The Theory of Prayer

Not in the streets, not in the white streets
Nor in the crowded porticoes
Shall we catch You in our words,
Or lock You in the lenses of our cameras,
You Who escaped the subtle Aristotle,
Blinding us by Your evidence,
Your too clear evidence, Your everywhere.

Not in the groves, not in the flowering green groves
Where the pretty idols dwell
Shall we find the path to Your pavilion
Tented in clouds and fire:—
We are only following the echo
Of our own lyres.

The wise man’s blood
Freezes in every vein and artery
With the blue poison of his own indelible prudence.
And the lover,
Caught in the loop of his own lie
Strangles like a hare:
While the singers are suddenly killed,
Slain by the blades of their own song—
The words that clash like razors in the throat
Severing the tender strings.

For the things that we utter turn and betray us,
Writing the names of our sins on flesh and bone
In lights as hard as diamonds.
And the things we think have sold us to the enemy
Writing the names of our sins on the raw marrow
In lights as sharp as glass.
And our desires,
Uncovering their faces one by one
Are seen to be our murderers!
How did you break your jails, you black assassins?
How did you find us out, you numbered men?

Logic has ruined us,
Theorems have flung their folly at us,
Economy has left us full of swords
And all our blood is gone:
Oh, how like a death, now, is our prayer become!
We lie and wait upon the unknown Savior
Waking and waking in the guarded tomb. . . .

But the armed ocean of peace,
The full-armed ocean is suddenly within us.
Where, where, peace, did you get in?
And the armed ocean of quiet,
The full armed ocean, stands within us:
Where, from what wells, hid in the middle of our essence,
You silences, did you come pouring in?

But all our thoughts lie still, and in this shipwreck
We’ll learn the theory of prayer:
“How many hate their own safe death,
Their cell, their submarine!”
“How many hate Your Cross, Your Key, the only one
To beat that last invincible door
That will surprise us, Peace, with Your invasion
And let us in those soundless fathoms where You dwell.”

-- Thomas Merton (1915-1968) Roman Catholic monastic, priest, poet, and author

Postcommunion Prayer

     

Lord our God, 

you feed us in this life with bread from heaven,
the pledge and foreshadowing of future glory.
Grant that the working of this sacrament within us
may bear fruit in our daily lives;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.

--Katharine Tynan (1861-1931) Irish playwright, author, and poet

The Agony & The Garden

 

i.
Now all he dreams are ropes,
sees them in the trees at the beginning of
the world: grim slide of vines
through first light
throat-tails dangled, mother-arms,
an instinct of the hand to twist, like a heart,
around what it holds.

ii.
Half his heart is a campfire.
Father, he begins, father,—
He stands there and the black gears of night lurch
through sand. On the other side of the hill olive trees
descend into questions, into women, into merchants,
into emperor flesh, into pottery, into bread, into a child’s
mouth, into a waltz, into the printing press, into thermometers,
into sighing gardens, into motion pictures, into
glass, into bedposts, into soup, into car exhaust, into rain,
into glaciers, into unread letters, into ATMs.

Father, the wind. The ordinary life.

iii.
He does not understand women,
was given no glimpse or direction. He only
knows the world unfolds from their robes the way
wine spills from a cup.

He knows they sometimes take the form of angels,
and they will take the bruised form of saints,
and celestial bodies,
they are like long roads, the hushed underneck
of a swan, and they reach, wanting
to know you, palms uncoiling
past
you in ecstasy.

iv.
It’s the nightmare again in which his feet
are splinters, and his mother is gasping,
and his face peels off onto linen,
and his father watches him from a night tree,
and there is some great secret he must shove
up the hill, to the sky,
where he is loved, loved
only by thieves.

v.
The world lights a broken man.
And the apparition he sweats beside,
realized into angel, into lamp, how it
bears him as the soldiers push
their way through blackness, through
the olives, thistle, and his dark-eyed heart,
a dinghy tossed in another life’s dream.
Far rain on the ocean, where a father is nowhere
to be found. If grace is the fixed star
we long for, the good disciples must sleep their parts,
hands folded on their hearts like oak
doors. Somewhere at the hillfoot the crossmaker
is roping beams in his shop’s
half-light. So they come and they come
in their armor, mirroring moonlight.
Now the moon opens on his heel.
The moon is the scent of a shy girl’s letter.
When they stand, and they stand, her feather tips
brush the wall.


-- Eve Jones, poet, photographer, former instructor at Lindenwood University, from Dappled Things journal.

Scripture reference: Matthew 26:31-41; Mark 14:27-37; (The Passion Liturgy, years A and B)

Image: Christ on the Mount of Olives, Paul Gauguin, 1889

Oratorio: Christ on the Mount of Olives, Op. 85, Ludwig van Beethoven, UC Davis Symphony Orchestra and Chorus

 

Prayer and Time

If we really want prayer, we’ll have to give it time. We must slow down to a human tempo and we’ll begin to have time to listen. And as soon as we listen to what’s going on, things will begin to take shape by themselves. But for this we have to experience time in a new way.

One of the best things for me when I went to the hermitage was being attentive to the times of the day: when the birds began to sing, and the deer came out of the morning fog, and the sun came up – while in the monastery, summer or winter, Lauds is at the same hour. The reason why we don’t take time is a feeling that we have to keep moving. This is a real sickness. Today time is commodity, and for each one of us time is mortgaged. We experience time as unlimited indebtedness. We are sharecroppers of time. We are threatened by a chain reaction: overwork–overstimulation–overcompensation–overkill.

We must approach the whole idea of time in a new way. We are free to love. And you must get free from all imaginary claims. We live in the fullness of time. Every moment is God’s own good time, his kairos. The whole thing boils down to giving ourselves in prayer a chance to realize that we have what we seek. We don’t have to rush after it. It is there all the time, and if we give it time it will make itself known to us.

-- Thomas (Father Louis) Merton, (1915-1968), American Roman Catholic Trappist monk, mystic, priest, poet, and author, found at The Thomas Merton Center at Bellarmine University, from The Merton Seasonal: A Quarterly Review,  https://merton.org/ITMS/Seasonal/35/35-3Thurston.pdf  

Iroquois Eucharistic Prayer Source Material (Roman Catholic)

To Our Creator for all of Creation, I give thanks

Our God is with you.
And with your spirit.
Lift up your hearts.
We have lifted them up to the Lord.
Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.
It is right and just.

We give thanks, Our loving God, to the people, our brothers and sisters, with goodness and health;
We give thanks to Earth, our Mother, who supports the people,
To the plants, our medicines, which grow on Earth;
To the waters that flow with life blood and nourish the plants and people;
To the air, especially the winds, that allow us to breathe;
To the trees that purify the air;
To the animals, our four-legged brothers and sisters, who also sustain us;
To the birds, our winged brothers and sisters, who sing to the Creator;
To the sun, our elder brother, who warms Earth and provides light;
To the moon, our grandmother, who guides the people and the cycles of life;
To the stars who provide us direction at night.
To all of creation we give thanks.

And to You, O God, Who gives them all to us, Who abides in them all, And who sustains us all through them. May we forever remember the interconnectedness and equality of all creation And our place in the Great Cycle of Life.

With gentleness and unity in body, mind and spirit, becoming one in harmony and balance with the universe, we give You thanks as we pray…

-- adapted from an Iroquois prayer, found at https://www.dominicancenter.org/indigenous-peoples-day-liturgy/

Image: Flag of the Iroquois Confederacy

Alternative Acknowledgement for the Land

Acknowledgement for the Land ^{standing as able}    adapted from All Saints’ Church, Minneapolis

 

Presider      Creator, you made all people of every land. It is our responsibility to give thanks and respect to those who first occupied this land we are upon. We acknowledge our debt to the Osage Nation, the Illiniwek/Peoria Tribe, the O-Gah-Pah (Quapaw) Tribe, the Otoe-Missouria Tribe, and other First Peopleswho have passed from memory, the rightful tenders of this land. We offer our respect to those ancestors who may be interred in this land. We are also thankful for the gifts of the People of the land. 

All          Creator, let us be of good mind to make amends for the mistreatment of this land and to those who have been displaced. With thankful and respectful hearts, we pray in your Name, Your Son the peacemaker, and the Sacred Spirit. Amen.

-- adapted from All Saints' Church, Minneapolis, found in National Indigenous People's Day of Prayer from the Anglican Church of Canada, https://www.anglican.ca/wp-content/uploads/nidp-liturgy.pdf

Prayer for a Stewardship Campaign

Gracious and loving God, as we prepare to build the future in addressing the needs of our growing parish, give us your strength for the work of our hands. Without you we labor in vain, yet with you we can do great things and bear much fruit, fruit that endures. Bless our efforts to build a faith community of caring people on a firm foundation, with Christ as our cornerstone and the Spirit as our binding force. Amen.

--found at https://church-development.com/stewardship-in-scripture/

Psalm

With coals of juniper, Lord, with ripped willow clumps,
with lodge-pole pine and fir, with wind-wrack and slash,
I kindle an all-night fire to mirror You.
No longer waning, no longer falsifying chimes.
No longer smoking out rot, or eclipsing Yeshiva scholars.
No Lord I know what is within magnified.
Stars will just have to wait to eddy through gates of night.
Little swirl, mimicking nebulae, mimicking galaxies, which turns
for no apparent reason other than to cast and recast the whole
as it whirs and whirls, knocks and ticks at three am
in a snit to proclaim itself not as You but it in You.
If I can strut a note, can rack wobbly pins,
balance rocks into signposts, waves into a grass mass or two,
it will hear itself structuring time. This oddly chopped
watched dimension quarters us into early middle late.
Each day scans and wanes, some hope knowing its moaning
is mourning what it erases. The and stamped by the sea
each second. Be with it and what it erases ceases to toll.

-- Emily Warn (1953- ), Seattle-based American (and Jewish) poet, teacher, web consultant, and creator of poetryfoundation.org online website.

To You Before the Close of Day

To you before the close of day, 

Creator of all things, we pray
that, in your constant clemency,
our guard and keeper you would be.

Save us from troubled, restless sleep;
from all ill dreams your children keep.
So calm our minds that fears may cease
and rested bodies wake in peace.

A healthy life we ask of you:
the fire of love in us renew,
and when the dawn new light will bring,
your praise and glory we shall sing.

Almighty Father, hear our cry
through Jesus Christ, our Lord, most high,
Whom with the Spirit we adore
forever and for evermore. Amen.

-- 6th century compline hymn

The Value of Sparrows

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?”- Matthew 10:29

The Almighty, and my professor,
have enticed me to commit
to thirty minutes of daily unstructured prayer.
For Episcopalians, this may almost
sound heretical, but I put away
my prayerbooks and liturgies, and sit in silence
at dawn, to discern the tender voice of God
in whatever guise she assumes
by this pond
in the middle
of this campus
on this rainy mountaintop,
clouds above, clouds below.

At first all you can hear
are the intrusions crafted by humans:
the ringing of an unattended telephone, the
garbage men greeting one another, heavy
machinery belching diesel fumes aloft,
revving engines, egad--
and it’s not even six a.m.

Re-center, the wind murmurs,
stippling the face of the pond like hammered silver,
and the poplar leaves flash pale
as they shrug over in unison,
hands cupped in gratitude to midwife the coming rain.

But then, the voice of God hovers
just behind my ear:
fish crows chiding “ah ah” just over my shoulder;
Carolina wrens’ liquid song arrowing from the underbrush
as Bachman’s sparrow—named after a preacher-- trills;
a red-winged blackbird’s alarm whistle
blending perfectly into the sound
of the garbage truck reversing,
upending any smug certainty
of the comparative value of sparrows.

-- Leslie Barnes Scoopmire; this was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on June 22, 2023.

Image: the pond at which I was praying at Sewanee during my summer school session there.

Two Before the Altar

 Luke 18:9-14

“There is a crack in everything;
That’s how the light gets in.”—Leonard Cohen

The upright Pharisee, each hair in place, not a
Fringe on his tasseled loafers askew, stood
Before God’s altar and prayed to himself
Congratulations for his impeccable soul.
He knew what others thought of him.
His righteousness shone from his shoulders
Like epaulets- so certain was he of his goodness.
He checked the lock on the vault of his heart,
And nodded, satisfied. Nothing
In, nothing out, undisturbed. Shrugging deeper
Into the mantle of his own esteem,
Duty satisfied, he knew he was blessed.
Nothing had changed.

On trembling legs the tax-collector climbed the steps, aware
Of the eyes that turned his way, the stink of collusion
That clung to his fine clothes. He could still turn away,
But his heart urged him forward. No one
Expected to see him here in God’s courts,
And some sneered as he passed.
He knew what others thought of him.
Eyes downcast, he made himself small,
And beat his breast,
Pouring out his sins until his soul
Was an empty bowl, so thirsty was he for God’s mercy.
A spark of forgiveness lit the tinder
Of his heart. Cheeks wet, he resolved to turn.
In the new fire of grace and gratitude he was reclaimed.
Everything had changed.

--Leslie Barnes Scoopmire. This was first published at Episcopal Journal's Speaking to the Soul on October 20, 2222.

Prayer for the Journey

Alone with none but thee, my God

I journey on my way.
What need I fear, when thou art near
O king of night and day?
More safe am I within thy hand
Than if an host didst round me stand.

-- St Columba (c.521-597) of Iona, whose feast day is today.

A Better Resurrection

I have no wit, no words, no tears;

My heart within me like a stone 

Is numbed too much for hopes or fears; 

Look right, look left, I dwell alone; 

I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief 

No everlasting hills I see; 

My life is in the falling leaf: 

O Jesus, quicken me. 

 My life is like a faded leaf, 

My harvest dwindled to a husk: 

Truly my life is void and brief 

And tedious in the barren dusk; 

My life is like a frozen thing, 

No bud nor greenness can I see: 

Yet rise it shall—the sap of Spring; 

O Jesus, rise in me. 

 My life is like a broken bowl, 

 A broken bowl that cannot hold 

One drop of water for my soul 

Or cordial in the searching cold; 

Cast in the fire the perished thing; 

Melt and remould it, till it be 

A royal cup for Him, my King: 

O Jesus, drink of me.

-- Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English poet, sister of Dante Gabriel Rosetti, devout Anglican and supporter of the Oxford movement, from her book The Goblin Market and Other Poems. She is in the calendar of saints of the Anglican Church, with a feast day of April 27.

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure and the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy and the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And to make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.

--Robert Frost (1874-1963), much-lauded American poet, including four Pulitzer Prizes.

I Am Bending My Knee

I am bending my knee
In the eye of the Father who created me,
In the eye of the Son who purchased me,
In the eye of the Spirit who cleansed me,
In friendship and affection.
Through Thine own Anointed One, O God,
Bestow upon us fullness in our need,
Love towards God,
The affection of God,
The smile of God,
The wisdom of God,
The grace of God,
The fear of God,
And the will of God
To do on the world of the Three,
As angels and saints
Do in heaven;
Each shade and light,
Each day and night,
Each time in kindness,
Give Thou us Thy Spirit.


--Anonymous, from the Carmina Gadelica I, 3, collected by folklorist Alexander Carmichael from the Outer Hebrides

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.


Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.


--Robert Frost (1874-1963),  American poet and four time winner of the Pulitzer Prize for poetry.

The Way Prayer Rises

 

The way the air holds warmth 

like a brimming teacup, tenderly
lifting the turkey vultures so high
their grace is all you see, as they trace
lazy lemniscates 
                     forever,
                           forever,
                               forever,
balancing on a thermal delicately,
black-winged angels gravely waltzing 
           atop the head of a pin

The way the painted sunflower bows
her head under the weight of the bumblebee
and the tickseed heads bristle with hyphenated seeds
that will scatter their blessings over 
the living earth
     and prepare a table before the goldfinch
        in the presence of those who treasure her

The way September’s grasshopper
rasps his way from ditches to gravel roads
his battered wings extolling his travels even as
newborn monarchs iron their wings
     under a radiant, dog-summer sun
          and shadows with edges like knives

The way the redbud leaves dance–
a line in the canopy shifting green to citrine
affirming the beauty of repair, healing, and resilience
like a vein of gold repairing a broken pot
      made more beautiful
            for the continued life it offers

is the way prayer rises and falls

-- This was first published at Episcopal Journal's Speaking to the Soul on September 8, 2022.

Praise Song at Dawn

Loving Creator,

we rise from our rest to sing your praise,
joining the world You have made holy
through your hands, O God.

The coyotes are back in their dens,
after antagonizing the farm dogs all night;
the barred owls have paused their conversation
under the lacy veil of heaven at sun rise;
katydid, tree frog, and cricket have raised their song
and filled the night with the throb of their praise:
now it is time for us to lift our hearts
and join in the love song of the Earth for our Maker.

Almighty One, this moment is your gift to us, too:
let us use it to center ourselves in your grace.
Let us in our prayer give thanks
for all your blessings to us,
especially this fragile Earth:
may we seek to mend and heal
the frayed cords that bind us to all creation,
and see with new eyes the beauty and completeness
in a drop of rain or sparkle of dew.

The Earth beneath our feet
is your gift to all that lives,
to animal, tree, and stream: all creation is holy.
May we care for each other with tenderness and unity,
walking in the healing path that Jesus invites us to follow.
Tune our hearts to always hear
the echo of our Savior’s laughter and empathy
through the air that still carries the imprint
of his breath and blessing.

Spirit of the Living God,
spread your wings over us
that we may be strengthened to joyfully greet this day,
and grant your peace to all for whom we pray.

Amen.

-- Leslie Barnes Scoopmire. This was first published at Episcopal Journal's Speaking to the Soul on September 1, 2022.

Evening Prayer

I believe my sin
to be entirely common:
the request for help
Masking request for favor
and the plea for pity
thinly veiling complaint.

So little at peace in the spring evening,
I pray for strength, for direction,
but I also ask
to survive my illness
(the immediate one)—never mind
anything in the future.
I make this a special point,
this unconcern for the future,
also the courage I will have acquired by then
to meet my suffering alone
but with heightened fortitude.

Tonight, in my unhappiness,
I wonder what qualities this presumes
in the one who listens.
And as the breeze stirs
the leaves of the little birch tree,
I construct a presence
wholly skeptical and wholly tender,
thus incapable of surprise.

I believe my sin is common, therefore
intended; I can feel
the leaves stir, sometimes
with words, sometimes without,
as though the highest form of pity
could be irony.

Bedtime, they whisper.
Time to begin lying.


--Louise Gluck (1943- ), American poet, and teacher, US Poet Laureate 2003, awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature for 2020

Prayer To the Holy Spirit

Lord Jesus, as God's Spirit came down and rested upon you,

May the same Spirit rest on us,
Bestowing his sevenfold gifts.

First, grant us the gift of understanding,
By which your precepts may enlighten our minds.

Second, grant us counsel, by which we may follow
in your footsteps on the path of righteousness.

Third, grant us courage,
by which we may ward off the enemy's attacks.

Fourth, grant us knowledge,
by which we can distinguish good from evil.

Fifth, grant us piety,
by which we may acquire compassionate hearts.

Sixth, grant us fear,
by which we may draw back from evil
and submit to what is good.

Seventh, grant us wisdom,
that we may taste fully the life-giving sweetness of your love.

-- St. Bonaventure (1221-1274), Italian Franciscan, theologian, and cardinal.