Give Me a Word: Prayer is the monk's mirror

When was the last time St. Augustine, Pope Francis and Björk were pulled together to talk about prayer?

The illustration is of St. John of the Ladder's ladder.  Note the spears flying (mostly from the demons in this case).  The 12th century icon is from St. Catherine's monastery in the Sinai.

This is the second in a Lenten series written for CatholicPhilly.com organized around the sayings of the desert fathers and mothers. What words would these desert solitaries from fifteen centuries ago have for us, in Lent's desert, that we might learn to pray?

The reflection appeared on CatholicPhilly on 10 March 2014.

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Prayer is the monk’s mirror. — from the Apophthegmata Patrum, The Sayings of the Fathers and Mothers of the desert

When I think of how I pray, I have to admit that the first image that pops into my mind is of my childhood night time prayers: my head tucked under the covers, my desire to have such faith that I might be able to see clearly without glasses clutched tightly in my fist along with my rosary and my pleas for protection during the deep dark silence of a countryside night arising like incense. At age ten, my whole prayer life could have been gathered up in a single phrase, “God, come to my assistance, Lord, make haste to help me.”

John Cassian, a fifth century theologian, learned from the desert fathers to use precisely that one line from scripture as his primary prayer. St. Augustine wrote of the practice in his letter of advice on prayer to the widow Proba, telling her he had heard of the brothers in the Egyptian desert who hurled their short sharp prayers like spears.

Abba Ammonas, a disciple of St. Anthony the Great and a 4th century bishop, advised a monk who came to him wrapped in nothing more than a mat of reeds and seeking advice on how to live an even more ascetic life to fast a little less and instead “have at all times the words of the tax collector in your heart and you can be saved.” Ammonas is referring to the tax collector in Matthew’s Gospel, who stands in the back of the synagogue praying, “O God, be merciful to me a sinner.”

Fifteen centuries ago, this is how the desert fathers and mothers suggested we pray, by breathing over and over again, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” Today, the Catechism of the Catholic Church, still recommends the Jesus Prayer as the simplest way to pray, as both a starting point for learning to pray, and a prayer in which we can take refuge when the chaos of life threatens to overwhelm us.

This prayer is not so much a request, as it is first and foremost a creed, a cry of belief. Who do you say that I am? [Mt 16:15-16] “Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God.” But the Jesus prayer tells us who we are as well. St. John of the Ladder, a 6th century abbot of a monastery on Mount Sinai, reminded his monks “Your prayer will show you what condition you are in. Theologians say that prayer is the monk’s mirror."

And who do I see in the mirror of the Jesus prayer? Have mercy on me, a sinner. I see myself, a sinner. So, too, does Pope Francis. Beginning his interview with the Pope last summer, Antonio Spadaro, S.J. put aside his planned questions to ask, “Who is Jorge Mario Bergoglio?” instead. The Pope was silent for a few moments, and at last responded, “I am a sinner. It is not a figure of speech…I am a sinner….I am a sinner whom the Lord has looked upon.”

The Pope went on to remind us that we see in the mirror of the tax collector’s simple prayer not only that we are sinners, but that we are sinners who have been looked upon by God with love and with mercy. The Jesus prayer of the desert fathers and mothers is a mirror of prayer which lets us see ourselves not only as we are, but as we could be, by the grace and mercy of God.

Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me. For I am a sinner, whom the Lord has looked upon with mercy.

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To read from Scripture: The story of the tax collector in the synagogue. Matthew 18:9-14

To read from the Church’s tradition:

St. Augustine’s letter to Proba, see page 391.

To listen: 

Sir John Tavener wrote this haunting and discordant setting for the popular Icelandic singer Björk. The Jesus Prayer repeats in Coptic, the language of the desert fathers and mothers, in Greek and in English.

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Plotting

From the Thomas Hardy Plot Generator:

A gout-ridden pianist, courting a young lady in Weatherbury, falls in love with a dark-eyed lady farmer. But she is already married.They live in a hovel on the heath. But having surprisingly met her grandfather in an inn, their horse collides with the Night Mail. Just one of life's little ironies.

I'm not quite sure it's one of life's little ironies, but I can't write fiction, for reasons I can't quite figure out.  I suspect it's because I have no sense of a tight plot -- this random plot sound fascinating to me!  Or perhaps I prefer an eye on "what is" or perhaps the role of Lawrence Ferlinghetti's "reporter from outer space."

“If  you would be a poet, write living newspapers. Be a reporter from outer space, filing dispatches to some supreme managing editor who believes in full disclosure and has a low tolerance for bullshit.”

— from Poetry as Insurgent Art

A bit of flesh in the inkpot

Writing by candlelight during a power outage.

One ought only to write when one leaves a piece of one's own flesh in the inkpot, each time one dips one's pen.  ~Leo Tolstoy

I have a lot of writing going on these days:  talks, a series on praying with the desert fathers and mothers, a book review, short essays for a book project, a scriptural reflection.  I have pieces in draft, proofs, edited pieces, pieces still hatching.  

It's also been an intense couple of weeks at work.  This morning I didn't actually make it to my office until 10, my first meeting of the day was on another campus.  I plopped my bag on the floor, dumped an armful of papers on my desk --- and that was it until 5 pm, when I picked up the papers and my bag and left.  I never actually sat down at my desk.

I had a good day writing yesterday, but it was almost physically painful to set aside the work at the end of the day, knowing I wouldn't be able to return to it today.  I definitely left a piece of flesh in the inkpot.  I can see the shape this piece is going to take now, and I was finding such pleasure in fitting the pieces together, like a puzzle.  And I long for the silence that writing wraps around me, a deep well into which I can settle.

Declare a holy fast

I thought about Fastnacht last night as I drove past Dunkin' Donuts on the way home from a night class (in which I am a student, not the professor).  "Should I grab a doughnut, one last fling before tomorrow's fast?" I wondered.

In the end, I didn't stop, hanging on to the Ordinary for just a bit longer.

Today I am fasting, still bound by the obligation for a (very) few years yet.  Until recently, the Lenten fasts were not a hardship, more a matter of forgoing my after dinner snack than anything else.  But last Lent, and this summer, when Pope Francis asked the Church to fast for peace in Syria, for the first time I found the practice challenging.  I got a headache, I was crabby. I was distracted.  I was hungry.

Today was no different.  By four, working off just a yogurt, some dried fruit and two solidly sweet cups of tea, I had a headache, I was crabby, I was thoroughly distracted.  And I was sitting through a longish academic talk about food insecurity, while the people on either side of me munched cookies and chips (snacks for the talk).

I tend to think of hunger in spiritual terms, as something that sharpens my appetite for God, something that strips away excess.  But most people, including almost one quarter of all the children in America, do not have the luxury of electing hunger as a spiritual practice.  They are simply hungry.  In the midst of one of the richest nations on earth, children go hungry. Here in Philadelphia, children go hungry.  Here, in my town, people are hungry tonight.  Not because they are electing to fast, but because we have elected to let them go hungry.  It is unconscionable.

Upcoming: Pope Francis on tour

Chris Lowney has a book coming out on Pope Francis and leadership.  The first stop on the blog tour is here — on March 13, the first anniversary of Jorge Maria Bergoglio as Bishop of Rome.

You can find the rest of the tour dates here.

Stop by on the 13th to celebrate Pope Francis' first anniversary, I can't promise cake, or the Pope, but I can offer a review of the book, space for conversation and at least one photo of Rome!

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Disclosure:  I received a copy of the book from Loyola Press to review.