Monday Morning Meditation: A Different Approach to Prayer

I was reading today's entry in Oswald Chambers devotional My Utmost for His Highest when I ran across this line: "The purpose of prayer is that we get ahold of God, not of the answer."

This feels so counter-intuitive. Usually when we pray, we pray for something: for healing to occur, for action to be taken, for answer to be given. In the U.S., anyway, we're very results-oriented. So if we don't get what we want, what we prayed for--on our timetable, there's a sense of dejection, of being let down.

How many of us, when we pray, pray just to be in God's presence?

I'll be honest: I don't, very often. Usually when I pray, I've got a list of people, situations, problems, questions...it's like I've set up a meeting with God and am running through an agenda. And if we reviewed the minutes of that prayer time, there probably wasn't a lot of pausing to let God get a word in edgewise.

This makes me think of children. Many times, when they leave their activity and come to see an adult, it's because of a need or want. I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, I'm bored, etc. But have you ever had a child come hang out with you just to be near you? They're not looking for an answer, just your presence and company for a while.

I think I'm going to give this "get ahold of God, not of the answer" thing a try. I'll try and update you on how it goes. And if you try it out, let me know what happens.

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Heart-breaking Prayers

How, as as a pastor, do I pray when my heart's breaking just as much as my congregation's? It's a question I've yet to figure out, and one brought to light during the pastoral prayer yesterday.

Over the last month or so, we've been lifting up two five-year-old girls in our prayers; one with cancer, one with a serious blood disorder. Neither are part of our church, but a member is a friend of relatives of the girls (the girls aren't related).

Sunday, during the joys and concerns, we had to break the news that one of the little girls, Anna, had passed away Friday night. The heartache of the congregation was palpable. None of them knew her, but of course it's difficult to hear about any child dying, especially one so young and so prayed for.

After a brief period of silence, I had to offer the pastoral prayer. I began with the prayers of thanksgiving for the many blessings--cancer in remission, people home from the hospital. Then I moved to needs--a woman fighting cancer who'd been moved to hospice, a friend having surgery. Then I moved to the girls. I prayed for Molly, the one still fighting, and her family.

And then I paused. The tears were right at the back of my throat. I didn't know this girl, didn't react when I'd read the e-mail message about her passing with more than a "that sucks" thought, wasn't bothered when my senior pastor and I discussed it before the service.

But when I offer that pastoral prayer from that lectern, I don't just speak words. I actually pray. I have nothing written except the list of specific needs just lifted up by the congregation, so I open myself up to the movement of the Spirit. I open my heart. And at that moment, my heart was breaking for that child's family. At that moment, all I could think of was a mother's grief, a father's anguish, a sibling's confusion.

I couldn't speak. I took a deep breath, willing myself not to cry, to make a spectacle. When I managed words, they were brief, asking comfort for Anna's family as they grieved. I could say no more.

I wondered, afterwards, if I should've let myself cry, let my tears fall onto the big Bible underneath my hands, let the congregation see just how much this little girl's death touched me. I'm sure many of them heard me choking up anyway. Or maybe I did the right thing, distancing myself, staying professional, letting the deepest grief pulsate through the pauses, the silence, rather than try and speak inadequate words. I don't know.

It seems like such a simple thing, but really it's complicated by so much. I'm young and unexperienced. I'm a woman. Me crying during prayers would probably be received differently than if it were the older, experienced, male senior pastor.

Sigh. This ministry thing is complicated in the most surprising ways, sometimes.

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Prayers for New Orleans

I'll get to the autumn post later. Right now, I have a bigger concern. Hurricane Gustav is heading for the Gulf of Mexico, having already hit Haiti and probably hitting Cuba on its way today. It's expected to gain strength over the warm waters, and make landfall in the US anywhere between Florida and Texas. That puts New Orleans most likely right in its path. Needless to say, residents there are worried.

I am too. Not only because I know that three years is not nearly enough time to erase memories and anxieties of the trauma of Katrina (having lived in NYC the last four years, I am quite aware of the reaction to a low-flying plane or unexplained smoky air), but also because having spent time in New Orleans this past January, and engaged many of its residents, I feel a deep connection to that wonderfully unique city.

I also know from my time there that New Orleans has only begun to move from recovery to renewal, and the prospect of having much of that wiped away is just plain scary. This photo was taken from inside the home I was helping to construct for a family, of their street, lined with FEMA trailers. For many, FEMA trailers are the only homes people have now. They are certainly not designed to withstand a strong hurricane.

So on the anniversary of the day people woke up after Katrina hit and mistakenly thought they'd be made it through the worst of it, the people of New Orleans are in my prayers. May you be comforted, may you be protected, and may you be safe.

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Named or Un-named, We Remember

I can't seem to stop thinking about her, this woman whose name I don't know.

On Friday, while leaving a friend's apartment, I was stopped in my tracks by an unmistakeable sound: that of someone being hit.

A man yelled in Spanish, each phrase punctuated by that horrible sound. I heard her voice yell back once. His reply was that sound. As I came to myself enough to move away down the stairs, not wanting to be discovered just standing there listening, I heard him yell some more, "Que te dijo? Que te dijo?!" What did I tell you, what did I tell you.

I didn't know what to do. I felt conflicted. It was not my building, not my neighbor, not my business. And yet, I'm a Christian, and a woman. That woman being hit was my neighbor, my sister. I thought about what would happen if I called the police. What would I tell them? Someone was being hit, in some apartment in this building? When I told my friend what I'd heard, he replied, "Welcome to the neighborhood."

And so we fulfill the stereotype of a poor urban neighborhood made up of people of color. Of course, women who live in these places are not the only ones abused by their partners and family members, not by a long shot. But I think about how easily I heard it. Where I grew up, there's at least a little space between houses. While I'm sure my neighbors caught an earful when arguments between my father and me spilled outside, if there had been abuse going on inside, they probably wouldn't have heard. What must it be like to be the neighbors of that woman and others, of the children who are beaten, to hear that?

My contact lasted less than a minute, but reached my soul. What is it like to be exposed to violence--especially intimate violence--as a bystander, over and over? Does one just get used to it, not hear it anymore? Or does it create a dark place in the soul?

Over the last couple days I've held this woman in my thoughts and prayers, and I've come to a realization. In a womanist/feminist preaching class I'm taking this semester, we talk a lot about the many un-named women in the Bible. We remember their stories, but we'll never know their names. One woman invites her children to give the women names when they read about them.

I will remember this woman, though I will never know her name. And like most of the un-named women of the Bible, I don't really know who she is--just one tiny captured moment of her life is all I've got. But I won't forget. In my mind, her name is Luz--Light. I pray for her, for those who love her, for he that hits her, and for all those who are victims of intimate violence--through first-hand experience or second-hand awareness. I pray.

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The Balm of a Psalm

I have stress in my life. School deadlines loom, coming up, as always, much more quickly than anticipated. Procrastination once agains doles out its consequences. Too many responsibilties leave me wishing for a (healthy) day off from everything.



But today I feel ok, and part of it has to do with Psalm 143, the Psalm for the week in my devotional book:

1 Hear my prayer, O Lord; give ear to my supplications in your faithfulness;
answer me in your righteousness.
2 Do not enter into judgment with your
servant, for no one living is righteous before you.
3 For the enemy has
pursued me, crushing my life to the ground, making me sit in darkness like
those
long dead.
4 Therefore my spirit faints within me; my heart within
me is
appalled.
5 I remember the days of old, I think about all your
deeds, I
meditate on the works of your hands.
6 I stretch out my hands
to you; my
soul thirsts for you like a parched land. Selah
7 Answer me
quickly, O Lord;
my spirit fails. Do not hide your face from me, or I shall
be like those who go
down to the Pit.
8 Let me hear of your steadfast
love in the morning, for in
you I put my trust. Teach me the way I should
go, for to you I lift up my soul.
9 Save me, O Lord, from my enemies; I have
fled to you for refuge.
10 Teach me to do your will, for you are my God. Let
your good spirit lead me on a
level path.
11 For your name’s sake, O
Lord, preserve my life. In your
righteousness bring me out of trouble.
12 In your steadfast love cut off my
enemies, and destroy all my
adversaries, for I am your servant. (NRSV)

Now, usually I'm not a big fan of this type of Psalm. All the "smiting of enemies" and "destruction of adversaries" doesn't mesh well with my peace-loving and peace-making personality. Today, however, having spent yesterday just trying to breathe deeply to abate my stress and anxiety,
it occured to me who my enemies were. They are not people, they're feelings.

Not all feelings, of course, but those destructive feelings that leave me (and many of us) frozen and feeling awful and vulnerable to illness: Stress, Anxiety, and Helplessness.

So as I read it, every time I saw the word "enemy" or "adversary" I thought "stress." I found myself more and more relaxed and comforted as I went through the verses. Save me from my stress, God. Adonai, rescue me from my anxiety. It just about brought me to tears.

May this Psalm also be a blessing and comfort to you in your times of stress, trouble, and anxiety.

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