PRAYER IS something more than an exterior act
performed out of a sense of duty, an act in which we tell God various things he
already knows, a kind of daily attendance in the presence of the Sovereign who
awaits, morning and evening, the submission of his subjects. Even though
Christians find, to their pain and sorrow, that their prayer never rises above
this level, they know well enough that it should be something more. Somewhere,
here, there is a hidden treasure, if only I could find it and dig it up—a seed
that has the power to grow into a mighty tree bearing abundant flowers and
fruits, if only I had the will to plant and cultivate it. Yet this duty of
mine, though dry and bitter, is pregnant with a life of the fullest freedom,
could I once open and give myself up to it. We know all this or, at least, have
some inkling of it, through what we have occasionally experienced, but it is
another matter to venture further on the road which leads into the promised
land. Once again, the birds of the air have eaten the seed that was sown, the
thorns of everyday life have choked it and all that remains is a vague feeling
of regret. And if that feeling becomes, at times, a pressing need to converse
with God otherwise than in stereotyped formulas, how many know how to do so? It
is as if they had to speak in a language whose rules they had never learnt;
instead of fluent conversation, all they can manage are the disjointed,
disconnected phrases of a foreigner unacquainted with the language of the
country; they find themselves as helpless as a stuttering child who wants to
say something and cannot.
This image could be misleading, for we cannot hold conversation with God. Yet it is appropriate, both because prayer is an exchange between God and the soul, and because, in this exchange, a definite language is used, obviously that of God himself. Prayer is a dialogue, not a monologue recited by men in God's presence. Indeed, there is really no such thing as solitary speech; speech is essentially mutual, a sharing of thoughts and minds, union in a common spirit, in a shared truth. Speech supposes an I and a Thou, and is their mutual manifestation. What do we do, when at prayer, but speak to a God who long ago revealed himself to man in a word so powerful and all-embracing that it can never be solely of the past, but continues to resound through the ages? The better we learn to pray, the more we are convinced that our halting utterance to God is but an answer to God's speech to us; and so it is only in God's language that we can commune with him. God spoke first—and only because he has thus "exteriorized" himself can man "interiorize" himself towards God. Just consider a moment: is not the "Our Father", by which we address him each day, his own word? Was it not given us by the Son of God, himself God and the Word of God? Could any man by himself have discovered such language? Did not the "Hail Mary" come from the mouth of the angel, spoken, then, in the speech of heaven; and what Elizabeth, "filled with the Spirit", added, was that not a response to the first meeting with the incarnate God? What could we possibly have said to God, if he had not already communicated and revealed himself to us in his word, giving us access to and commerce with him? That is why we are enabled to look on his inner being and enter it, enter the inmost being of eternal Truth; and so, exposed to the light of God, become ourselves light and open to him.
Prayer, we can now see, is communication, in which God's word has the initiative and we at first are simply listeners. Consequently, what we have to do is, first, listen to God's word and then thro h that word learn how to answer. His word is the truth made known for our sakes. There is no final, unquestionable truth in man. He is fully aware of that as he looks to God for an answer and comes closer to him. God's word is his invitation to us to enter into the truth and abide there with him. It is like a rope-ladder thrown down to us in danger of drowning, so that we can climb into the ship; or, a carpet unrolled before us leading to the Father's throne; a torch shining in the darkness of a silent and sullen world, in whose light we are no longer harassed by problems, but learn to live with them. God's word is, ultimately, himself, that in him which is most living and profound: it is his only-begotten Son, of the same nature as himself, whom he sent into the world to bring it back to him. That is why God spoke to us of his Word dwelling on earth: "This is my beloved Son, hear ye him".
We are harassed by the burden of living; exhausted, we look round for a place of repose, tranquility and renewal. We would gladly rest in God and commit ourselves to him, so as to draw from him fresh strength to go on living. But we do not look for him there where he awaits us, where he is to be found, namely in his Son, who is his Word. Or else we do seek him because there are a thousand things we want to ask him, and imagine that, unless they are answered, we cannot go on living; we pester him with problems, demand answers, solutions, explanations, forgetting all the time that in his Word he has solved all questions and given us all the explanations we are capable of grasping in this life. We do not turn there where God speaks, there where his word resounded in the world, a final utterance sufficient for all times, whose riches can never be exhausted.
Or else we think that the word of God has been sounding on earth for such a long time that it is almost used up, and a new word will soon be due, think that we have, in fact, the right to demand a new one. What we fail to notice is that it is we ourselves, we alone, who are worn out, while the word resounds as vigorously and freshly, as close to us as ever. "The word is nigh thee, even in thy mouth and in thy heart" (Rome X. 8). We do not realize that, once God's word makes itself heard in the world, in the fulness of time, its power is such that it reaches all men, with equal directness, and that no one suffers from being remote in time or place.
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