It's Not All In Your Head

This sermon was preached on January 17, 2010, at the Presbyterian Church of Laurelhurst. Texts for the day were Luke 18: 9-14 and 1 Thessalonians 5: 12-18.

What a lot of praying—and thinking about praying—we’ve been doing lately. There’s the weekly “Teach Us To Pray” class. There’s the 100 Days of Prayer project that many in this congregation are embarked on. There’s this sermon series on prayer, of which this is the second installment. There are the heartfelt prayers we’ve lifted up to God as a congregation during this winter season as we celebrated births here and far away; as we mourned loved ones who have died; as we gave support and comfort to those in our church and neighborhood who have suffered unemployment, poverty, or illness; and as we pondered the future of our own community of faith. In the ecumenical community, tomorrow marks the beginning of the annual observance of the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity.

And I know that during this past week all of us have been in prayer for the people of Haiti, who have suffered so much in their history and are suffering unbearable losses and pain as a result of Tuesday’s earthquake. When we look upon the horrors of this far off disaster, when our eyes are wet and our hearts are breaking, when we so much want to help brothers and sisters in need and we feel like there’s nothing much we can do, we pray. Prayer has always been, and must be now, our guide and companion during times like these.

There are so many times when prayer seems like the simplest, most natural thing in the world. Overcome with love, or fear, or grief, or weariness, we put our head in our hands--we fall to our knees—or leap to our feet. We bow our heads—or lift up our arms. In hushed and reverent tones—or shouts of joy—or screams of anguish—we cry out to God.

There are so many times when turning to God in prayer seems like the simplest, most natural thing in the world. And yet, sometimes, prayer does sometimes present us—at least it presents me-- with some difficulties.

Twenty five years ago, when I was just beginning to hear my call to the ministry, I was very, very nervous about prayer—about my own prayer life, which I had a sneaking suspicion didn’t measure up to the ministerial gold standard. I’d never been much of a pray-er.

Praying seemed so easy for some people--but I was very, very nervous. I was particularly nervous about praying in front of people or leading a group in prayer. I was afraid that I wouldn’t do it right. I was afraid that I’d stumble over my words, or repeat myself, or forget what I was saying—that I’d ask for something inappropriate, or in the wrong way—that all my prayer inexperience would be revealed for all to see.

Or worse, I was afraid that I would open my mouth and nothing would come out—that I would have nothing at all to say, and that there would be long, embarrassing silences. And how could I be a minister, and hope to lead a congregation, if I didn’t know what to say to God—and how to say it? And what if my prayers were so bad, so awkward, that God Himself was offended?

Am I alone in that? Do you all sometimes feel like that too? I am imagining that some of you have experienced those obstacles—and some of you might be experiencing them right now. I am thinking particularly about those of us who are participating in the 100 days of prayer and praying together in triads—scheduling prayer time, taking turns praying, voicing out loud your hopes, dreams, and desires of the heart.

I can imagine that you might be pretty self-conscious in a situation like that. Maybe you’re together in groups with people you hardly know, or people who are very different from you; or people you’ve been feuding with for the past 50 years. Maybe you’re with people who have more—or less—experience at this Christianity thing than you have, or whose ideas of how we should pray, what we should pray for, or what we want from God, don’t match with yours at all.

How do we pray? What do we say? How do we say it? What do we ask for? And how do we know we’re doing it right?

The scriptures, as you know, are full of advice about who and what to pray for and where and how to pray.

In our gospel reading for this morning, taken from Luke, we hear Jesus tell a parable about acceptable and unacceptable ways of praying, describing with favor the humble prayer of a tax collector: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner”—and declaring that “all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Elsewhere in Luke, of course, when the disciples beg Jesus, "Lord, teach us to pray,” Jesus advises them, "When you pray, say: 'Father, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread. Forgive us our sins, for we also forgive everyone who sins against us. And lead us not into temptation.’” And this, what we call the Lord’s Prayer, is the granddaddy of all Christian prayers, the heart and the backbone of our prayer life at home and in worship.

Our scripture lesson today from Thessalonians also brings us prayer advice, this time from the apostle Paul. The letter to the Thessalonians, reflects Paul’s intense relationship with the Christian community in Thessalonica and reveals his advice to that community at a time of difficult challenges, both external and internal.

In his letter to the Thessalonians, Paul exhorts the community to “pray without ceasing” and to “be at peace among yourselves” – listing for them things that make for peace.

One thing I find interesting about this passage is that its directive to “pray without ceasing” is only one of a long list of activities that, for Paul, characterize the practice of Christianity and show forth the presence of Christ in the midst of the community.

Prayer is one strand of authentic Christian practice. In Thessalonians, we see that strand of prayer gathered together with other strands that witness to Christ’s presence--being patient, rejoicing always, giving thanks, helping the weak—and woven together to form a strong rope that defines and undergirds the community.

For Paul, prayer is completely integrated into all aspects of the authentic Christian life; prayer is not passive but active—it is an action that powers, pervades, and proclaims that the Thessalonian community is living out “the will of God in Jesus Christ.”

Another interesting aspect of this passage is that Paul’s directive to “pray without ceasing,” and his calling prayer one of the things that “makes for peace,” shows the Thessalonians, and us, that prayer is a powerful resource for Christians in community who seek, who grope, who yearn for unity with one another and with the world. Paul makes clear here that unity—agreement on doctrine, or purpose--isn’t a prerequisite for prayer—but that conversely, prayer is a prerequisite for unity.

In other words, we don’t pray together and for each other because we are a community. We pray together and for each other because we want to be a community. Paul’s words in Thessalonians assure us that in the spiritual practice of praying together and for each other--we become a community.

According to Oxford professor and priest Jane Shaw, one of our greatest worship resources—the Anglican Book of Common Prayer—came to being out of this notion of forming a community around a shared practice of prayer. Dr. Shaw notes that the goal and the hope of Thomas Cranmer, author and compiler of the Book of Common Prayer, was to

". . . create a prayer book that . . . all (worshippers) could and would use. As he was writing his prayer book in the 1530s and 40s, he looked across to central Europe and saw that people were killing each other because of what they had to confess – mostly about how they were saved or what they believed about the nature of the Eucharist, whether it was a mere memorial, bread and wine or transformed into the body and blood of Christ. He wanted to try and avoid that sort of confessionalism and bloodshed. He hoped that everyone could just show up and say together, in their own language, common prayers for common sins, common prayers for common thanksgivings, common prayers for common praise – ‘common’ meaning in this instance ‘shared’.”

Thirdly—let’s talk about what Paul might mean here in Thessalonians when he says “pray without ceasing.” This notion of ceaseless or constant prayer is one Paul returns to over and over again in his writings.

For Paul, authentic prayer means praying “Always” and “unceasingly”; as one scholar has put it, this means that

". . .Prayer is then not merely a part of life which we can conveniently lay aside if something we deem more important comes up; prayer is all of life. Prayer is as essential to our life as breathing. . . .To pray does not mean to think about God in contrast to thinking about other things or to spend time with God in contrast to spending time with our family and friends. Rather, to pray means to think and live our entire life in the Presence of God. . . .Our whole life, every act and gesture, even a smile must become a hymn or adoration, an offering, a prayer. We must become prayer--prayer incarnate."

For me, Paul’s idea of “praying without ceasing” opens the door to a whole new way of thinking about prayer. If we think about how to weave ceaseless prayer into the fabric of our lives, it seems to me that the questions about prayer that worry us and make us nervous--How do we pray? What do we say? How do we say it? What do we ask for? How do we know we’re doing it right? And what will other people think?—suddenly become unimportant.

Maybe you have heard the saying attributed to St. Francis of Assisi: Preach the gospel at all times. If necessary, use words. I recently read a variation on this saying, coined, I think, by popular spiritual writer Max Lucado which goes like this: Pray all the time. If necessary, use words.

What if prayers aren’t about the words we say, but about who we are and who we want to be?

What if praying isn’t asking God for something, but about being in God’s presence?

What if prayers aren’t limited to our heads or our mouths, but dwell in our hearts and souls and bodies?

And what if praying isn’t communication with God—but communion with God?

When I was in seminary, and experiencing for the first time the diversity of Christian practices different from my own Presbyterian upbringing, I was introduced to a traditional spiritual discipline and mystical practice from the Orthodox tradition: the Jesus Prayer. Have any of you heard of it?

The Jesus Prayer goes like this: "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner." It is used, according to Orthodox theologians, “to enter more deeply into the life of prayer and to come to grips with St. Paul's challenge to pray unceasingly . . .The Jesus Prayer is offered as a means of concentration, as a focal point for our inner life.”

Praying the Jesus prayer is deceptively simple. You just say it, those simple words, over and over and over. "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner." "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner." "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner." And so on, and so on.

According to those who use this prayer as a spiritual practice, as you begin to speak the words of the prayer over and over, the words are simply that—words—“a prayer of the lips, a simple recitation.”

As you say the prayer again and again, you enter a second level of prayer, a deeper level of concentration, a state in which, Orthodox scholars tell us, we may “pray without distraction”: “the mind is focused upon the words" of the Prayer, "speaking them as if they were our own."

The ultimate goal of praying the Jesus prayer is to reach the third and final level of prayer in which the words you are saying are no longer the content of the prayer. This is a level of prayer which is not intended to transcend the body, but to unite the body and the soul in a state of mystical experience called “prayer of the heart.”

At this stage prayer is no longer something you do but who you are. It is part of the rhythms of your body; your heart beats to it, your breath moves to it; you are the prayer, you live the prayer, and as you live and move, you are praying without ceasing.

Now is this really possible? I don’t know. But the idea of praying without ceasing, moving past the words and becoming a living prayer, of attaining that physical union with God, is a powerful one that has inspired many people to try this practice, and to write about it.

What if prayers aren’t about the words we say, but about who we are and who we want to be?

What if praying isn’t asking God for something, but about being in God’s presence?

What if prayers aren’t limited to our heads or our mouths, but dwell in our hearts and souls and bodies?

And what if praying isn’t communication with God—but communion with God?

What other ways could we find to pray that get us out of our normal patterns, out of our heads, out of our dependence on the words we say and how we say them?

Our Presbyterian tradition (believe it or not!) offers us some ideas about praying without words—and here I’m quoting from our own Presbyterian Book of Order:

• One may wait upon God in attentive and expectant silence.

• One may meditate upon God’s gifts, God’s actions, God’s Word, and God’s character.

• One may contemplate God, moving beyond words and thoughts to communion of one’s spirit with the Spirit of God.

• One may draw near to God in solitude.

• One may take on an individual discipline of enacted prayer through dance, physical exercise, music, or other expressive activity as a response to grace.

• One may enact prayer as a public witness through keeping a vigil, through deeds of social responsibility or protest, or through symbolic acts of disciplined service.

What ways can you think of to bring prayer without words into your prayer life at home, in worship, and in the 100 Days of Prayer?

Will you walk a labyrinth? Attend a protest? Do an art project? Knit or quilt together? Spend time prayerfully gardening with your hands and your hearts working God’s good earth? Will you hold hands in attentive silence? You’re a creative group. I can’t wait to hear your ideas.

Pray without ceasing. If necessary, use words.

We’ve been praying a lot lately. My hope, and my challenge, for all of us, is that in all our prayers--easy and difficult, spoken and silent, wordy and wordless--we might know the inspiration, and hope, and transformation of an encounter with the living God—and that we might use all our resources and traditions and creativity to know Christ, to inform our faith, and to form us into a community.

Amen.