There are those in the holy zone
They tie strands of needs, worries, and angst into a song to God
Prayer.
From the solemn creed to the soulful cry, together we believe, and alone we weep. The stuff of prayer crosses all categories and collections of people. With the same effect, our community prayers urge our personal petitions, and our pleadings draw others into addressing God on our behalf.
Prayer is related to breathing—a constant, necessary in and out, lungs full of painful, toxic development expressed to the one who can repair, comfort, and delight.
Image by AkshayaPatra Foundation
Not all prayer begins with repentance, though recognizing our kinship to Jesus as our brother/king/redeemer, therefore sons and daughters to the Father, and then embraced in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, must all begin on our knees. God’s response to our repentance is to surround us with others who also repent. We are a sorry lot, comforted in each other’s company. Prayer cements us.
When we point out God's grace to those who don’t know where their good luck has come from, we witness the power of prayer to the unchurched, lost, and those who have left.
Prayer is not the emotion, for from the prayer comes the emotive feelings. We gather in worded, voiced offerings to God. The words matter.
Words are already written: To the Trinity, a Glory be, “as it was now and always will be.” In unison and repetition, we say “Our Father.” Someone, somewhere, joins in the prayer Jesus taught us. We chant, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner” at every moment we need him. And in faithful form, frightened frailty, or simply to steel ourselves, we whisper, “Come Holy Spirit.”
On our knees, we prepare alone, often silenced by our grief and fears. In communion, we join with the prayer, “I am not worthy.” We call out to the holy woman, the queen of the communion of Saints, to she who shares DNA with the Redeemer, “Pray for us.” We plead for Holy Mary to invoke her son and remember us on our deathbeds, “Pray for us sinners.”
The spontaneous prayers of men and women who can speak in the moment, mouthing the language of prayer as supplicants, are few and remarkable. They are gifted with the gab of holy speech. The devotion of these willing intercessors is nothing short of astounding.
“How do you do that?” I’ve asked many graced folks who have led a group prayer and then cowered at my silly assumption that it is a project or task. They are in the holy zone, wrapping a list of those we want to pray for, tying together the strands of needs, worries, and angst into a song to God, beginning and labeling the requests and thanks with, “In your name, Jesus, we pray.”
You know your life is rich when prayer precedes and concludes every gathering. At meals — heck, at every meal. After an hour in the woodyard, we stop and bow heads, standing in the wood chips, sawdust, and bark, as Danny invokes the almighty. Throughout the busy Knights of Columbus monthly meeting, men bend at “Let us pray.” At Mass and Holy Hour, Funerals, weddings, and Baptisms, we kneel in view of the Tabernacle and cross. At the Catholic book club, where we treasure the testimonies of God’s witnesses, we can’t believe our good fortune to be gathered by the Holy Spirit.
There are so many more opportunities for prayer. Like with our dear friend over coffee, with heads down, we say, “Bless us, Oh Lord.” In the arms of your wife or husband, frantic about a child, money, or the crushing misery of the world, we submit. “Thy will be done.” At our desks, we hold the prayer card of a loved one. You know they are mentioning your name to Jesus right now.
Ours is not just a rich life but one where God wants us to live in the moment. The Spirit erases the busy day of an adult, forcing us to revel in being a child of God. Mark's gospel on Saturday, Chapter 10, said, “Let the children come to me; do not prevent them, for the Kingdom of God belongs to such as these.”
James' reading, 5:13-20, the first reading on Saturday, sums up the breadth of prayer. Last Tuesday, at our men’s book club, I watched our group's final prayer with James' words in mind.
David called for a prayer of thanksgiving over his new grandbaby, “Is anyone in good spirits? He should sing a song of praise.”
Martin prayed for a family of a newly buried saint, a beacon of faithfulness who spent decades in debilitating pain. He missed the man’s amazing character. “Is anyone among you suffering? He should pray.”
I asked for prayers for my sister-in-law, Yok, facing a third bout of intensive treatments. “The prayer of faith will save the sick person, and the Lord will raise him up.”
Another man courageously asked us to pray for struggles in his prayer life. “I don’t know what’s going on, please pray for me.” “Let my prayer come like incense before you; the lifting up of my hands, like the evening sacrifice.”
Then, there I was the next morning, gathered with another dear cadre of men, believers who take seriously the great commission that puts us all in the same shoes:
If anyone among you should stray from the truth and someone bring him back, he should know that whoever brings back a sinner from the error of his way will save his soul from death and will cover a multitude of sins.
We pray because that’s who we are. We confess to one another the error of our ways, and in praying for each other, we somehow save our souls from death and cover many sins.
“Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed.”
This circle of grace—confessing, expressing gratitude, yearning for repairs and rehabilitation, and resting in certain consolation—isn’t just singular moments. It is a constant, churning process of prayer.
A life of prayer is one in which we know God is with us. He places his hands on our heads and shoulders and encourages our hearts. St. Mark doesn’t just reveal the order to let the children come to Jesus; he also revealed the purpose for us all.
“Then he embraced the children and blessed them, placing his hands on them.”
Read John’s new book, Frank & Ralph, a fictional novel about the retired Guardian Angels of Jesus, in Catholic Nutshell News.
Chapter 3 of Frank & Ralph, ‘Stares from Heaven,’ excerpt:
“In a very real way, Frank and Ralph were the only combinations of angelic holiness with a brokenness familiar to human existence . . . With trepidation, the angelic hosts watched Frank and Ralph.”
Paid subscribers (only $6 a year) get access to new chapters as they are added throughout the coming months.
John Francis Pearring Jr. authored Snarl, a novel about animal redemption, and the premise for A Snarl Theology.
beautiful, John....our lives are a lot alike.