Prayer: Love begets love (Amor gignit amorem – Virgil)

    It’s not easy to speak of prayer because many perceive it as mere words spoken or liturgical celebrations rather than experienced ‘love begetting love’. This comprehension undermines its effectiveness because it fails to identify its true nature. 

    If I have to define prayer, I would assert Augustine’s affirmation that prayer is the articulation of love. Thus, following St John Damascene (Filacolia), prayer is the raising of one’s mind and heart to God because only our longing of mind and heart makes prayer genuine. 

    Saint Teresa’s affirmation also needs attention because prayer is an act of love where words are superfluous. As demonstrated by Bernini, prayer concerns the heart. This focus on the heart enhances the Magister’s affirmation: “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God” (Matthew 5,8).

    Mother Teresa tells us that prayer has nothing to do with asking and a great deal to do with putting oneself in God’s hands: a listening experience deep within our hearts where words prove silent. This insight focuses on Edith Stein’s advice to take everything exactly as it is, put it in God’s hands, and leave it there with Him (Scientia Crucis). Hence, the need to surpass restlessness of heart because “Wherever your treasure is, there the desires of your heart will also be” (Matthew 6,21). Accordingly, prayer evokes ‘Shema’ Yisrael’ (Hear Oh Israel): a listening experience where the ‘I’ allows the “Thou” to caress it without the fear of being obscured by the ‘It’ (Martin Buber, Ich und Du). 

    Seneca reminds us, ‘Si vis amari, ama’ (If you want to be loved, love). As a consequence, prayer integrates a committed response whereby the voice beyond awakens us from our drowsiness – “Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme” (Awake, the voice is calling us, Johann Sebastian Bach, BWV 140): an awakening that unbolts our heart as light illumines its darkened unheeded corners. 

    Used to darkness, the encounter with light can be disorientating. Rather than frightening, it strengthens our resolve to move beyond our confinements and embrace the ‘newness of heart’ lived out in prayer. Hence, Metanoia as an experienced conversion, underlines any talk of prayer, because it concerns a rediscovery of who we are without the illusion of being more than we are. 

    Finding ourselves in a shadowed forest having lost the path that does not stray (Dante Alighieri, Inferno I.1) we easily ignore that our life is but a ‘brief candle’ and a ‘walking shadow’, which proves a ’tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing’ (William Shakespeare, Macbeth, V.5). 

    What makes a difference is not the emphasised individualism that often shades the joy of the Good News, but an openness that challenges us to discern “how wine can come from water and how wheat can grow amid weeds.” (Pope Francis, Evangelli Gaudium, 84) 

    Self-centred, our actions appear more significant, but their futility overwhelms us when we least expect it. Or else, imitating Martha (Luke 10,38-42), we lose sight of the ‘opportune time’ (Kairos) to deepen our self-understanding by listening to the Magister. Accordingly, let not the ‘shadowed forest’ blind us, nor make of prayer an entreaty that seeks to influence rather than an opportunity to embrace the “Amor”. 

    My heart stubbornly bolted, my Beloved waits lovingly until both halves unite, I can understand the significance of the other half, “gignit amorem”. The need to listen, rather than to speak, despite the temptation to babble endlessly, unlocks this stubbornness. 

    This understanding emphasises Kierkegaard’s observation, namely that in prayer we often concentrate too much on God and less on ourselves, forgetting that prayer’s function is to change ourselves rather than influence God. 

    Thus, my heart of stone is transformed into a heart of flesh (Ezekiel. 36,26). Only a heart of flesh can boldly understand that “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”(2 Corinthians. 12,9) And yet, we desire freedom from the cross when we, as disciples, are especially chosen for the cross because “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me” (Matthew. 16,24).

    The insistence “to babbling like pagans”(Matthew. 6,7) tempts discipleship: it is freely embraced when God’s graciousness no longer suffices and thus, the cross is downplayed. Following St. Bernard, the disciple desires the Magister rather than his gifts, but this entails the cross as a key to understanding one’s integrity. 

    Accordingly, this insistence reflects an unconscious attempt or perhaps not, to hide our hearts from God: unless God searches our heart, we are frustrated because as Jeremiah warns, “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.” (29,13). While our hearts are restlessly caught up in a whirlwind of frustrating desires, this endeavour is unrealistic. 

When we speak of prayer, we must be careful not to compile deceptions or pretences, but discern what underlies our relationship with God projected as a dialogue of love in discipleship. 

Despite the beautiful words, persistence in one’s inconsistent ways is not uncommon as we imitate the ‘saqiyah’: a waterwheel powered by a donkey condemned to roaming in circles, its eyes covered, fantasising about arriving! Illusions disappoint, especially when they are confused with genuineness. 

    It is necessary to understand things objectively because subjectivity is a great fabricator of illusions: the ability to distinguish the Magister’s voice from our own. The best way to fulfil this is to live what delineates discipleship: in other words, “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John. 3,3; ἐκεῖνον δεῖ αὐξάνειν, ἐμὲ δὲ ἐλαττοῦσθαι). 

    This is a fundamental first step that summarises a learning experience so that the Magister’s fire enkindles the disciple’s heart with his wisdom: “As I mused, the fire burned; then I spoke with my tongue: ‘O LORD, make me know my end and what is the measure of my days; let me know how fleeting I am!”(Psalm. 39,3) 

    This expressed longing reminds us of conscience’s formation and the need not to be caged by subjectivity, which recaps Touchstone’s consideration: “A fool doth think himself wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool”(William Shakespeare, As You Like It, V.1). As God’s ‘Amor’ consolidates within, the heart’s wakefulness is sharpened so that a need arises to make room for the Magister’s presence in my heart. 

    However, it proves wise to understand the significance that underlies this need: it is associated with childlikeness and pureness of heart and surpassed muddiness now renewed by the Spirit of truth experienced in ‘Metanoia’ (conversion) that finds its expression in ‘self-emptying’ (Kenosis). 

    Nothing should be taken for granted, because an invasive complacency readily reduces our ability to enjoy the fruits of the Spirit: “committed love, joy, peace, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.” (Galatians. 3,22-23) These qualities are acquired slowly through our choices and a willingness to deepen and refresh insights into what it means to be human. 

    The hitches and struggles to overcome them help us to better understand others without the demand to judge them: an insight enriched by intimate dialogue experienced in prayer. The experienced fragility serves as a bridgehead to witness the Magister’s reassuring presence and reach other hearts that seek the Magister’s restfulness: a shared experienced that recalls the Magister’s invitation - “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”(Matthew.11,28).  

    Unless pureness of heart accompanies, abuse is ensured: focusing solely on our needs is easily mistaken for God’s will and the temptation to impose ourselves on others independently of their needs or dignity.  Pureness of heart cannot be limited to things sexual, which sometimes is interpreted as an excuse to detach from others in an attempt not to get hurt. 

    Living one’s discipleship hurts because enkindled by the warmth of the Magister’s presence, the disciple mirrors his ‘self-emptying’ (Kenosis). Hence, the disciple isn’t afraid to plunge into the darkness of troubled hearts that lack the Magister’s restfulness. 

    Witnessing God’s ‘loving-kindness’ (Hesed) initiates an adventure best defined by St. Ignatius as ‘Contemplatio ad amorem’ (The Spiritual Exercises). However, adventures can prove misleading when they are confused with escapades. Our adventure identifies with ‘committed love’ (Agape), enriched by experience. Hence, we anticipate ways and means to identify with the Magister because “For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain” (Philippians 1,21). 

    What initiates this identification is to experience the Shabbat’s stillness envisaged as a “Sanctuary in time” (A. Herschel, Shabbat), which recalls us to a deeper understanding of the cross as a maturing and enriching experience.

    We readily limit the significance of the cross to an emblem to consolidate a religious or cultural identity or enhance our misery. Its true meaning identifies with ‘self-emptiness’ (Kenosis) and God’s ‘committed love’ (Agape), which permit us to credibly ‘come after’ (Bonhoeffer's Nachfolge) witnessing the Magister. Hence, the disciple’s credibility is expressive of a lived-out ‘completeness’ (Shabbat-Shalom) underlined by ‘Silentium’. 

    We are always tempted to speak rather than to listen, to teach rather than to learn, to do rather than to be, but this does not suffice when speaking of discipleship underlined by prayer focused on the cross.

    Discipleship’s path is diverse because we must first learn not to rush: to embrace Shabbat’s stillness as a means to better insights and more profound exploits. A renewed understanding of the cross underlines this experience because its stillness recalls a dialogue of love as its benchmark. 

    Accordingly, “Be still and know that I am God.” (Ps. 46,10) is the beginning of experienced prayer because we learn to ‘hear’ (Shema) because Fides ex auditu (faith derives from hearing, Romans 10,17). It is no wonder that, as indicated by Bonhoeffer, we must allow ourselves to be interrupted by God: to expose our hearts to His voice.  

    Prayer necessitates solitude, often abhorred because it is confused with loneliness. The latter entails an unsought alienation whose hallmark is desolation. Solitude pertains to a feeling of wellbeing so that, as Scipio points out, ‘one is never less alone than when alone’ (Nunquam minus solus quam cum solus), which is enhanced as one grows older because there is more satisfaction and a deeper appreciation of life when one is alone. 

    Solitude underlines discipleship because there is no discipleship without the intimate dialogue summed up by the Shema. Hence, even if outwardly engaged, we embrace our heart’s solitude as we listen attentively to God’s Word: Mary, rather than Martha, thus addresses solitude’s true significance  (Luke. 10,38-42) further strengthened by Luke’s observation: “But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart.” (Luke. 2,19) 

The need to contemplate the Beautiful is itself expressive of ‘Be still’, which underlines solitude. As Plato points out, ‘The contemplation of beauty causes the soul to grow wings’  (Symposium 210a-212a). Harmony underlines this understanding: the search for truth whereby we integrate our sensory experiences with our ethical and intellectual aspirations. 

Contemplation is a big word usually associated with Carthusians and Trappists, Orthodox monks, cloistered nuns or hermits: a lifestyle focused on action is usually excluded.

 How does it relate to a person or persons raising a family or serving in a parish? How does it help to deepen a relationship? Contemplation not only underlines but also furnishes meaning to this hive of activity that characterises our lives. 

    To keep my mind in my heart marks the beginning of contemplation: an insight associated with the Jesus Prayer (Prayer of the Heart). What underlines this acumen is an awareness that the ‘contemplatio’ is a “locked garden, a spring enclosed, a fountain sealed” unlocked by love (Song 4,9.12; 5,1-2). 

    Rather than imitating Martha, who is distracted by her deeds and is thus unable to comprehend the Magister’s words, we need, as Saint Jean Marie Vianney suggest, to close our eyes and mouth as we open our hearts in a dialogue focused on love. 

    Indeed, love is always contemplative because it seeks the other in its wholeness as a condition to be itself whole. It is within this contemplative understanding enkindled by love that the disciple needs to consider his actions: Prayerfully mused over choices underline our actions. Hence, they address our comprehension of discipleship: whether or not we intend to consolidate God’s Presence in our hearts. They also enhance an insight too often ignored: whether or not our actions intend to strengthen others in their thirst for God. Unless we answer the challenges provided by these assertions, our hive of activity is easily limited to a self-centred exercise that fails to reinforce the evangelical demand to serve others. 

It is neither uncommon that contemplation is identified with mere passivity. While this aspect accompanies contemplation, it doesn’t summarise it. The passivity associated with contemplation needs to be understood in its rightful context. 

As we embrace contemplation, we have to learn to be passive in the sense that we have to experience listening as Mary did at the feet of the Magister. Learning to listen deepens our ‘Nachfolge’ (coming after the Magister) and the impact this has on our actions. This shouldn’t surprise us since ‘Amor gignit amorem’ reflects an intimate dialogue of hearts that defines prayer. 

    This isn’t an excuse not to work because the latter is expressive of lived-out contemplation focused on the Magister. There is, therefore, much wisdom in Edith Stein’s advice to reserve the first hour for the Lord: a life centred on prayer proves a motivation to do more, as Jean Marie Vianney, Mother Teresa, and others demonstrate.

    Admittedly, some misuse contemplation to justify a self-centred leisurely lifestyle: some don’t mean all: this should not discourage us from appreciating that contemplation is the cornerstone of all our activities since it integrates the Magister’s presence. We should be wary of anyone who undermines its significance.

    It is easy to convince others and ourselves of what suits us, even when truth is deceived and we find ourselves musing on this insight: “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17,9) We are accountable for our actions, even for those we do our best to ignore: rather than fear, this warning intends to awaken us from our inertia. 

Taking refuge in prayer needs a criterion: balance. Contemplation needs to be balanced by work, which the Benedictine tradition succinctly describes as “Ora et Labora” (Prayer and Work). 

    Origen points out that one who prays ceaselessly combines prayer with work (Treatise on Prayer). The Prayer of the Heart (Jesus Prayer) verifies this assertion: it does not simply recall us to pray but insists that we become prayer so that work becomes its visible sign. Unless our actions are imbued with a listening heart envisaged in contemplation, they merely mirror our subjectivity without necessarily conveying our discipleship.

    A first step to realising this understanding is to live Paul’s insight: “For me to live is Christ.” (Philippians 1,21a). Focused on who we are in God's eyes, we are aware that our attitude can either enrich or impoverish both our prayer and our doings. This is clearly emphasised by Paul’s insistence: “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.” (Romans 12,2) Challenging ourselves - not allowing us to be blinded by our prejudices - we are called to heal the broken-hearted by focusing on the Magister.

    If our heart is shattered by our unwillingness to let go of ourselves, we can hardly realise our responsibility towards others. Although this emphasis on responsibility appears accidental, it underlines prayer because prayer identifies with love, and love is always addressed to the other. 

    One way we sustain our irresponsibility towards others is to make of discipleship an exclusive entity forgetful of Paul’s affirmation that, “for all of you who were baptised into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male or female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3, 27-28) 

    Discipleship is therefore extended to any person who intends the Magister as its way, truth, and life (John. 14,6). Unfortunately, despite the many claims supporting this affirmation, discipleship has too often been identified with specific groups or persons who are ‘called’ to live particular lifestyles as religious or diocesan priests. This historical evaluative understanding has undermined discipleship: rather than enriching, it has led to a misinterpretation that has impoverished the faith community’s self-understanding. 

    Fortunately, despite experiencing setbacks, the faith community has widened its horizons of discipleship by emphasising that everyone is called to holiness (Vatican Council II, Lumen Gentium, Chapter 5). It is also insistent that discipleship determines its identity and presence beyond imposed confines (Vatican Council II, Gaudium et Spes, num. 1-2) because it is the unnoticed silent majority that sustains the faith community in witnessing the Magister as it scrutinises the signs of the times and their interpretation while responding to the Good News (Vatican Council II, Gaudium et Spes, num. 4). 

    Although not necessarily appreciated, their adherence to evangelical values sustains those who are visibly called upon to direct our eyes to the mystery of the Kingdom by embracing evangelical counsels that recall the Magister’s presence: the chaste, the poor, and the obedient one (Pope John Paul II, Vita Consecrata, num. 1).

    As we speak of prayer, we are challenged to be self-critical and measure ourselves not with what we desire or imposed self-understandings: prayer recalls us to our senses because it reminds us of the need for a lived out conversion focused on love.

Martin