Prayerlessness Prayer

Lord, I know not what I ought to ask of you. You only know what I need. You know me better than I know myself. O Father, give to your child what he himself knows not to ask. Teach me to pray. Pray yourself in me. -- Francois Fenelon

SOMEWHERE ON A PATH IN THE MISSOURI RIVER BOTTOMS -- God, why don't I want to be alone with you? These hours on this hike are yours. There will be no interruptions. No one knows where I am. Heck, I don't even know where I am. Do you?

How many thousands of times have we met in solitude over the years because I needed something? Peace. A plan. Forgiveness. Revenge. Understanding. Comfort. An analysis. Proof. Tears. Mortification. Vivification.

And you were there, mostly.

Too often the center of my prayer has been, "Medicate me."
I'm sick, write the script.
I hurt, up the dose.
I need a decision, make the incision.

I've resented you for refusing to be my pharmacological pusher. But out of loving discipline you whispered, "Physician, heal thyself." (Because you knew I'd try and you knew I couldn't.)

So if prayer is not about doing, fixing, creating or prestidigitating, I'm afraid I've been doing it wrong. And it's not that I regret the great prayers that could have been answered. And it's not that I blush with embarrassment over my theological error. And it's not that I feel ashamed over my narcissism.

I weep because I missed you. You stood at the door and knocked. And I stared through the peephole and announced, "I gave at the office."

Pray yourself in me. Pry yourself into me. Take hold of what I don't know how to let go of. Let me learn again that prayer is mostly about loving you and letting you love me.

I guess nothing productive has to happen on this walk today.

I just want to be alone with you.

Just Visiting

I visited a church today.

I am a single mom with two boys, five and seven. Yes, I see the irony of deciding to go back to church on Father’s Day.

I am a cancer survivor. It’s been eighteen months since I was diagnosed, two months since I finished up chemo. I’m supposed to be exuberant about beating the disease, but with no enemy to fight every day, I’m sure who I am anymore.

I am a doubter. Okay, a cynic. I can’t swallow mom and dad’s old-time organs and homilies. But I wonder if there might be answers. About the origins of the universe. About evil and suffering. About how my life has turned out this way.

I am gay. Nobody at this church needs to know that. I’ll slip in late and out early and get what I can.

I am a hypocrite. There won’t be a scripture quoted in service today that I couldn’t quote myself. But this is my Sunday routine. Maybe today I’ll whisper I’m sorry again. Maybe I’ll start over again. Maybe I’ll promise to do better. This is my Sunday routine . . . which follows my Friday and Saturday night routine.

I could have been any of these people when I walked through the church doors today, though I probably wouldn’t be mistaken for a single mom. I love the anonymity of church vacation church experiences. Nobody waits in line to talk to me. Nobody tenses up as I walk by. I could be anyone.

This was the “happening” church in St. Louis for young people. Reports were that Gateway shares much in common with this congregation. Because Gateway is launching a multisite church strategy in Austin this fall, I thought I’d do a little advance scouting just to see how this church does multiple campuses.

I arrived on campus a little late. Everyone else, apparently, was dutifully on time. No one in the parking lot to direct me. No signs. No one in the lobby to greet me. No reassuring nods or smiles.

The festivities had already begun, so I employed stealth to find a nondescript seat in the back row shadows. What an amazing facility! Comfortable seats, excellent acoustics, enormous stage.

The speaker, a guy, 30ish, wearing standard-issue preacher khakis was talking from I Corinthians about the Lord’s Supper and was building a compelling case for John Calvin’s view of the Eucharist. Transubstantiation. Consubstantiation. Swinglyism. All the views were represented. He cited his Reformed seminary training four times and quoted the authors right-thinking young scholars are quoting these days.

Please don’t misunderstand. This is a great church, led by talented, Christ-following, dynamic people. Jesus was present in the service. I’m sure he was pleased.

But I was alone.

I felt like a new candidate for the Masons who didn’t know the secret handshake. I was an expatriate living in Tehran. I was the junior high kid sitting alone at the end of the lunch table. Their backs were to me when I arrived, when I sat, and when I left.

I was coaching a business owner in Austin once about how to create a powerful sales meeting for his company. Of course, agendas are important. Definitely have well-spoken, confident communicators. You can’t go wrong with some strong visuals. Make ‘em laugh. Pump them up with motivation. But, I would be a pathetic advisor if I didn’t let him in on the secret ingredient – human connection, a tropically warm relational temperature in the room. Only about 1/3 of human connection that matters comes from the platform. Most of it is generated from the verbals and nonverbals of the insiders or members or in-the-know caste. At a typical sales meeting, a large percentage of folks arrive, sit, and leave alone.

And they wonder if they belonged there. They wonder if they mattered. And those nagging questions will be unconsciously factored into their mental calculus of whether or not they will go to the next meeting. “I probably shouldn’t go to the meeting this month. I’ve got some calls I need to make today.” (Subtext: “I don’t want to feel alone again, like I did last time.”

You never know, do you? What is that person’s story who is sitting near me in church . . . just two rows up and three chairs to the right? He’s well dressed. It seems like he’s into this whole experience. I wonder why he is alone.

Should I say something to him after the service? Maybe just a smile or something?

I’m sure it is a great church, this one I checked out today. I don’t even know whether or not I would have enjoyed a few questions like, “Is it your first time today? Where are you from? What did you think of the service?” I’m positive I would have turned down a lunch invitation. But, even if I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it, I wanted/needed to be connected to something bigger than me this morning.

I am a pastor from another town. I’m wondering who I am and where I belong in the Body of Christ.

I visited a church today.

Together

ST. LOUIS, MO -- Steph and I returned last night from our week at Lake Tahoe (without the three ankle-biters). I know you will understand why I've kept a low profile from email and blogging during that time. We took the week to focus on one another. It's been ten years since we were married and two years since we have spent time away from the kids.

We return from our trip with a sense of fullness brought on by . . .

Snow-capped peaks of the Sierra-Nevada. Walks along the shores of a blue mountain lake, road trip conversations in the car (and, yes, some squabbling about map navigation). Lounging in our condo with an amazing view. Lazy mornings with nowhere to be. Good food. Good wine. Curiosity and listening to one another. Renewal of our marriage identity apart from offspring. Reading books -- some good, some mindless. Seeing movies -- all mindless. Sailing across Tahoe on a 55 foot catamaran.

We feel full.

Though I have maintained radio silence the past couple of weeks, I want to recognize the significant role you all have played in making last week possible, as well as this whole sabbatical. We have been protected and blessed in every way. Issues with travel and cars and health and other barriers have easily worked themselves out. God has shown up in a variety of ways.

Many of you have asked the question, "Ted, why are you doing this blog and email on your sabbatical? Sure, I'll pray for you, but I don't want you to spend your time communicating with us our answering our emails." Many of you have also stated that you haven't felt comfortable commenting on the blogs you are reading because you didn't want to be a bother or add something that isn't helpful.

As I was preparing spiritually for these two months away, I felt the temptation to seal myself off from community . . . to move into solitude and quality time with my family. And there is probably wisdom in this approach. But I sensed that God want me to do this journey with a group of comrades. Honestly, my life the past few years has been somewhat bereft of community. That's certainly not your fault. Out of fear, I've chosen to walk alone . . . to not share my heart fully in community. More accurately, I've been paralyzed in pursuing relationship. God said, "Don't do this alone anymore. Even while you are away from these people, step toward them. Walk together."

And many of you have accepted that invitation to walk together. Your prayers and your words have awakened something in me. I'm glad you're my companions in this.

One of C.S. Lewis' contemporaries, Charles Williams, once wrote, "The altar must often be built in one place in order that the fire from heaven may descend somewhere else." That's an apt picture of intercessory prayer in the context of community. We build altars. We ask God to move on behalf of a loved one. And though we may not see the fire descending from heaven in their lives, we nevertheless played our roles.

The Lord is nurturing and restoring me these days because of the altars you have built in prayer for me.

I'm glad we are together.