In a recent blog, Frank Wilson talked about "magical thinking," which is not easily defined. I think the issue is related to prayer, so this post will be one of my reflections on prayer, in part a response to a friend's request, his interest in learning more about why and how people pray.
According to Wilson, the primal human engagement with the world was not logical, a matter of clear and distinct ideas, but more of a mystical encounter; not an objective, clinical observation. This is a valid way of apprehending reality, he says, and it "survives in quite a few of us" because magical thinking, involving how we feel as well as think, doesn't "radically detach the knower from the known." A purely rational approach to reality, by contrast, downplays imagination and emotion. It puts the other/Other "out there."
All of this seems to me relevant to prayer, a private experience not any easier to discuss than "magical thinking." It begins, usually, with words, as in a petition, then, ideally, proceeds to the non-verbal, to silence, the kind of silence Thomas Merton and others have talked extensively about wherein I can, on a good day, sense and feel the presence of God. I also feel a closeness to others.
So prayer is not really a narcissistic endeavor, any more than meditation is; it is not merely asking for favors but asking for God to make us aware of His presence within us. The contemplative prayer that is my goal when I pray leads to a resting in God.
It might begin with simple observation of the world around me, an appreciative sense of the present as a gift; it might use a word or scriptural phrase that is repeated until it is no longer needed.
It is quite possible, even desirable, to have this type of prayer as an ongoing activity throughout the day. That is what Merton presumably meant by having "an uninterrupted dialogue with God." Perhaps what we hear is our own voice coming back to us, but the knower is inseparable from the known, so what we hear can be called the voice of God whispering in the silence of our hearts.
Does prayer do any good? Can I change reality by praying for someone? I often doubt it. I remember C. S. Lewis writing to his brother and saying (paraphrased), "I don't known if my prayer does you any good, but it helps me." And that is not self-serving for reasons I just stated.
Why do I pray? To help myself deal with problems both external and internal: the daily fears we all have, the worries and decisions and choices that can't be made alone, that require "outside" help--help that is other than my inner self. I need the comfort that Someone is listening to my concerns, One who understands loneliness, pain, disappointment, and all that flesh is heir to.
Do I have the feeling of God's presence in church? Yes, at times, when the church is quiet and I am not distracted by the presence of others; but it happens mostly in those fought-for periods of silence when I am alone and my busy mind quiets down long enough to sense that I am not really alone. It can happen when I am in awe at the beauty of creation, absorbed in music or reading...all of which can be mystical experiences.
I know I need to say more, to define some of these indefinable terms, to say more about the mystery of an experience that is really beyond words. And I wish the process of praying was as easy for me as I have made it sound. Perhaps this rumination will lead to other reflections...
Showing posts with label Merton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Merton. Show all posts
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
For whom the siren wails
Since I live not far from a hospital, I often hear the siren of a rescue vehicle, and I always stop to listen for a moment, thinking of the emergency professionals rushing to the ER. I think of them and especially of the injured patient, and I think of myself (it could be me). I like to think this brief moment of attention is a prayer; sometimes, I use words, but generally no words are needed, just an awarness that, as John Donne memorably wrote in one of his prose meditations, we are all involved: "ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."
We are, he went on, all involved in mankind. So when I translate his words into my own context (ask not for whom the siren wails), I know at some level that whoever is in need of emergency care is one of us, part of the whole community of which we, in our separate worlds, are inescapably involved. We must be mindful of suffering.
I recall the reminder from Robert Bellah in Habits of the Heart that the American tradition of radical individualism often goes too far: we too easily forget our place in the community. We overlook the greater good, the basic fact that we are all in this together, a point Obama makes in various subtle or overt ways in his speeches.
Today I opened a recent book on Montaigne by Sarah Bakewell: "The twenty-first century is full of people who are full of themselves." This is the opening line of her engaging biography of the 16th century author of the Essays. She refers to bloggers and all the rest of us who seem preoccupied with their own selves, writing or texting about the details of their lives, enjoying life in what Bakewell calls "a shared festival of the self."
Yet, as Thomas Merton and many others have noted, to be alone, in silence, to pray, and to write about one's inner life is to be part of a spiritual community. Bloggers and other writers today, in sharing their personal stories, are helping (I like to think) foster trust and cooperation among peoples. This assumes that the readers of the blogs and articles take time to reflect and respond. It's not all self-indulgence.
As Christopher Jamison writes in Finding Sanctuary, the old meaning of "conversation" is to live with someone, to speak to them based on shared things we all have in common. He is writing about the monastic ideal where a community of monks can express individuality rather than individualism.
What's the difference? Individualism is the problematic me-first attitude that gave rise to Bellah's study years ago and that we see daily in self-preoccupation of many people. It is doing your own thing irrespective of other people. Individuality, Jamison explains, is quite different: it means bringing one's own unique contribution and talent to bear on the life of a community (even if that contribution might be to criticize it in an effort to improve it).
Individualism apart from involvement in a community (whether of church members or politically active organizers or members of a book club) is isolating and ultimately negative. Its ultimate image is found in Dante's hell where the souls are eternally alone, apart from any community (any love). Its real-life manifestation appears too often in our news when we learn of the loner-psychopath (usually a young man alienated from family and friends) who acts out his fear and hatred with violence, shooting a Congresswoman in Arizona, for example.
Are people tuned in to their electronic gadgets totally isolated from one another? To the extent that young people tend not to vote regularly or join churches or political parties, it would seem, as Jamison says, that the global village is fading. But if many, young and older, are willing to work to engage with each other in conversation, using the various media, they can build some kind of community. The blogosphere, in which I play an infinitesimal part, can foster a type of community.
As a result, when they hear the siren, many people may not think of prayer in the usual sense, but they will be mindful of their common link with human suffering. One day, God willing, they may act on this awareness.
We are, he went on, all involved in mankind. So when I translate his words into my own context (ask not for whom the siren wails), I know at some level that whoever is in need of emergency care is one of us, part of the whole community of which we, in our separate worlds, are inescapably involved. We must be mindful of suffering.
I recall the reminder from Robert Bellah in Habits of the Heart that the American tradition of radical individualism often goes too far: we too easily forget our place in the community. We overlook the greater good, the basic fact that we are all in this together, a point Obama makes in various subtle or overt ways in his speeches.
Today I opened a recent book on Montaigne by Sarah Bakewell: "The twenty-first century is full of people who are full of themselves." This is the opening line of her engaging biography of the 16th century author of the Essays. She refers to bloggers and all the rest of us who seem preoccupied with their own selves, writing or texting about the details of their lives, enjoying life in what Bakewell calls "a shared festival of the self."
Yet, as Thomas Merton and many others have noted, to be alone, in silence, to pray, and to write about one's inner life is to be part of a spiritual community. Bloggers and other writers today, in sharing their personal stories, are helping (I like to think) foster trust and cooperation among peoples. This assumes that the readers of the blogs and articles take time to reflect and respond. It's not all self-indulgence.
As Christopher Jamison writes in Finding Sanctuary, the old meaning of "conversation" is to live with someone, to speak to them based on shared things we all have in common. He is writing about the monastic ideal where a community of monks can express individuality rather than individualism.
What's the difference? Individualism is the problematic me-first attitude that gave rise to Bellah's study years ago and that we see daily in self-preoccupation of many people. It is doing your own thing irrespective of other people. Individuality, Jamison explains, is quite different: it means bringing one's own unique contribution and talent to bear on the life of a community (even if that contribution might be to criticize it in an effort to improve it).
Individualism apart from involvement in a community (whether of church members or politically active organizers or members of a book club) is isolating and ultimately negative. Its ultimate image is found in Dante's hell where the souls are eternally alone, apart from any community (any love). Its real-life manifestation appears too often in our news when we learn of the loner-psychopath (usually a young man alienated from family and friends) who acts out his fear and hatred with violence, shooting a Congresswoman in Arizona, for example.
Are people tuned in to their electronic gadgets totally isolated from one another? To the extent that young people tend not to vote regularly or join churches or political parties, it would seem, as Jamison says, that the global village is fading. But if many, young and older, are willing to work to engage with each other in conversation, using the various media, they can build some kind of community. The blogosphere, in which I play an infinitesimal part, can foster a type of community.
As a result, when they hear the siren, many people may not think of prayer in the usual sense, but they will be mindful of their common link with human suffering. One day, God willing, they may act on this awareness.
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