success, and the control (or sense of control) that comes with success. It’s one more facet of the same challenge that I recognized, and feared, before I became a Christian: “Your will be done, not mine.”

That’s never easy, is it?

I suppose that’s why Our Lord says “When you fast…”

Not if, but when. He knows we need practice letting go.