"I just don't have space in my life for prayer." How many times I have heard these words. In response to this common complaint I can only say, "Frankly, folks, I just don't think you're trying."
At Sojourners we've begun to understand more deeply our need to pray. This need has shown us that sometimes we are pathetically human. Our humanity seems to show up in our most spiritual endeavors, at precisely the places where we try furiously to leave it behind. With the hope of encouraging us all, I would like to share with you my own less-than-saintly journey toward the discipline of prayer.
I began by looking for empty spaces in my life for prayer and found, much to my surprise, that there are many:
1. Waiting for meetings to begin: At the rate of three meetings a week starting 12 minutes late each, I found that in a year I can add 31.2 hours to my prayer life.
2. Waiting for help when the car breaks down: This will happen nine times in the average Christian's life; 114 if you live in community. It often means a long stretch of time alone in the dark--prayer is not only recommended, but essential.
3. Waiting for the bathroom: This is especially fruitful because in community it usually happens several times a day. Morning is best. Before community meetings is also a convenient time: Multiply the number of people in your household by five minutes, and the total may be added to your contemplative time log.
4. Waiting at the grocery check-out counter: This will take awhile in anyone's life. If you live in a large community household in the city and it's Saturday morning and Christian compassion moves you to allow in front of you everyone who says, "What are you, feeding the cast of The Ten Commandments?" you can write this off as a day of retreat.
Each day at least one, and usually several, of these things were part of my life, and I was getting close to hitting the "hour in prayer" goal that I had set up for myself. But I began to feel vaguely uncentered; one might even say scattered. It wasn't working.
So I went to others to glean wisdom. For days I carried a notebook, copiously recording answers to the question that haunted my thoughts, "Where do you find space in your life for prayer?" A member of our peace ministry replied, "My life is a prayer." Except for Thomas Merton and a handful of desert ascetics, this response simply doesn't cut the mustard. He tried again: "My work is my prayer?" Nice try. He continued, "Dreams are the language of God; my sleep is my prayer." And as I left, he was shouting something about snoring being the ecumenical-community version of the rosary.
The next person I approached a tenant organizer in the neighborhood who responded, "I have a weekly P.R.p.m."
"Oh," I said. "Does it hurt?"
He explained that he makes an appointment with himself every Thursday afternoon, writes it in his little black date book as "P.R.p.m."--Prayer and Reflection afternoon. I was fascinated by this. But I tend to be forgetful about appointments and would live in constant fear of the day when I had an appointment with myself and both of us didn't show up.
"I thought that perhaps altering my daily schedule would help. I looked at its strengths and weaknesses. Glaring was the fact that I have a hard time getting up in the morning. I've been told that it's because I stay up too late which, quite frankly, I think is an exaggeration. I began to have new admiration for one member of our community who arises every morning at 4:30 or 5 o'clock to descend to the basement to pray. I know she does this because I saw her one morning on my way to bed.
She has made a "poustinia," a small cell for prayer, out of a tiny bathroom downstairs. We may be the only community in existence that has a throne under the altar. I thought that perhaps I too could wake occasionally before dawn to pray. After one try I came to the conclusion that God is preoccupied with China at that time of day.
Some community members use props: Some light candles, others claim that prayer comes to them only when accompanied by the '60s music of Simon and Garfunkel. One very spiritual friend of the community once came and spoke to us and suggested that some of us might be helped in our prayer if we had an icon--"a picture, an image that brings Jesus to the mind." Ed Spivey, art director and spiritual giant that he is, responded, "I've had a Nikon for years, and I haven't gotten a picture of Jesus yet."
Some members of Sojourners find that a more natural environment helps them to pray--forests, sunsets, walks through Rock Creek Park. Many take an occasional retreat at a convent or monastery. I tried everything except the monastery and found spiritual refreshment, but still I did not feel that it was enough. Then one day I found the answer. It came neither from my spiritual director nor a community elder, but from my dentist:
"You should allow it to become a daily ritual, a time for close self-examination. Go deeply into the hidden spaces. Let it cleanse you, wearing off the old and allowing the new to shine through. Get up in the morning looking forward to the stimulation and freshness it will give you to face the day; or wait until evening when you're more relaxed. Do it before or after brushing; it doesn't matter. The key is repetition and commitment."
It was so simple, yet I had never realized it before. Prayer, like flossing, is a matter of attitude, a case of knowing your need. Above all, prayer means presenting our humanity to God and joyfully accepting our dependence.
Joyce Hollyday was on the editorial staff at Sojourners when this article appeared.
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