By Robert T. Reilly
This article appeared in the June 1985 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 50, No. 6, pages 6-12).
Eddie Deleon tells a good joke about prayer.
There’s a man who lives near a big river. One day the river overflows its banks, and the flood reaches his house. It creeps up over his front porch and into his living room, up to his knees. The man prays quietly for God to save him.
Two men in a rowboat float by. “Come on, get in!”
“No thanks,” says the man. “God will provide.”
The flood reaches the man’s chin and he hightails it up to the second floor of his house, where he continues to pray, louder this time. Soon another rowboat floats by. The rowers yell, “Get in!” But the man shouts back, “No thanks. God will provide.”
As the waters rise to his nose, the man climbs up onto his roof, praying even louder for God to rescue him. A helicopter spots him and zooms in close to the house. The pilot shouts, “What are you, crazy? Get in.”
“No thanks,” says the man. “God will provide.”
Soon the waters close over his head, and the man drowns.
Up in heaven, he has his audience with the Almighty.
“God, what’s up with you? All my life you’ve answered my prayers. And then, in my darkest hour, you left me to drown.”
And in a very deep voice, God says, “I sent you two rowboats and a helicopter. Just whaddya want, anyway?”
If jokes are any measure of the public’s interest in a subject—as many claim they are—the joke suggests that prayer is alive and well in America. It may not be the prayer of memory, the prayer learned in thousands of Catholic schools in the 1930s and ‘40s, but it’s prayer nonetheless. Older Catholics are discovering new ways to converse with their God; younger Catholics, including those whose faces are not seen at Sunday Mass, insist their prayer lives are active. Statistics support these claims. The vast majority of Americans pray at least weekly; two thirds of them pray daily. The sights and sounds of their prayers, however, are sometimes strange and often silent.
Prayer has existed in some form in all religions. Sacrifice. Petition. Thanksgiving. Ancient peoples offered up animals, humans, devised hierarchies, painted imaginary portraits—communicated. The monotheistic Jews addressed Yahweh in ritualistic prose and poetry. The tradition fell easily on Christians.
Matthew’s Gospel advises Christians to pray earnestly, and humbly, and reminds the faithful that all who ask will receive. Luke repeats this promise. In John, Jesus stresses the need for prayer and the value of it, while Paul, in a number of epistles, exhorts the disciples to prayer: “Continue steadfast in prayer, being watchful in it with thanksgiving; and pray for us also, that God may open to us a door for the word, to declare the mystery of Christ…”
And both Matthew and Luke spell out Christ’s response when he was asked to teach the disciples how to pray. He gave them, and us, the Lord’s Prayer.
No doubt the early Christians used this prayer just as they recited the Old Testament psalms, and they may have had their own private meditations. Since they were part of a culture that was largely oral, there are no ancient prayer books to consult. It’s not until the early Middle Ages that one can document specific prayers from the old psalters. As the years rolled on, some of these customs solidified, and prayer became more formal.
I grew up this way. Of course I knew that inventive prayer was possible, even welcome; but there was the conviction that the old prayers were still the best. Many American Catholics remember these prayers long after they’ve forgotten teachers’ names and graduation dates and children’s birthdays. Angel of God, My guardian Dear. Now I lay me down to sleep. My Jesus, Mercy. Each thought, each word, each act of mine. Remember, O Most Gracious Virgin Mary. The litany spills out like dim photographs. The memorized lines, the recital for precise instructors or coaching parents. And they somehow linger, long after the conversion to a different Christian language of prayer.
Favorites rediscovered
“Prayer always takes place within a set of theological assumptions.” Says Father John Shea, who teaches systematic theology at Saint Mary of the Lake Seminary, near Chicago. “When theological assumptions emphasized duty and obligation, then prayer was more formal. When the emphasis shifts to a love relationship, prayer becomes more informal, less duty-bound.”
True, I suppose. Responsibility was woven into my youthful practice. Prayer at meals. Always kneel when you pray at night. Don’t sneak into bed. Even later, when in military service, it was considered a sign of strong faith to continue to kneel by your cot. A lesson to others. Commit the altar-boy Latin to frightened memory. Spin through Suscipiat. The endless procession of evening positions. Prayforus.
But not all bad
“I’ve rediscovered the rosary,” says Mitch Finley, a freelance writer who teaches at Gonzaga University. “I use it more like a mantra, as a background to my meditation.”
Others, too, have discovered the ability of rote prayer to free the mind, to place it in that receptive, trance-like state the poet William Butler Yeats sought through his verse. Some charismatics liberate language, following their inspiration with repetitive phrasing. A few Catholics experiment with Eastern methods of prayer. And ordinary members of parish congregations may rely heavily on formal prayer or combine these prayers with more personal petition.
“When I have trouble getting started with my private prayer,” says Bob Carston, “I find an Our Father or Hail Mary helps launch me.”
Now nearing 40, Carston stuck with a set prayer routine until his service years in Southeast Asia. After that, his prayer life became more irregular, more personal. “I used to say morning and evening prayers; now I pray when I think I need it.”
Surveys would undoubtedly show that the most popular prayer times remain consistent with earlier habits, but this is less universal. Even when these traditional hours are kept, there are variations. Many American Catholics pray while in the shower or as they jog suburban streets. Some accompany exercise with litany, and one college teacher admits he works his meditation into TV-commercial gaps. More common than any of these is prayer in the car. The sedan has replaced the cathedral—at least for private prayer. There are also prayers at meals and institutional prayer—prayer that arises out of problems or conditions.
“I try to do some spiritual reading every day,” remarks Dolores Culran, a Colorado mother and writer who gives workshops on family prayer and other topics. “However, if I don’t get the reading done, I don’t feel guilty. Trying to adhere to a monastic schedule leads to failure and guilt. God didn’t intend this. He knows our schedules.”
Although Shea also applauds the more spontaneous approach, he does consider morning and evening prayers important from a psychological and spiritual point of view.
“In the evening, the mood is one of trust. We are entering a world of darkness, handing ourselves over to a state we cannot control. Praise is the morning theme, with thanks to God for seeing us through this period where we were helpless.”
Half a century ago Catholics were told that “petition is the principal act of prayer”; and the dictionary meaning of prayer was, and still is, linked to appeal. Scripturally, however, prayer was often interpreted as praise, thanksgiving, meditation, consultation, even “crying out.” For centuries, prayer has also been categorized, with names like active recollection, active repose, active silence, prayer of the heart, and other epithets assigned to varied forms. In the current search for more meaning-filled approaches to God, Christians may only be returning to older models.
Ann, a recent college graduate, remembers her grade-school prayers and mixes them with her requests and thanks.
“I just talk, I guess. The other night I woke up at 2 a.m., after one of those nuclear-holocaust dreams, and I lay there in bed and prayed for 15 minutes.”
She finds that all of her friends pray, even those who haven’t been in church in years, and, for her, prayer is generally solo. “My husband and I go to church together, but we don’t pray together. He’d have a tough time dealing with that.”
Ceiling-high prayers
For Agnes, mother and television producer, a combination of the old and new also works.
“Most of the time my prayers are spontaneous,” she explains, “but I do like the Prayer of Saint Francis. If you pray too much by formula, as I did when I was younger, your prayers don’t go any higher than the ceiling.”
Agnes prays for strength (“Not specific, just to do my best”) and for those who need help, especially those who don’t pray themselves.
Mary prays to accept. “Not only for me to accept things, but for others to accept them too.”
A secretary and a mother, Mary recalls prayer while rocking her babies and doing the laundry. Now she uses quiet moments at her desk, or dull routines, like collating papers, to accomplish the same thing. “I analyze where I’m at and what I’m doing.”
Father Dan, an urban pastor ordained for 30 years, says, “I remember everyone, then go to special intentions, requests. I’ve been very heavy on world peace, too.”
A fellow priest, ordained ten years longer, avoids the whole idea of routine petitions. “Prayer, like conversation, can go anywhere,” he says. “We usually don’t use a list when talking to friends, so why use one with the Lord?”
Pat Thill credits prayer with pulling her through the tough years after her divorce; she now makes other divorced persons her special intention.
She says, firmly, “I pray for all who are divorced. I know what pain is involved there.”
Peace groups have devised their own special prayers to negate the arms race or influence world leaders. Socially conscious Catholics make human rights and justice a prime target. And feminists, who often find formal prayers and the Scriptures intensely masculine, sometimes draft their own versions of both.
Rosemary Ruether, author and seminary professor, distinguishes between private prayer and liturgy, with the latter serving as her focus.
“We’re not talking here about changing pronouns, but about altering the entire structure, eliminating the whole scapegoating of women found in Scripture and Tradition.”
She insists she never thinks of God as male and as “somewhere up in the sky,” but concentrates more on her “relationship to the Divine Matrix.”
If that wording makes you blink, Ruether recalls that “Divine Matrix” is “no more abtruse than ‘Supreme Being.’”
Admitting that these concepts and the special liturgies that stem from them probably work better in “gathered communities” than in typical geographical parishes, Ruether sees her mission as writer and lecturer as one of consciousness-raising, as the “introduction of new ideas.”
Less esoteric but still innovative are some of the methods employed by Dolores Curran, including one workshop she conducts called “Stitchery and Spirituality,” where attendees bring along their needlepoint, knitting, or sewing, and work while they listen to Scripture or offer individual prayers.
“We started at 9:30 a.m. and finished by noon,” said Curran. “And we discovered that using our hands freed our minds and hearts.”
At Regis College in Denver, Dave Thomas directs a graduate program in family ministry, in which lay students make up most of the 150-plus enrollment.
“I’d say that for all of them, prayer is very personal and very therapeutic. It’s related to their everyday lives and helps them makes sense out of things.”
Students keep journals covering their religious experiences; Thomas finds it interesting that married students in these classes divide almost equally on the subject of sharing their journals with spouses.
“Certain coupes are very public and very relational about their interior life; they share everything. Others may talk about everything but that. Yet both kinds of couples seem to have good marriages. I suppose it’s a matter of personality and style.”
Charismatic prayer is another new trend, but one with ancient roots. To critics, some charismatic utterances may seem overly emotional or demonstrative, or even unintelligible and frightening. Charismatics find such prayer spirit-freeing, because they don’t rely on calculated language or grammar. The spirit is not limited by vocabulary.
Not all charismatic prayer is “speaking in tongues.” In fact, most isn’t. There are rosaries of “praise God,” loud personal affirmations, alleluias, personal testimony. There are traditional prayers and homely prayers and prayers for members.
Bob Burke, soon to be ordained, had a late vocation to the priesthood following the death of his wife. During her long final illness, she and Bob were ardent charismatics.
“Maybe I was caught up in something emotional,” admits Burke; “But look what it’s done for my life. I’m aware of God much more. I know I must love and help everyone I meet. If they hurt, I hurt. If they’re happy, I’m happy.”
Perhaps the charismatic movement has plateaued somewhat. Groups still gather, new members are invited to join, adherents announce remarkable results; but the pace of growth is slower. That’s natural. This form of prayer, too, will always be the province of the minority, although its impact is likely to be felt far beyond its membership.
Out of the prayer box
Mitch Finley, Dolores Curran, and Dave Thomas all have thoughts on family prayer, a regimen that seems to elude and frustrate so many Catholic parents.
Finley stresses that family prayer should emerge from within and not be imposed from outside. He suggests that parents and children identify natural events that lend themselves to prayer—holy days, birthdays, special family celebrations. “I have an idea prayer life reflects where people are in the rest of their lives anyway. Older people tend to be more contemplative; younger ones pray more before making decisions.”
Setting aside a night for prayer may not work in modern families, says Dolores Curran, who suggests that frustrations will be eased if families play it a bit loose and work with those who are on hand. She cites a survey taken a few years ago among grade-school children. When asked their definition of prayer, the youngest children talked about things like “hands and knees.” Those in the middle grades stressed fear and need. Eighth graders considered prayer the time “when you get to know God.”
“Some people never get beyond the hands and knees concept,” Curran says.
When her children were young, the Curran family had special Lenten devotions in the home. They would start their Scripture readings with Exodus, concluding with the Passover Feast. During Advent, they might turn on the lights on the Christmas tree and read passages from the Bible. Her children would also look ahead on the calendar to see which approaching events might lend themselves to liturgy. And Sunday nights used to be their night for talking about religious experiences. Even when her children were away at college, the family would tape these discussions and send them to the collegiate—to keep them close. For Curran, whatever works, works. “The word ‘reverent’ has to be reexamined. Humans have a whole range of emotions. We should accept ourselves as God made us and offer ourselves back, instead of trying to overhaul God’s design.”
In her personal prayer life, Curran discusses with the Lord whatever is paramount. “Like writing deadlines,” she says with a smile. “I’m always comfortable just talking with God. He knows what we need. We get into a box when we get into prayer instead of just praying.”
I can identify with that. When I would make weekly hours of adoration, I caught myself editing my prayers, polishing them grammatically, selecting stronger synonyms.
Not Dolores Curran.
“Marriage is a prayer; life is a prayer. If, in a moment of crisis, you cry out, ‘God, why did you send me all these children?’ that’s a prayer, too. Remember the story of Teresa of Avila, stuck in the middle of a stream on a balky donkey? She commented, ‘No wonder you have so few friends, God.’ That’s a prayer.”
Writer and mother Mary Reed Newland, in an interview in Praying magazine, agrees with Curran’s loose definition of prayer. “Here’s an example from the joyful times in my life. I have a new granddaughter who is three weeks old. I look at her, say, in the tub, and something just grabs me by the throat and I want to weep. I get so choked up because this creature is so beautiful and such a mystery. That’s a response to something that God has done. You don’t have to say to yourself, ‘Oh, I thank you, God, for creating this child.’ That’s what a lot of people think when they think of prayer. They think you have to put it into words. You don’t.”
Dave Thomas’ five children, combined with himself and his wife, make a neat match for the days of the week: One family member takes charge of each night’s prayer at the family meal. That person also sets the table and does the dishes.
When guests are present, they are incorporated into this liturgy. Everyone tells what happened during the day, giving them a sense, Thomas says, that every person has something to contribute.
Up from the pews
Do the lifestyles and lessons of these “prayer experts” reach the Catholics in the pews?
“I suspect it’s the other way around,” argues Father John Shea. “The ideas and needs and demands of average Catholics work their way up to the experts.”
Unless average Catholics read religious works or attend available prayer workshops, chances are the “expert” testimony doesn’t bear a name or face. But it still may be an influence.
For example, one form of prayer that in recent years has grown in appeal for Catholics is meditation. Reintroduced by an interest in Eastern religions, meditation has now moved from the abbeys to the parishes. Again, not all are interested in the deeper gradations of meditation; but many Catholics are discovering the wisdom and healing inherent in even partial surrender.
“Everyone has a contemplative dimension,” a monk told me a year ago. Everyone. For some this stems from a weekend retreat, or a hike up the side of a mountain, or a stroll in the woods.
“I find it on my patio,” counters Bob Carston. “With the trees and the squirrels and the sky. I pray best there.”
Greg and Bill start each working day with Scripture reading, taking turns with the office Bible. Many Catholics, in fact, are finding the Bible a fresh source of inspiration. “I never used it to pray before,” admits Bill Peters, a college senior who recently joined a parish study club. He sought more expressive forms of prayer when his best friend was killed. “Prayer for me is still sort of a struggle, but I needed something to fill that empty feeling I had when he was killed.”
His friend, Herb, confesses to similar inhibitions.
“Couple prayer? My wife would welcome it, but it seems unnatural to me. But I also feel silly about listing names when I pray. I just ask God to protect my family, to give them help.”
Other Catholics confess to being uneasy or uncomfortable with their oral responses.
As for the results…
Different strokes for different folks. Whatever works, works, according to Dolores Curran. But does prayer work?
Most people are certain it does, and some of them are quick to advance proof.
“It always works! Honestly!” insists Father Dan. “The power of the Lord is so obvious and real. I’ve prayed for physical healing of a back problem. There is no more problem. Christ is the healer. Let him!”
“I was about to abandon the church,” recalls Carston, “and I prayed hard for things that seemed impossible. They all happened.”
“Do I get answers to my prayers?” echoes Agnes. “Sure, but I don’t always know it.”
Ann talks about the job she prayed for and obtained. Cindy Sherer, a 75-year-old widow, credits prayer with her “wonderful sense of peace.” Ed Peters regards prayer as “like a power around me—the presence of a friend, I guess.”
“Prayer works—for me—when my daily life makes more sense,” adds Dave Thomas.
Counters Dolores Curran, “I don’t care if it works or not; I need it. It sustains one’s beliefs. I need to know I can pray.”
“That’s an American question,” objects Mitch Finley. “We want to see results. Prayer is part of a relationship. Spending time with the other party. In our relationship with our spouse, do we say, ‘Did that work? Did I get something?’”
Most Catholics also seem to be more realistic about so-called results. There is a widespread conviction that the lack of an obvious response doesn’t mean that God didn’t hear the prayer. His interests have something else in mind for us. There’s a more mature acceptance.
“Remember ‘Oh God’?” asks Agnes. “When George Burns explained why he didn’t always answer prayers positively? He said he hadn’t learned to make things with only one side. And that, to appreciate beauty, you had to know ugliness. And to appreciate health, you have to know illness.”
Or maybe Catholics aren’t used to getting answers—and they can’t recognize them when they see them. That’s a thought that occurred to Eddie DeLeon, he of the flood joke. DeLeon, who will be entering his novitiate with the Claretian Fathers and Brothers this fall, spoke at a New Jersey parish one recent Sunday on the subject of vocations.
“I know that Catholics are always praying for vocations, for more priests and sisters,” DeLeon told the churchgoers. “And in this parish, you’ve probably been even more specific than that—you’ve probably prayed for Hispanic priests and seminarians. Well, I’m an answer to your prayer.”
“First I told them the flood joke,” says DeLeon, “because I wanted to say that often people don’t see the answers that are right in front of them. When I told them I was the answer to their prayers, I didn’t mean that I had done anything great, but just that God works through people to give them answers to their prayers. Before I said that, I was really embarrassed and my mouth was dry. But after Mass was over, a lot of parishioners came up and said to me, ‘You’re right. I never thought of it that way before.’”
If Catholics are wiser about prayer, they are also more relaxed. They have little trouble conversing.
“I just think with ‘The Boss,’” says Tom Johnson, who belongs to no church. “I just sorta chat. No real formal stuff anymore. God hears all languages, and not just something from a script.”
As people “just talk,” they are also learning about prayer. That it may be difficult to get started. That it can be habitual and empty, or it can be stimulating and fresh. That it is hard to pray when you are sick. That there are myriad ways to compose and recite petitions and praise. That the old prayers are useful and the new ones exciting. That dialogue, not routine, is the goal. That there are ample aids to a fuller prayer life, in books and workshops.
Perhaps, most of all, Catholics are learning how much they need prayer, and how simple it is to integrate prayer into our lives.
“Thou has turned for me
My mourning into dancing;
Thou hast loosed my sackcloth
And girded me with gladness,
That my soul may praise thee
And not be silent.
O Lord my God,
I will give thee thanks forever.”
Image: Flickr cc via Greg Williams
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