T.S. Eliot Archives - Dreaming Beneath the Spires

Analysing my Experience of Prayer over the Last 19 Years

So I come to my time of prayer, and I am dry and distracted. My thoughts are whirling; I cannot hear God speak, and I have nothing to say. My spirit feels numb. Prayer?

It’s as if you are having coffee with a friend you haven’t seen for a while, and you are so out of touch with her life, and she with yours, that you don’t know what to ask, don’t know what to tell, don’t know what to talk about. The conversation is leaden; you want to escape.

Keeping in touch is a sure way to better conversation, whether with God or a friend.

I pick up my pen. Since my mind cannot focus on ethereal prayer, I will write my prayers. Write my worries, my plans, and my fears. Check in with Jesus about each of them. That pathway into prayer–writing my prayers–never fails.

* * *

I write. I think. I pray. I sink, absorbed, into the quietness.

I had come to prayer so distracted, so out of touch with God, with nothing to say, my thoughts and emotions whirling restlessly.

But I had forced myself into the boat of prayer, and Christ and I together had pushed far away from shore.

It got quiet. It got peaceful. Long, still sheets of water everywhere. Slowly, a fish plopped up. A worry.

My writing?

I take that worry to God.

I don’t hear anything.

I ask the question again. So Lord, will I have a writing career, of sorts? And wait.

Slowly, clarity emerges.

I go back to my origin story. The clear call of God to write one day in 1983. A call which, for too long a time in my life, I have not been faithful to.

I will return to that. I will be faithful to my call. I will leave success and failure to him. I will keep writing. I will keep reading. I will study the craft as time permits. I will get better, that is certain. He will use my words to reach others, of that too I feel certain. I will run in my lane and leave the results of my race to him.

* * *

Other fish poke their heads out of the temporarily still sea. Our family business, and how to make it grow? My daughters’ future.

Ideas come, reassurance. Some questions remain question marks, of course. Not every answer is given in every session of prayer, but they are now question marks bathed in golden light.

I grow still and quiet. We have rowed so far from shore.

I had 36 minutes free, and so I set a timer.

When the timer goes, it is a wrench.

I have been in another country.

Without being too fanciful, I have felt the heavens part; I have felt grace rain down. I have felt the Spirit. Something has shifted in my soul. Its molecules have changed, its water become wine. I feel an expansive peace. Something of God’s life, of God’s love for me has entered into and enlarged my soul.

* * *

I have been mostly disciplined in prayer since a dark patch of disappointment in late 1996. I had been led on by an editor of a leading publishing company, who I had thought had given me a verbal assurance that he would publish my book. I had a leading agent, I thought–though we hadn’t signed.

The book I wrote was a disappointment to both of them, and, if I look at it now, will, almost certainly, be a disappointment to me. But it was written through pregnancy and early motherhood…in blood.

When, after revisions, it was still turned down, I flung myself facedown on the carpet and thought, “I want to die.”

* * *

“I am sick,” I then said to myself. I am spiritually sick. And Jesus said he was the Physician. I need him.

And having a wee bit of a practical streak, I thought: How much prayer and Bible study do I need to have the life of God course through my soul? And that is a question Scripture is silent on. It can only be answered by trial and error, and the answer can vary. On busy days, Martin Luther said he needed three hours of prayer (rather than his usual two). I needed to find my own answer.

So I set a stopwatch, prayed and read my Bible until I was bored, and then stopped. I was not at peace, but I was growing distracted. I was discovering my baseline for prayer, just as when I began the discipline of exercise, I walked until I was tired, wrote down my distance and speed, and then began to increase both (and am still increasing them, oh yes!)

When I was 17, I wanted to become a nun, and I did for a while, joining Mother Teresa. This was the discipline of prayer there: you didn’t prolong prayer, because you found it sweet, otherwise you would soon burn out. And you do not cut it short, because you were bored, otherwise, you would quit before you got quiet, got still, repented, heard God, tasted the sweetness of it all.

The next day I set a timer for the time I had spent, and just a minute more, and went on, adding a minute a day, dividing my quiet time between prayer and Bible study. I stopped at 90 minutes–45 minutes for prayer, 45 minutes for Bible study (though, in fact, now that the girls are older, I often end up spending even longer than that in spiritual disciplines! My soul needs it!)

Over the years, I found peace. I found serenity. I got to know Jesus a whole lot better. In prayer, God suggested ways to move from Williamsburg, Virginia, where I wasn’t particularly happy, to Oxford, where I am happy. In prayer, I “heard of” a business idea which changed our lives. In prayer, I “heard” God suggest blogging, which I so love. I prayed for my dream house with a very specific wishlist, and I stumbled on an ad, and God revealed ways to just about afford it.

But all these are side effects. My character began to change, molecule by molecule, and that is one of the gratifying side effects of a life of prayer. I became a kinder person, more empathetic.

My life of prayer is not a story of remarkable worldly success. And so I cannot recommend prayer as a way to become rich, become famous, become a great writer. To take up a discipline of prayer for the worldly advantages it might confer is like marrying only for money, or only for sex, and we know all how that works out, don’t we?

T. S. Eliot looking back on the first twenty years of his life as a writer says,

Twenty years largely wasted

Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt

Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s how I feel as a writer and as a pray-er.

But then, what Stephen King says about writing is equally true about prayer.

Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, or getting laid, or making friends. It’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own as well. It’s about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. Writing is magic, the water of life. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up.

Prayer is everything Stephen King says writing is, and more.

It is not a sure way to worldly reward, though it has brought wealth and success to some, according to the plan of God for their lives

However, though material rewards are not guaranteed, as Jesus said, rewards are guaranteed. We pray for the fun of hanging out with Jesus, to get his take on things, to see life with his eyes, to absorb his wisdom. We pray because with the discipline of prayer comes lightness and joy. With the discipline of prayer and obedience comes peace and calm, wisdom and guidance. Water for a parched soul. Sanity. We pray so we can be enlarged by loving something larger than ourselves, and that is the Lord Jesus himself.

We pray because it is our daily bread. Jesus may choose to give some of us nutella too, and I still pray for metaphorical “nutella”, and grilled cheese and homemade blackberry jam, and according to the lane he has marked for me, the work he has given me to do in the world, and the people he has given me to influence, he may well give me some of these things. Or he may not. But tasting Jesus is fun, and joy and wisdom, and for these gifts from the discipline of prayer, I am grateful.

“Thin Places,” Where the Boundaries between the Spiritual and Physical Worlds are Almost Transparent

By Anita Mathias

sunset_calf_sound_7 Celtic Christians prized “thin places,” where the boundaries between the spiritual and physical world are almost transparent. Where we can sense shimmering in the physical world the just-as-real, invisible, supernatural world, charged with the glory of God, with hills ringed with angels in chariots of fire.

Could God really be more present in one place than in another? I wondered until I slowed down, calmed down, and began to experience the presence of God pushing though, and thin places.

* * *

Thin places—near mountains, rivers, streams, meadows, the sea—are, in fact, often places where people have worshipped and sought God for centuries. The air around beaches, waterfalls and mountains is rich in brain-activity boosting, depression-banishing negative ions. Benedictines and Trappists often built their monasteries in such places.

Is it fanciful to suppose that places in which thousands have prayed would attract the spirit of God—and angelic presences?

Perhaps what happens in a pilgrimage spot is not that God descends to earth in a shower of radiance and the earth ever after exudes his fragrance. Perhaps it is we who sanctify spots of earth when we bring our weary spirits, our thwarted hopes, the whole human freight of grief, and pray—our eyes grown wide and trusting; our being, a concentrated yearning. Perhaps that yearning, that glimpse of better things, attracts the spirit of God, and traces of that encounter linger in the earth and air and water so that future pilgrims say, “God is here.”

* * *

I felt that when we visited Ffald-y-Brenin. There was a peace and holiness in the air. I could sense the presence of God in the stillness and especially around the high cross, placed on the highest hill of the retreat centre towering over the countryside.

I gave up analysing it after a while. I surrendered to the peace. As Eliot says in “Little Gidding,”

You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid.

That peace, a sudden clarity of thinking and creativity? I guess I could call it the spirit of God.

Healing hung in the air. Looking back at my post written there, I see I was praying for healing from self-induced adrenal fatigue. Well, seven months later, it was completely gone, and I was gulping down books again, and writing a lot.

***

Just being by the ocean, watching it, listening to the roar of the waves quietens me, reminds me of immensity, of God’s infinite power, and opens me up to his spirit. I suddenly find myself praying in tongues. I pick up God’s guidance and directives most clearly on beach walks.

And, as all cultures at all times have noticed, mountains are specially charged with the presence of God. They are places for peace, serenity, and elevated thoughts. In the mountains, my thoughts instinctively gravitate to God.

* * *

And, of course, in our own homes and lives, places become thin because we often pray there.

I pray face down in my bedroom, soaking prayer, and the accustomed place and posture probably more quickly tunes my spirit to peace.

I also enjoy walking and praying in the fields around my house for I live in the country. Again the accustomed routine of walking and praying makes me feel happy and exhilarated and, within a short time, I find myself praying in tongues.

Thomas Merton writes about cultivating routines of prayer at the same place, and at about the same time, “My chief joy is to escape to the attic of the garden house and the little broken window that looks out over the valley. There in the silence, I love the green grass. The tortured gestures of the apple trees have become part of my prayer…. So much do I love this solitude that when I walk out along the road to the old barns that stand alone, delight begins to overpower me from head to foot, and peace smiles even in the marrow of my bones.”

* * *

Just we can feel stressed and uneasy by subliminal triggering memories of past trauma in certain places, or in the presence of certain people, our spirits can also swiftly be tuned to peace in places in which we have often experienced God’s spirit, on a particular seat in church, or on a particular country walk.

Working in my own garden is a thin place for me. Sooner or later, joy returns. Sooner or later, I find myself praying, often in tongues.

Another thin place for me is tidying up. I restore my soul as I restore my house. My body works, and feels happy working, but my mind is fallow. Clarity comes as I work, ideas. Peace returns, and I find myself praying…

* * *

Tweetable

“Thin places,” where the boundaries between the spiritual and physical world are almost transparent. From @anitamathias1

Making a Difference Through Prayer and Writing: In Praise of Julian of Norwich

By Anita Mathias

I read the papers and stress rises. So much injustice! 21 million people enslaved (14 million of them in India), land-grabbing, starvation, destruction of ecosystems, precious species going extinct, the restavek system in Haiti, slavery in Qatar, and the plight of the Palestinians.

My heart sinks.

I am just one girl of limited energy. I could push against one or two of these things, but it would take all my life, and I might barely dent it.

I do have a handful of causes, which I tweet about and financially support. That’s like returning just one starfish to the sea, but it makes a difference to that starfish as Loren Eiseley wrote.

* * *

The path of an activist, of a world-changer, is admirable, but it is a calling. If you embark on it without being called to it by God, and being continuously renewed by him, you risk burning out and becoming embittered. I know I would.

Fortunately there are other ways of making a difference in the world, which are also callings.

“If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write,” ―Martin Luther.

Can so pleasant a thing be a calling?

I see my calling as “a contemplative in the world” and a writer. When I compare it to real heroes like Simon Guillebaud, this seems like a bit of cop-out call, but it is, none the less, the call to which God has mercifully called me.

* * *

I am today thinking of a real contemplative, Julian of Norwich, who was an anchorite. Anchorites were, on request, formally bricked into their cells by the ecclesiastical authorities. Once walled in, they were no longer permitted to leave.

Julian of Norwich lived bricked into a cell attached to Norwich Cathedral. One window looked onto the Tabernacle of the Cathedral; another window faced the outside world. Through this, servants brought food and removed waste, and people from every level of society, including her fellow mystic Margery Kempe came seeking advice.

And that was Julian of Norwich’s way of making a difference in the world. Read, pray, contemplate, write.

It was arduous. My head would feel ready to explode if all I did was read, think and write, if I could not go on longish walks, putter around my house and garden, see friends, go to a small group, go to church. I love contemplation and writing—but in the context of community and of physical movement.

* * *

There were remarkable medieval Christian women, saints, who played their part in the moving and shifting of Empires, Joan of Arc and Catherine of Siena among them.

But Mother Julian, all she did was think and pray and write, think and pray and write.

What could this woman who lived for decades in a single room possibly have to say to the world?

God gave her things to say.

On the 8^th May 1373, Julian of Norwich experienced a series of fifteen visions from four in the morning, till noon, with a further one that night.

They were “so compelling and so rich in meaning that Julian understood them to come directly from God and to be messages not just to herself but to all Christians.” She spent the rest of her life writing them, and “conveying her sense of their significance as it was revealed over many years of meditation” (A.C. Spearing).

Her book Revelations of Divine Love resonates 600 years later.

* * *

Here are some of her best-known thoughts, rays of light from a distant past, ancient music which still vibrates.

All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.

And this:

“He showed me a hazel nut, lying in the palm of my hand. I thought, ‘What may this be?’

And it was answered thus, ‘It is all that is made. It lasts and ever shall, for God loves it.”

I saw three properties that God made it, that God loves it, that God keeps it. The Creator, the Keeper, the Lover. For until I am substantially “oned” to him, I may never have full rest nor true bliss. That is to say, until I be so fastened to him that there is nothing that is made between my God and me.”

* * *

Here are other insights of this woman bricked into her cell who did nothing but think and pray and write.

“The greatest honor we can give Almighty God is to live gladly because of the knowledge of his love.”

“If there is anywhere on earth a lover of God who is always kept safe, I know nothing of it, for it was not shown to me. But this was shown: that in falling and rising again we are always kept in that same precious love.”

“Our Savior is our true Mother in whom we are endlessly born and out of whom we shall never come.”

“See that I am God. See that I am in everything. See that I do everything. See that I have never stopped ordering my works, nor ever shall, eternally. See that I lead everything on to the conclusion I ordained for it before time began, by the same power, wisdom and love with which I made it. How can anything be amiss?”

“And I saw that truly nothing happens by accident or luck, but everything by God’s wise providence. If it seems to be accident or luck from our point of view, our blindness is the cause; for matters that have been in God’s foreseeing wisdom since before time began befall us suddenly, all unawares; and so in our blindness and ignorance we say that this is accident or luck, but to our Lord God it is not so.”

Interestingly, the dry, crusty, cerebral T. S. Eliot was Dame Julian of Norwich’s most famous reader. He quotes her in his mysterious Four Quartets

Whatever we inherit from the fortunate
We have taken from the defeated
And all shall be well and
All manner of things shall be well
By the purification of the motive
In the ground of our beseeching.

~~~

TWEETABLES

On making a difference through prayer and writing. In praise of Julian of Norwich. From @anitamathias1

What could solitary Julian of Norwich have to say to the world? God gave her things to say From @anitamathias1

And all shall be well, all shall be well, all manner of things shall be well. From @anitamathias1 via Julian of Norwich

When We are Caterpillars in a Ring of Fire, and Need Rescue from Above

By Anita Mathias

Image Credit

I read a striking essay this week.

Two women counsellors listened to my story. I was prayed for very gently. I was encouraged to forgive all the people I felt had done me real or imaginary hurts throughout my life. It took a long time. Eventually, I came to the last thing, and I couldn’t make a sound. I struggled for words, but they would not come out. The only way I can describe it is to say it was like labour contractions in the chest, not the stomach. I struggled to control my breathing, and eventually gasped out, “I forgive.”

The most amazing inner change occurred instantly. I have never experienced anything like it before or since. I was aware that a huge burden had been lifted. I realized that forgiveness has its own dynamic…

Wow! I emailed the author, asking for suggestions of books on inner healing through forgiveness.

But even before the reply arrived, I said to my soul, “Be still. Oh come on, Anita. It’s the end of a long academic year. Where are you going to summon up the energy for inner healing, counsellors, reading one more heavy book?”

* * *

I was wondering aloud to my husband Roy about why I have a whole lot less energy this month than when I started blogging four years ago.

And then I looked back at the last 12 months. A retreat alone at the Harnhill Centre in Gloucestershire this week last June; a family camper van trip to France, Switzerland and Italy in August, walking in Tuscany with Roy on a pilgrimage with Kim and Penelope Swithinbank in September; a week in a cottage in Cornwall with Roy and Irene in October; a week in Sicily over December with Roy and Irene; a week in the Loire Valley, France, with the family in February, (and returning to find we’d been burgled), a week in Cambodia with Tearfund in March, a week in Spain on retreat in May (just me).

Whoa! T.S. Eliot has this phrase, “Distracted from distraction by distraction.” I have a horror of living like that. Whereas normally travel increases my mental and emotional energy and my productivity, this year—not so. It has decreased it! Over the last ten years, we’ve evolved a rhythm of working hard for six weeks during the girls’ school term, then travelling over the term breaks and coming back full of bounce. This year, however, had Tuscany, Cambodia, Spain and Cirencester breaks during term which were one-offs (I think!) and too much.

I am going to Helsinki next month, and am not up to any extraordinary spiritual or actual effort until then.

* * *

Martin Luther and his great friend and fellow renaissance reformer Philip Melanchthon had a debate on the nature of grace. Melanchthon says grace is like one parent helping a wobbly toddler across the room to the other parent.

Luther says ‘No! We are caterpillars in a ring of fire. Our only hope is that someone from above will rescue us.’

When I am tired, that’s the kind of grace I need. No more DIY spirituality. Just help me, Lord!

* * *

Who, oh Lord could save themselves, their own soul could heal?

I love these words of Matt Redman’s. I hear them sung, and think, “Of course, of course.” To me, they are full of hope.

In my intense thirties, I used to pray: “Lord, I want to be twice as close to you by the end of the year as I am now.” And my game plan? Well, Bible study (45 minutes a day), prayer (45 minutes a day), giving (10% of our income), small groups, church attendance… I even tried to double up, oh yes, I did! Play the Gospels and epistles on CD while doing housework. I jest not!

(And I probably did grow closer to God because of all my striving, but not dramatically so. And, sadly, that’s because I was following the evangelical method of spiritual growth: prayer and Bible study, ever so diligently, but not the ancient, excruciating method outlined by Jesus: Love. “My command is this: Love one another.” Had I done this I would have been pushed into Jesus far sooner.)

The disciplines advocated by Richard Foster in his splendid “Celebration of Discipline”—prayer, study, worship, service, have some value. They make us more disciplined people!

But they cannot change our hearts.

If prayer, spiritual reading, Bible study, church attendance and giving could save us, we would not need God.

We’d be able to save ourselves.

But when Christians self-destruct—destroying their marriages, their ministries and themselves—it’s because of their hearts. Outwardly, we may be blameless—we read our Bibles, and lead and preach and give. Inwardly, there’s ice in our hearts and vitriol in our veins.

* * *

We cannot change our own hearts.

We cannot make ourselves love our enemies. Heck, we cannot even make ourselves love our family and our friends.

Ha, if forgiveness was a mere act of will, who would heft around the gorilla of grudges and grievances on their backs? We need God’s help to forgive.

We cannot unaided shed the envy that sends its distracting spider tentacles through our hearts; who’d choose that cancer?

We cannot get rid of the spiders of fear than lurk hidden in the recesses of our minds, that crippling rejection-sensitivity. Who wouldn’t want sunlight and bravery?

If self-help could save us, Christians would be the happiest and healthiest people in the world.

* * *

We are caterpillars in a ring of fire, but we often forget this because we are rather clever caterpillars, all bristle and camouflage and colour and potential.

And if the definition of insanity is to do the same thing we did before and hope for a different result, we are insane caterpillars, trying to change ourselves by the strategies which failed every time.

* * *

But remembering that someone can lift us caterpillars out of the ring of fire is the true magic of the spiritual life.

And the theological word for this magic is: Grace.

* * *

Self-effort cannot save me. If it could, I would have attained perfection decades ago.

But what if God watches all our busy-bee effort to save ourselves with a sad smile, knowing he can put on all the lights in our soul, can change its deep structure, accomplishing in a moment what we have toiled at and failed at through all our decades of spiritual effort.

* * *

In future, I am not going to try to save myself before I have asked for just one touch from the King. He may touch me and change me in an instant, or he may decide it’s best I grow strength through many sets and repetitions.

There is a short-cut between heaven and earth, fingers which can lift the caterpillar out of the ring of fire—or, better still, metamorphose her into a butterfly.

Lord, remind that my first course of action should be to ask you to lift me out the ring of fire in every challenge I face.

Come, Holy Spirit.

Christ Walking on the Waters, not of Gennesaret but Thames

By Anita Mathias

Billy Bragg sings Jerusalem at Greenbelt 2011

And did those feet in ancient time.

Walk upon England’s mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England’s pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England’s green and pleasant Land .

William Blake

Blake refers to the pleasing apocryphal tradition that the young Christ visited Glastonbury with his uncle, Joseph of Arimathea.

It is thrilling: the notion that those feet, in ancient time, walked upon England’s mountains green, that the Holy Lamb of God was upon England’s pleasant pastures seen, and the Countenance Divine shone forth among our clouded hills.

What is no less thrilling but actually true is those feet still walk upon England’s mountains green, that the Holy Lamb of God can still be among England’s pleasant pastures seen, and that the Countenance Divine still shines forth among our clouded hills.

We just do not slow down enough to see or recognize him walking beside us.

Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together

But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another one walking beside you

Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded

I do not know whether a man or a woman

—But who is that on the other side of you?

T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

Visionaries and prophets can always see the one walking beside. Always another walking beside us. Can see the hills around us ringed with angels in chariots and fire. Can see Jacob’s ladder between heaven and Charing Cross, as Francis Thompson saw it, or between Heaven and Oxford. Can see Christ walking on the water, not of Genesareth but the Thames.

Here’s one of my favourite poems by a Christian mystic, Francis Thompson.

The Kingdom of God

“IN NO STRANGE LAND”

O world invisible, we view thee,

O world intangible, we touch thee,

O world unknowable, we know thee,

Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

5 Does the ﬁsh soar to ﬁnd the ocean,

The eagle plunge to ﬁnd the air—

That we ask of the stars in motion

If they have rumor of thee there?

Not where the wheeling systems darken,

10 And our benumbed conceiving soars!—

The drift of pinions, would we hearken,

Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.

The angels keep their ancient places—

Turn but a stone and start a wing!

15 ’Tis ye, ’tis your estrangéd faces,

That miss the many-splendored thing.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)

Cry—and upon thy so sore loss

Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder

20 Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,

Cry—clinging Heaven by the hems;

And lo, Christ walking on the water,

Not of Genesareth,

but Thames!

May we always see Him walking beside us.