Prayer: Redefined

Recently our group met to discuss the possibility of re-interpreting the idea and the practice of prayer for those of us who might have a bit of an agnostic streak... and what forms and conceptions of Christian prayer historically have set precedent for this. To begin our discussion I read aloud a poem by Edward Hirsch:

Wild Gratitude

Tonight when I knelt down next to our cat, Zooey,
And put my fingers into her clean cat's mouth,
And rubbed her swollen belly that will never know kittens,
And watched her wriggle onto her side, pawing the air,
And listened to her solemn little squeals of delight,
I was thinking about the poet, Christopher Smart,
Who wanted to kneel down and pray without ceasing
In every one of the splintered London streets,

And was locked away in the madhouse at St. Luke's,
With his sad religious mania, and his wild gratitude,
And his grave prayers for the other lunatics,
And his great love for his speckled cat, Jeoffry.
All day today—August 13, 1983—I remembered how
Christopher Smart blessed this same day in August, 1759,
For its calm bravery and ordinary good conscience.

This was the day that he blessed the Postmaster General
"And all conveyancers of letters" for their warm humanity,
And the gardeners for their private benevolence
And intricate knowledge of the language of flowers,
And the milkmen for their universal human kindness.
This morning I understood that he loved to hear—
As I have heard—the soft clink of milk bottles
On the rickety stairs in the early morning,

And how terrible it must have seemed
When even this small pleasure was denied him.
But it wasn't until tonight when I knelt down
And slipped my hand into Zooey's waggling mouth
That I remembered how he'd called Jeoffry "the servant
Of the Living God duly and daily serving Him,"
And for the first time understood what it meant.
Because it wasn't until I saw my own cat

Whine and roll over on her fluffy back
That I realized how gratefully he had watched
Jeoffry fetch and carry his wooden cork
Across the grass in the wet garden, patiently
Jumping over a high stick, calmly sharpening
His claws on the woodpile, rubbing his nose
Against the nose of another cat, stretching, or
Slowly stalking his traditional enemy, the mouse,
A rodent, "a creature of great personal valour,"
And then dallying so much that his enemy escaped.

And only then did I understand
It is Jeoffry—and every creature like him—
Who can teach us how to praise—purring
In their own language,
Wreathing themselves in the living fire.

Earlier in the week my one-year-old son, Ezra, and I went for a walk in the woods. I was watching Ezra explore and discover sticks and leaves and trees and rocks, and I was moved by the way he seemed to give attention to the smallest details of such things. I was reminded by watching him how good it can be to pay attention to small things. I am reminded of this, also, when I hear this poem.

Poets and artists do us service in this way: they use words and images to bring the details of what they have seen to our attention, reminding us of things we often overlook, pointing us toward realities that are beyond our immediate perception. The contemplative tradition in Christian history does this for us as well, setting precedent for our re-interpretation of what it means to pray.

I am proposing that it is neither pious nor precocious to pay attention to small things and to seek to be shaped by the encounter. Neither is it any less a form of prayer.

Contemplative practices, imagination, poetry and art can help open up greater possibilities for our community as we seek wholeness, responsibilty, connection, and change, both personal and communal.

In our group discussion the question arose whether it is necessary first to "know what you believe" about transcendence in order to engage in liturgical practice. We all seemed to agree that there is a certain value in being open to the benefits of ritual and practice while remaining uncertain as to how or whether they correspond to definitive cosmic realities. We recalled with humor the concluding line from Jim Holt's review of Richard Dawkins' recent book:

[Those] ranging from agnostics to "spiritual" types for whom religion is not so much a metaphysical proposition as it is a way of life, illustrated by stories and enhanced by rituals —might take consolation in the wise words of the Rev. Andrew Mackerel, the hero of Peter De Vries’s 1958 comic novel “The Mackerel Plaza”: “It is the final proof of God’s omnipotence that he need not exist in order to save us.”

During our discussion we also talked about work. This is apropos, because the rhythms of daily life are to be considered in contemplative practices. It may be difficult to see a connection between work and contemplation. However, if we evaluate the meaning and the practice of work (somewhat counter-culturally) in terms of vocation and community and not simply in terms of bottom-line economic profit, we may more easily envision our labor, occupation, or profession being done in a contemplative habitude.

Contemplative practices involve an ongoing cyclical movement (in our minds and in our daily "rhythms") between contemplation and work. As a group, we can help each other with this ...by reminding each other just how good it can be to pay attention to small things and by encouraging each other in the practice of doing so regularly.