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Contents © 2003
by Jim Holman.
All rights reserved.

CONFESSIONS
March 2003

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HOW'S THE PRAYER LIFE?

Recently, some friends of mine got into an argument about prayer. One side -- like myself, hailing from the Irish-molded east -- was championing the notion of daily time set aside for formal prayer -- a morning offering to cover the joys and sorrows of the day, and a few minutes set aside each night for a rosary. One may also imagine occasional trips to daily Mass figuring into such a regimen, First Fridays, Stations of the Cross, etc. They had a strong case -- Our Lady has requested recitation of the rosary, a good morning offering can color an entire day, and participation at Mass is about as good as it gets.

The other side -- California-born and less clearly shaped by a particular ethnicity -- made the case for what Paul may have meant by "praying constantly." A given day, they argued, provides any number of opportunities for petition, thanksgiving, repentance, and the offering up of suffering. They did not deny the worthiness of more formal practices, but stressed that for people in certain circumstances -- surrounded by numerous small children, for example -- such an interweaving of prayer and mundane activity might be the best available option. If children filled up the hour intended for Mass, if exhaustion claimed you before you got to your rosary, you wouldn't have to feel like you had neglected your Lord and your Lady.

I don't think one side works to the exclusion of the other. A morning offering will not automatically correct a will that is struggling to accept some suffering -- the act must be made in the moment. And the requirement of the Church that we attend Mass on Sunday, together with the example of countless saints, indicate the necessity and benefit of time devoted formally to prayer. And neither side was suggesting that the other was altogether wrong. But reports of the discussion served as a fine poke in the spiritual ribs -- how's the ol' prayer life, pal?

It could be worse, but that's not saying much. I'm actually doing better on the formal aspect, starting my day with readings, psalms, petitions, and meditations out of Magnificat (the monthly prayer book). It's a good (if tiny) mortification to pray first, before the recreational reading that usually fills the hour between my children's waking and my wife's. And after such prayer, I do find myself better able to deal with subsequent temptations throughout the day.

But however my day begins, I am still conscious of a thousand failures between rising and sleeping. It's still novel whenever my wife reminds me to thank God for even minor unpleasantries. I'm still peevish, especially when hungry, and I still find myself unable to just hold my tongue and so end a rancorous dispute (try it sometime). I still snap at my children and sometimes lose my temper. I'm still subject to a miserable blend of vaulting ambition and bottomless sloth. I still feel outrage over this or that offense to God and His Church, rather than concern for the souls of the outrageous. The outrage is not so much unjust as unsafe. Someone recently told me that he would kill any priest who molested his son. "'Vengeance is mine,' says the Lord," I countered. "I'll be an instrument of His vengeance," came the reply. An extreme statement, but I pick up echoes of it in my own soul. I fear I am not holy enough to feel outrage without sinning against charity.

I still have that childish fear of heaven, possibly because I still think of myself caught in the horror of endless time rather than the bliss of eternity. Even more possibly, because while God is my God, He is not my friend. Or rather, I am not His. The saints are His friends (His lovers, even), and they ought to make a helpful bridge. But as my wife and I said a decade of the rosary last night -- we were too exhausted for even five decades -- I felt a stirring for I knew not what. My heart was straining to reach toward something, but could not see. The moment was very strange for me; I'm not usually given to such sensations or thoughts during formal prayer. (Usually, I just try to keep the meaning of the words in front of me, and that is effort enough.) It left me saddened.

But perhaps I am wise to the devil on this one. Back in high school, I wounded a longtime girlfriend by telling her I didn't think I was capable of love. I had concluded this because I had not really reacted to the death of what I thought was my beloved grandmother. A couple of months was enough to see that this was teenage nonsense, but Old Scratch isn't above playing the same tune twice.

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