Our own spiritual seasons can be as subtle as a Florida autumn. Granted, in our spiritual journey we may indeed experience glorious autumns, radiant springtimes, interior snowstorms, and major heat waves; but often the seasons are subdued and may be overlooked if we are not paying attention.

• Perhaps we sense a dryness where spiritual fruit used to grow—or on the other hand we may find sweet nourishment in places where we would ordinarily not be likely to look.

• Perhaps there is a delicate shift in our image of God or in the type of prayer to which we feel called.
• It may be that God is present to us in a way that is simply less obvious than before, so that it seems for a while as if God were not there at all.

• Or God may be speaking to us in silence…
• …or through small events in our lives—outwardly unremarkable occurrences or encounters that we might tend to ignore.

One kind of prayer which can help us notice God’s presence in our everyday lives, as well as our own response to God’s love for us, is the daily Consciousness Examen. It doesn’t have to take more than a few minutes. Two forms of it are found at the sites below:

The Daily Examen

Prayer of Examen (from Creighton University)

One thing that did not change, however, was the emphasis on prayer.  I would like to share with you a passage from the letter on prayer she wrote to all the Sisters in 1884.

In the Cenacle all is done, all is obtained by prayer; it begins, accompanies, and concludes all our actions…

If I hold my life in my hands (Ps 119:109) before God; if, living by faith, things of time are for me as already passed and things of eternity as already begun; if I have found the spring of “living water”; if I possess the one thing needful (Lk 10:42), what more can stir my desires, what struggle will be beyond my courage, what difficulty can arrest my course, what error or prejudice can weaken my faith? Closely united to God, loved by the Lord of all things, terrible to the devil, the prayerful soul accomplishes perfectly the divine will.  She fulfills her vocation as a Religious of the Cenacle, and can cry out with the Prophet-King, “Funes ceciderunt mihi in praeclaris”: “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places” (Ps 16:6).

Although Mother Marie-Aimée’s reflections are addressed to the Cenacle Sisters, surely all of us may find our fulfillment by becoming as joyfully docile to God as the “prayerful soul” she describes.

Prayer is strange in being an activity where no success is possible. There is no perfect prayer — except insofar as it corresponds to one’s real situation and represents a total turning toward God. The ecstatic prayer of a mystic is in no way superior to the agonized stumbling of a sinner weighed down with guilt and deformed by a lifetime of estrangement from God. Both attempts represent the upward striving of created nature to find rest in God; both are real, both are “successful.” Both remain imperfect, too, because perfection does not belong in this life; it is to be expected in the next. And when God’s judgment turns everything upside down and exalts the lowly, who can say which of these prayers has the greater capacity to be raised?” (Toward God: The Ancient Wisdom of Western Prayer, 24)

“Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words” (Romans 8:26).

Visit this house, O God,
that no evil may reside here.
Cleanse our hearts and our spirits,
protect us from the deceptions of the evil one.
Save us from lightning and tempest,
from fire and flood, from pestilence and famine,
From every bodily harm,
from sickness of mind and spirit,
From blindness and hardness of heart,
and from all lack of charity.
From sadness that turns us away from you,
from fear that takes us captive.
May our dark places be made light,
and may our hearts be lifted.
May we be the sweet fragrance of Christ to God,
spreading the knowledge of Jesus everywhere.
May we be among the pure in heart,
whose blessing will be to see you.
May your holy angels dwell here to keep us in peace,
and may your blessing be upon us always.

- – - – -

Photo of angel sculpture from Houston Cenacle

"Let it be with me according to your word." Our Lady of the Cenacle (detail) by Maria d'Agliano

Perhaps the most basic version of this approach is exemplified by my ex-Christian friend Josh.  His view is that prayer means asking God for what we want; and the very fact of asking somehow obligates God to give it to us.  This a popular conviction, even, I fear, among many of us who wouldn’t admit it.

However, the fact that not all prayers are answered in the way we wish poses a problem which, for Josh, renders the usefulness of prayer null and provides for him evidence of God’s non-existence.  (See “Answered Prayer.”).  For the faithful there is often a different twist.  If the result is not what we prayed for, we conclude that we are to blame: either our prayer was not worthy, or our faith was not strong enough, or something was lacking in us that we can’t yet figure out.

The other day, glancing through the classified ads in our local newspaper I ran across a particularly Catholic example of the use of prayer as magic, this time in the form of a prayer to Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Now it is a fine thing to ask the intercession of Our Lady or of any of the saints.  What was troubling to me was not the prayer itself but the sentence tacked on at the end: “Say this prayer for 3 consecutive days and then you must publish it and it will be granted to you.” (This is a variation of the novena that requires two copies to be left in church every day for the nine days and assures that your request will not fail to be granted.)

I have no doubt of the faith and sincerity of the person who paid to have the prayer published for three days running and I heartily hope and pray that his or her needs will be abundantly met.  I also believe that God welcomed that fervent prayer into the embrace of the divine heart.

Nevertheless, the idea that we can obtain whatever we want from God – or even what we desperately need – by doing everything just right (whether by publishing a prayer, leaving copies in church, or even simply saying the right words at the right time) distorts what prayer is meant to be.  And it also misrepresents the loving sovereignty of God who does not require perfection of us, but who suffers with us, rejoices with us, and holds us in the everlasting arms no matter what happens.

Listen to the Carmelite Ruth Burrows:

What do we mean by prayer?…Almost always when we talk about prayer we are thinking of something we do and, from that standpoint, questions, problems, confusion, discouragement, illusions multiply. … Our Christian knowledge assures us that prayer is essentially what God does, how God addresses us, looks at us.  It is not primarily something we are doing to God, something we are giving to God but what God is doing for us.  And what God is doing for us is giving us the divine Self in love. (Essence of Prayer)

In the private prayer of Christians, there is no one form that is the most acceptable to God.  Prayers of petition, silent meditation, memorized prayers, novenas, rosaries, prayer with scripture, begging on our knees, singing, journaling, chatting with God during the day, simple presence – the list of Christian prayer practices is endless.  What is not optional is that we pray.

Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. (Hebrews 4:16)

We are called to show up. We are called to be present and docile to the Holy Spirit working in us. But we are not the ones in charge when we pray.

All that concerns us here and now is what concerned Jesus: that God should have just whatever he wants.  Jesus … declined to live from his own wellspring but only from the Father.  This is what we have to do; this is how we must live. (Burrows, Essence of Prayer)

(1. Soul of Christ, sanctify me.)

(2. Body of Christ, save me.)

(3. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.)

(4. Water from the side of Christ, wash me.)

(5. Passion of Christ, strengthen me.)

(6. Within thy wounds, hide me.)

(7. Let me never be separated from Thee.)

(8. From the wicked foe defend me.)

(9. At the hour of my death, call me.)

(10. That I may praise Thee forever.)

- – - – -

That with thy saints I may praise thee
for ever and ever.  Amen.
Ut cum Sanctis tuis laudem te
in saecula saeculorum.

When Sister Elizabeth was about ten years old, her parents dropped her off at church to sing with the choir at a parish mission.  Listening more attentively than most children might to the priest’s talk, she was disheartened to hear heaven described as an eternity of looking at God – a boring eternity of standing in long rows, as she pictured it, forever and ever and ever.  Little Elizabeth decided then and there that if this was heaven, she wasn’t interested.  As soon as she got home, she reported her decision to her parents, who understandably never again allowed her to attend a parish mission.

What are we entreating God to bestow upon us in this final petition of the Anima Christi?  Are we begging to stand in never-ending rows, gazing and praising in deathless boredom?  No, in truth, we are praying for the fulfillment of our purpose and the apex of joy.

If you are at all like me, you have moments of heartfelt gratitude, interspersed with moments  (sometimes more tenacious than the grateful ones) of grumbling, doubt, discouragement, guilt, and unrestrained ego.  It seems unlikely that anyone would claim that the latter are our happier times.  In fact, if we consider the occasions when we feel inclined toward grateful or admiring praise, whether for the greatness of God or for a good meal prepared by a friend, I imagine we will find that not only are these far from boring, but that they are among our most satisfying times.

Alleluia rarely springs from boredom or disinterest.  It may, however, arise during seasons of pain.  When I arrived at the local hospital where Sister Elizabeth (grown up by this time) was in the emergency room awaiting surgery for a broken ankle, I heard singing coming from one of the cubicles.  The voice sounded familiar.  It turned out to belong to Sister Elizabeth, lying on a gurney and singing the Magnificat: “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my savior.”

I cannot forget a comment posted on YouTube: “On a very sad night….Praise is all I can do.”

After death, though, there will be no more pain or sorrow to dilute our praise.  “Bid me come to thee, that with thy saints I may praise thee for ever and ever.”

Saved Together

And notice this – we are not saved in isolation, but along with all the holy ones of God.  Isaiah emphasizes the communal nature of God’s consoling and glorious appearing:

Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
and all people shall see it together,
for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.’ (40:5)

In Paul’s letter to the Romans we read that humans beings are not alone in waiting “with eager longing” for the completion of God’s purpose.  Although groaning now, “the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God” (8:18-23).

It is right, then, that we pray to be united in praise with God’s holy ones – who will probably be a motley crew.  Indeed, there might be people whose presence among the blessed assembly will surprise us; while others might be astonished to find us included among the sanctified.

Joseph Tetlow, S.J., paraphrases the final petition petition of the Anima Christi this way:

Stand me solid among angels and saints
chanting yes to all you have done,
exulting in all you mean to do forever and ever.

At last, our purpose as human beings will be complete and our whole being, like that of Christ, will be a joyful yes to God.  The very idea of saying yes too often evokes fears of the thing I least want to happen (thereby summoning forth a gritting of teeth and the pious utterance, “O God, give me the strength to accept your will”).  But finally the will of God will be received for what in reality it has always been, the source of peace and joy; and in that gracious will we will be freed to exult.

From “Me” to “Thee”

Ron Hansen points out the grammatical movement in the Anima Christi from “me” to “thee”:

Nine lines of the prayer have been completed by the accusative pronoun me.  But as the “Anima Christi” winds up, there is the “from you” of the eighth line and the “to you” of the eleventh, and the twelfth, penultimate line will have Christ’s te without preposition, imitating Christ’s shift to the central point in the writer’s existence.

Ron Hansen, A Stay Against Confusion: Essays on Faith and Fiction (HarperCollins, 2002), 174.

“He must increase,” says John the Baptist, “but I must decrease.”  May the Spirit of Jesus work in us as we pray the Anima Christi, so that the same shift toward Christ may be taking place even now in the grammar of our own lives.

- – - – -

O God worthy of all praise,
May I not withhold praise, waiting until life is perfected
Or until I am worthy to exalt you.
May my whole being be a flame of praise to you and in you.

At the hour of my death, call me
and bid me come to thee,
that with thy saints I may praise thee
for ever and ever.  Amen.
In hora mortis meae voca me,
et iube me venire ad te.
Ut cum Sanctis tuis laudem te
in saecula saeculorum. Amen.

- – - – -

“Praise Thee Forever” image by Rose Hoover, rc

God calls, not just at the moment of death, but through our day-to-day lives.

Anima Christi – 9

(1. Soul of Christ, sanctify me.)

(2. Body of Christ, save me.)

(3. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.)

(4. Water from the side of Christ, wash me.)

(5. Passion of Christ, strengthen me.)

(6. Within thy Wounds, hide me.)

(7. Let Me Never Be Separated from Thee.)

(8. From the Wicked Foe Defend Me.)

(9. At the hour of my death, call me.)

(10. That I May Praise Thee Forever.)

- – - – -

At the hour of my death, call me
and bid me come to Thee.
In hora mortis meae voca me,
et iube me venire ad te.

There is a book by Alfred McBride, which seems to be out of print now, called Remaining Faithful (or perhaps it is called Staying Faithful, which is the only similar title I can find by Father McBride).

In this book he speaks of a woman who founded a Baptist Church in Washington, D.C., ministering to poor black people who had traveled north from the rural South to find work.  Called Bishop Jones, she had a radio show on Sunday mornings.  Here is a passage from a sermon given on Palm Sunday:

Children, remember how hard it was when you worked on the farm.  At the end of the day your back was sore.  Your arms ached.  Your head throbbed.  But then you heard your mother come out on the porch and say, ‘Come on in.  It’s time to eat.’  And as you sat and ate, your aches and pains melted away and peace filled your heart.

Now next Thursday is Holy Thursday.  Christ will come out on the church porch and say, ‘Come on in and eat.’  And when you do he will take away the ache in your heart and the sorrow in your soul.  He will fill you with love and peace and forgiveness.

And an even greater day will come, the day of your death.  Then Christ will come out on the heavenly porch and say, ‘Children, come in and eat.  I have an eternal banquet ready for you.  Welcome home.’

God is leading us where we want to be – to our heart’s desire.  We are being led to God.  God is leading us home.

What a wonderful prayer – “bid me come to Thee.”

According to Pope John Paul II:

This is the prayer of Christian hope, which in no way detracts from the joy of the present, while entrusting the future to God’s gracious and loving care.

“Iube me venire ad te!” [Bid me come to Thee]: this is the deepest yearning of the human heart, even in those who are not conscious of it.

Grant, O Lord of life, that we may be ever vividly aware of this and that we may savor every season of our lives as a gift filled with promise for the future.

(Letter of His Holiness Pope John Paul II to the Elderly, October 1999)

At the hour of my death, call me
and bid me come to Thee.
In hora mortis meae voca me,
et iube me venire ad te.

- – - – -

“Call Me” image by Rose Hoover, rc

(1. Soul of Christ, sanctify me.)

(2. Body of Christ, save me.)

(3. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.)

(4. Water from the side of Christ, wash me.)

(5. Passion of Christ, strengthen me.)

(6. Within thy Wounds, hide me.)

- – - – -

Let me never be separated from thee.
Ne permittas me separari a te.

There’s a deep sense in which we are never, ever separated from God, for if we were not in God, and God in us, we would not exist.

But on another level, we can separate ourselves from God, when our lives are not in harmony with God’s love.  Or we can feel separated from God by simply not being mindful of God’s presence, by not reminding ourselves throughout the day of the love God has for us and for every person.

Or sometimes it happens that God seems to hide the divine face from us.  Then we feel ourselves in darkness; or as if all the road signs have suddenly disappeared from our path.  In reality God may be working in us in a quiet, unseen way that we can’t comprehend.

But not being able to see what God is doing may drive me absolutely crazy, or at the very least make me think I’ve forgotten how to pray.  In this holy wilderness, the Spirit of God can work unhampered by what I think I understand and by what I think I need for my own sanctity. And because I can’t see what God is doing, there is probably less chance that I will get in the way.

Then I need to pray (although I may not feel inclined to pray) and to remember that I am not really separated from God who is still with me and in me and guiding me.

So I cry out to God:

In you, O God, I live and move and have my being, but the least distraction seems to separate me from you.
Without you, I would not be, but I often try to go my own way.
You hold me in the everlasting arms, but still I am afraid in the darkness.
Remind me once again, O God, for I am weak and forgetful, of your abiding love and faithfulness.

Let me never be separated from thee.
Ne permittas me separari a te.

- – - – -

Presence in Darkness image by Rose Hoover, rc

(1. Soul of Christ, sanctify me.)

(2. Body of Christ, save me.)

(3. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.)

(4. Water from the side of Christ, wash me.)

(5. Passion of Christ, strengthen me.)

- – - – -

O good Jesus, hear me.
Within thy wounds hide me.
O bone Iesu, exaudi me.
Intra tua vulnera absconde me.

This is not a gloomy prayer, but it is a realistic one.  At times – no matter how intoxicated we are with the blood of Christ, no matter how strengthened by his Passion – at times we all need a refuge from what hurts or threatens us.  The very best hiding place is Jesus himself, who calls us to share his wounds and who graciously shares all our wounds.

A number of years ago, I had been having a very difficult and painful year.  One morning, helping out away from home for a month or so, I was praying, and I seemed to hear —

— Pardon me, but I need to pause here for a brief aside.  I want to underline the words “I seemed to hear,” because too often people (who as far as I know are not prophets with the right to proclaim, “Thus says the Lord”) — too often people recite verbatim what they have heard from God, as if God were dictating to them precise words in English.

Perhaps I am too suspicious, but I tend to believe that, although God certainly does speak to us, our hearing is not infallible, and we listen inevitably through our personal filters.  I am reminded of the acquaintance who called me one morning with the announcement, “I heard the Lord tell me not to go to work this morning.”  Yeah, right, I thought.  Why doesn’t God give me that message more often?

I am also reminded of the story about the president of a Christian-sponsored university who called a wealthy woman in town and said to her, “Mrs. So-and-So, I spoke to the Lord this morning, and he told me that you were going to give a substantial donation to our fund appeal.”

Whereupon Mrs. So-and-So replied, “Well, Mr. Jones, that’s strange, because I talked to the Lord this morning too, and he didn’t tell me a thing about it.”

But God does speak to us, probably more often in the depth of our hearts than in actual words.  So anyhow, that particular morning, in my own prayer, aware of the long painful months behind me, I seemed to hear God say to me — though not in a voice, rather in my heart — “It will continue to hurt, but I will be with you in it.”

And it was true.  After I returned to the situation I had left, the pain did not cease, but God was with me in the pain.

Note that the proof of my listening was in the living-out.  I accepted what I had heard at the time of hearing it, but it was shown to be of God in the living out of what I had heard.

And it was only in looking back later that I could name my experience a kind of hiddenness in the wounds of Christ.  While this refuge did not shelter me from suffering, I was no longer overwhelmed by it, and the gift of peace was given (limited, I must add, by my ability to receive it).

Within thy wounds, hide me.

When my wounds, when your wounds, are united with the wounds of Christ, then our sufferings become redemptive, not only for ourselves, but for the world.  Saint Paul says in Colossians:

I am now rejoicing in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am completing what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions for the sake of his body, that is, the church (1:24).

Not quite on the theological level of Saint Paul, but still worth paying attention to is Leonard Cohen, whose song, “Anthem,” has this line in the refrain:

“There is a crack, a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in.”

Perhaps the cross can be seen as a sacred crack in the universe that lets the divine light in, that divine light that heals and saves and brings peace.  And perhaps our own wounds, united with the wounds of Christ, can be seen as cracks in us that can let in the light of God.

O good Jesus, hear me,
within thy wounds hide me.

O bone Iesu, exaudi me.
Intra tua vulnera absconde me.

- – - – -

“Blue marble” image courtesy of NASA, edited by Rose Hoover, rc

(1. Soul of Christ, sanctify me.)

(2. Body of Christ, save me.)

(3. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.)

(4. Water from the side of Christ, wash me.)

- – - – -

Passion of Christ, strengthen me.
Passio Christi, conforta me.

Jesus, may your crucifixion, emblem not only of self-giving, but also of weakness and helplessness, strengthen me.  May your weakness give me strength.

We would normally turn to someone we thought was strong to give us strength, wouldn’t we?  But Jesus on the cross is helpless.

Father Michael J. Buckley, SJ, in “A Letter to the Ordinands” (published in The Berkeley Jesuit in Spring 1972), poses a strange question concerning those feeling called to the priesthood.  He asks, “Is this man weak enough to be a priest?”

What do I mean by weakness? Not the experience or sin, though it may contextualize sin, but the experience of a peculiar liability to suffering. A profound sense of inability, both to do and protect even after great effort, to author, perform, effect what we have wanted or with the success we would have wanted, an inability to secure one’s own future, to protect oneself, to live with clarity and assurance or to ward off shame and suffering.

Father Buckley goes on to compare Jesus and Socrates – Socrates who gave a profound speech, “found no cause for fear; drank the poison and died.”

Jesus—how much the contrary. Jesus was almost hysterical with terror and fear; looked for comfort from friends and an escape from death and found neither; finally got control over himself and accepted his death in silence and lonely isolation.

…Socrates never expressed sorrow and pain at the betrayal of friends. He was possessed and integral, never over-extended, convinced that the just man could never suffer genuine hurt. And for this reason, Socrates—one of the greatest men who has ever existed, a paradigm of what humanity can achieve within the individual— Socrates was a philosopher. And for these same reasons, Jesus of Nazareth was a priest, ambiguous, suffering, mysterious and salvific.

But is it only the ordained priest who is called to enter into the salvific weakness of Christ?  No, because Jesus calls us all to take up our cross and follow him (see Matthew 16:24; Mark 8:34; Luke 9:23).  And here it is that we find power – here in the very depths of weakness and helplessness.

Saint Paul hears Jesus say, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”  And Paul realizes that he doesn’t have to rely on some illusory personal strength: “for whenever I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:9,10).

The Latin word used here, conforta, comes from late, Medieval Latin, not classical Latin, and it is also the root of our English word “comfort.”  So sometimes this petition is translated, “Passion of Christ, comfort me.”

How we need comfort!  Our peace can be so easily disturbed: for minor things – or for major, earthshaking, heartrending things that we cannot change or influence.

So we pray:

Passion of Christ, comfort me,
passion of Christ, encourage me.
O Christ, comfort me in your own moment of comfortlessness,
when you cried out,
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
O Jesus,
in your powerful weakness, strengthen me.
in your comfortless consolation, console me.
in your efficacious failure, recreate me.

Passion of Christ, strengthen me.
Passio Christi, conforta me.

- – - – - – - – - -

“Southern Cross with Spanish Moss” photograph by Rose Hoover, rc