When we live within the bounds of our normal, comfortable daily lives, prayer is optional. We know that praying is a good idea, but it may well not be at the top of our to-do list. We find time for an occasional quick prayer, or a daily ritual prayer, and perhaps something a bit more concerted when trouble arises, but we can quickly revert to our regular spiritual slumber when life reverts to normal.
The same can apply in our churches. If the normal swing of church activity doesn't require living life on the 'spiritual edge', then prayer is likely to be optional; included because it 'should be' but not at the centre, not essential.
In addition, we can easily become so busy - either with home-life, or with church services and evening meetings, strategies for mission and outreach, and plans for the new website - that prayer gets lost. When we are too busy to pray the devil rejoices!
I have no doubt that the devil would far rather we were busy planning our church outreach - or even getting on with telling people abut Jesus! - than praying. For he knows that it is only through prayer that we are effective as Christians. Without it, the rest is just 'works' and human effort, which are no threat to him.
It is only through prayer that God's work is done. Not just going-through-the-motion prayers, but heartfelt, needy, faithful wrestling in prayer; prayer that is a cry from the heart, is imperative, and comes before everything else.
I'm belatedly discovering that it's only when we start living outside our comfort zone that prayer becomes imperative. Living at God's decree will always be outside our comfort zone, for it involves putting aside our own desires and requires acts of out-of-control faith. (See The Holy Spirit and mess)
If, to be honest, we recognise that prayer is optional or perfunctory in our lives, then we're probably living safe and comfortable lives under our own control. While we stay in the background in this way, well away from the forefront of the spiritual action, prayer is optional.
If we want prayer to be more heart-felt and meaningful, I rather doubt that this comes through trying harder. Perhaps the start is by asking God to draw us closer to himself, and being willing to be drawn out of our comfort zone and closer to the battle-front.
And then we may discover that prayer is -
the air we need to breathe,
the sight we need to see,
the power we need to live,
the strength we need to work,
the faith we need to persist,
the difference between standing and falling,
... and the heart of the work we are given.
So, what is the place of prayer in our lives?
Sunday 26 June 2011
Thursday 16 June 2011
The nature of prayer
I wonder how you understand prayer.
Of course, we "say prayers", which probably start something like "Dear Lord" and will certainly end with "Amen". Hence we recognise the start and end of prayers. The rest of the time our thoughts are our own, are 'private' and are 'not prayers', as they are not addressed to God.
But I increasingly wonder whether prayer is 'what we set our heart upon'. So, while our public (or even private) prayers may sound perfectly acceptable and very spiritual - that Mrs Jones becomes a Christian, for example - our heart's desire may honestly be for a shinier car; that is what our heart is set upon.
The trouble is, I'm not convinced that God is very good at ignoring the thoughts that are not addressed directly to him. In fact, I don't think he's very good at respecting our privacy at all.
God may well answer the prayers of our heart. Mrs Jones hasn't become a Christian, but in time we do acquire a shiny car. We may be puzzled why our prayers for Mrs Jones have gone unanswered, and we probably don't attribute our new car to God's grace, as we never saw that idea as a prayer in the first place.
I'm not saying that the car is what God most wanted to give us, but if our heart's desire is just for such material things, then that may be all he gives us. And all the while God longs that we would ask for something more important in His Kingdom.
If this is at all on the right lines, then it is a sobering thought. But then we are close to asking for forgiveness, which must be a good way to start praying.
What are we praying for? What are the desires of our heart?
Lord, forgive us.
Of course, we "say prayers", which probably start something like "Dear Lord" and will certainly end with "Amen". Hence we recognise the start and end of prayers. The rest of the time our thoughts are our own, are 'private' and are 'not prayers', as they are not addressed to God.
But I increasingly wonder whether prayer is 'what we set our heart upon'. So, while our public (or even private) prayers may sound perfectly acceptable and very spiritual - that Mrs Jones becomes a Christian, for example - our heart's desire may honestly be for a shinier car; that is what our heart is set upon.
The trouble is, I'm not convinced that God is very good at ignoring the thoughts that are not addressed directly to him. In fact, I don't think he's very good at respecting our privacy at all.
God may well answer the prayers of our heart. Mrs Jones hasn't become a Christian, but in time we do acquire a shiny car. We may be puzzled why our prayers for Mrs Jones have gone unanswered, and we probably don't attribute our new car to God's grace, as we never saw that idea as a prayer in the first place.
I'm not saying that the car is what God most wanted to give us, but if our heart's desire is just for such material things, then that may be all he gives us. And all the while God longs that we would ask for something more important in His Kingdom.
If this is at all on the right lines, then it is a sobering thought. But then we are close to asking for forgiveness, which must be a good way to start praying.
What are we praying for? What are the desires of our heart?
Lord, forgive us.
Thursday 9 June 2011
Catching glimpses, but missing the whole
Have you ever noticed that we describe ourselves in the terms that we expect our listeners to be interested in or understand. I'm not talking here about the fact that we talk about different things to different people, but rather that we describe the same issue differently when we talk to different people.
So we visit our doctor, and describe how we have so many headaches and are tired all the time. Next we talk to our therapist about being depressed. Then we talk to our vicar and say how hard we are finding it to pray. And then we come home and talk to our family and say how much we are missing our close friend, who died recently.
And so the doctor prescribes pain relief and something to help us sleep, the therapist helps us to change the train of thought that runs round in our head, the vicar talks about God being present even when we don't feel it, and the family member shares in our tears.
But if these are all expressions of the same issue - bereavement, in the simple example above - then no-one is hearing or understanding the whole. Who can we talk to without presenting just one facet of our experience; without limiting ourselves to the presumed realm of interest of our listener? And who is there that will listen openly to all that we are experiencing?
We live in a world where each professional is only an expert in some tiny fragment of human experience. But it's not just professionals' spheres of expertise that have become fragmented. I wonder whether this has led to our conceiving of our internal experience in equally fragmented ways. We subconsciously categorise our experience against some matching taxonomy: 'physical experience', 'mental or psychological experience', 'spiritual experience' - as if these are different and disconnected!
And by the time we have talked to all these different people and got such different kinds of help, we have almost certainly lost sight of the fact that they are merely facets of the one issue, and we wonder why all of these different problems have come along at the same time!
I am a therapist, so I would rather like to think that the therapist in my example above would do a better job than implied. Except that, by and large, most therapists don't 'do' God; they have got rather too sucked into the medical/psychological model of understanding mental distress, and so exclude the spiritual. Sadly, therefore, I am not confident that the answer lies in therapy.
I am also a Christian, so would really like to think that the answer lies in church. But, very sadly, my experience is that many Christians don't 'do' listening. I know that the kind of listening that is needed is difficult, and is in fact very rare to find anywhere. But how sad if it's not to be found at church. If churches do want their members to be open about the whole range of their experience, then this first needs modelling from the front (see: Who sets the agenda?) and we need to show a genuine interest in more than just "spiritual" things in church.
But perhaps the crucial question is this: when we come to God in prayer, what do we say then? What do we include and exclude? What do we assume that God is interested in? The trouble may be that we simply present a version of what we say to the vicar, somehow assuming that God is (only) interested in 'spiritual' things.
But, thanks to Jesus, surely God does understand and is interested in the whole of us - body, mind and spirit - the three in one? Where better can we go?
So we visit our doctor, and describe how we have so many headaches and are tired all the time. Next we talk to our therapist about being depressed. Then we talk to our vicar and say how hard we are finding it to pray. And then we come home and talk to our family and say how much we are missing our close friend, who died recently.
And so the doctor prescribes pain relief and something to help us sleep, the therapist helps us to change the train of thought that runs round in our head, the vicar talks about God being present even when we don't feel it, and the family member shares in our tears.
But if these are all expressions of the same issue - bereavement, in the simple example above - then no-one is hearing or understanding the whole. Who can we talk to without presenting just one facet of our experience; without limiting ourselves to the presumed realm of interest of our listener? And who is there that will listen openly to all that we are experiencing?
We live in a world where each professional is only an expert in some tiny fragment of human experience. But it's not just professionals' spheres of expertise that have become fragmented. I wonder whether this has led to our conceiving of our internal experience in equally fragmented ways. We subconsciously categorise our experience against some matching taxonomy: 'physical experience', 'mental or psychological experience', 'spiritual experience' - as if these are different and disconnected!
And by the time we have talked to all these different people and got such different kinds of help, we have almost certainly lost sight of the fact that they are merely facets of the one issue, and we wonder why all of these different problems have come along at the same time!
I am a therapist, so I would rather like to think that the therapist in my example above would do a better job than implied. Except that, by and large, most therapists don't 'do' God; they have got rather too sucked into the medical/psychological model of understanding mental distress, and so exclude the spiritual. Sadly, therefore, I am not confident that the answer lies in therapy.
I am also a Christian, so would really like to think that the answer lies in church. But, very sadly, my experience is that many Christians don't 'do' listening. I know that the kind of listening that is needed is difficult, and is in fact very rare to find anywhere. But how sad if it's not to be found at church. If churches do want their members to be open about the whole range of their experience, then this first needs modelling from the front (see: Who sets the agenda?) and we need to show a genuine interest in more than just "spiritual" things in church.
But perhaps the crucial question is this: when we come to God in prayer, what do we say then? What do we include and exclude? What do we assume that God is interested in? The trouble may be that we simply present a version of what we say to the vicar, somehow assuming that God is (only) interested in 'spiritual' things.
But, thanks to Jesus, surely God does understand and is interested in the whole of us - body, mind and spirit - the three in one? Where better can we go?
Thursday 2 June 2011
In the name of Jesus we muddle through
It used to be said of the Trade Union movement that it's main function was to achieve glorious defeats. They didn't win many cases for their workers, but they did bring their membership together in solidarity against a shared sense of injustice.
I'm not sure whether the unions are more successful these days, but I wonder whether Christians have become enamoured of glorious defeats? Have we lost sight of the spiritual victory? Have we become used to being in the minority and either facing apathy or defending ourselves against hostility, and too used to feeling overwhelmed or defeated. Moreover, we can be rather good at enjoying a shared secret knowledge that we are nonetheless on the winning side, all the while cowering in corners, keeping an increasingly low profile in order to avoid the spotlight.
There is an old (1970s?) chorus I remember from my early years as a Christian:
In the name of Jesus,
In the name of Jesus
We have the victory.
In the name of Jesus,
In the name of Jesus
Demons will have to flee
Who can tell what God can do?
Who can tell of his love for you?
In the name of Jesus, Jesus
We have the victory.
I remember being very encouraged that we were on the victory side! Of course, I still know in my head that this is true, but I realised recently that my felt sense of this victory had become rather distant and neglected.
Moreover, in my mind the simplicity of that chorus has been replaced with a good deal of complexity, shades of grey, and qualified understandings. Not actual doubt, but a difficulty with taking the words of that song with simple gladness and confidence. Is this a growing maturity or is it a clouding of spiritual sight?
And alongside my personal journey (read: 'ageing'), the church in the UK seems to have lost much of its confidence and is also more subdued.
Of course, the Bible doesn't equate 'victory' with worldly ideas of success (see my blog:In praise of failure). The persecutions of the saints throughout the ages makes that clear, as does Jesus' own crucifixion, of course. But herein lies another problem: we may be so familiar with the truth that we will be persecuted as Christians, that we forget to expect to share in God's triumphant victories, except in the most distant of ways - in heaven. But in so thinking, have our faith muscles have become feeble through lack of use?
We live in a spiritual battle - but if we're not fighting, is it any wonder that we end up trampled? And if we aren't even aware that the battle is spiritual, we won't even know what has hit us (see: Impotent Christians in a material world)!
So, for the present, in the name of Jesus we muddle through.
I'm not sure whether the unions are more successful these days, but I wonder whether Christians have become enamoured of glorious defeats? Have we lost sight of the spiritual victory? Have we become used to being in the minority and either facing apathy or defending ourselves against hostility, and too used to feeling overwhelmed or defeated. Moreover, we can be rather good at enjoying a shared secret knowledge that we are nonetheless on the winning side, all the while cowering in corners, keeping an increasingly low profile in order to avoid the spotlight.
There is an old (1970s?) chorus I remember from my early years as a Christian:
In the name of Jesus,
In the name of Jesus
We have the victory.
In the name of Jesus,
In the name of Jesus
Demons will have to flee
Who can tell what God can do?
Who can tell of his love for you?
In the name of Jesus, Jesus
We have the victory.
I remember being very encouraged that we were on the victory side! Of course, I still know in my head that this is true, but I realised recently that my felt sense of this victory had become rather distant and neglected.
Moreover, in my mind the simplicity of that chorus has been replaced with a good deal of complexity, shades of grey, and qualified understandings. Not actual doubt, but a difficulty with taking the words of that song with simple gladness and confidence. Is this a growing maturity or is it a clouding of spiritual sight?
And alongside my personal journey (read: 'ageing'), the church in the UK seems to have lost much of its confidence and is also more subdued.
Of course, the Bible doesn't equate 'victory' with worldly ideas of success (see my blog:In praise of failure). The persecutions of the saints throughout the ages makes that clear, as does Jesus' own crucifixion, of course. But herein lies another problem: we may be so familiar with the truth that we will be persecuted as Christians, that we forget to expect to share in God's triumphant victories, except in the most distant of ways - in heaven. But in so thinking, have our faith muscles have become feeble through lack of use?
We live in a spiritual battle - but if we're not fighting, is it any wonder that we end up trampled? And if we aren't even aware that the battle is spiritual, we won't even know what has hit us (see: Impotent Christians in a material world)!
So, for the present, in the name of Jesus we muddle through.
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