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Prayer

This weekend I (finally) tended to our garden.

Over a number of hours I knelt in the heat, prepared the soil, carefully found spots for the plants, seeds, herbs, and flowers we had chosen, wrestled with fencing to keep our harvest safe, and watered the dirt that had become dry and dusty in the intense sunlight.

Image Credit – http://www.crinklecrankle.com/

And as I gardened I realized that, even though the work was quite draining, it was also incredibly peaceful and centering.

There is a reason that monastic communities have historically made gardening a key element of their daily work.

It forces us to remember where the food we enjoy each day comes from, to realize our interconnectedness, to reflect on our dependence on the Lord and the land he has given us to tend for a time.

Gardening can be a prayerful activity, even when you are not actively praying. Just the act of tilling soil, placing the plants in anticipation of a harvest months away, seeing life bloom out of barren earth – it becomes a form of embodied prayer. Gardening, for me at least, has come to serve as a sort of spiritual discipline.

On Monday I came across a contemporary paraphrase of The Rule of Saint Benedict and started to flip through it. And by “flip through it” I mean I read about a third of it during my break and spent the rest of the evening contemplating its challenging words.

Such is the blessing and the curse of working in a bookstore – great for being exposed to incredible new books, but terrible for my bank account.

This paraphrase was written by Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove (author of The Wisdom of Stability, and contributor to Common Prayer), and brings the ancient words of Benedict crashing into our own day and age, while offering commentary that sheds light on the Rule and the practices of Benedictine communities.

So far I am quite impressed, and I would highly recommend reading and contemplating this retelling of a Christian classic.

Below is an excerpt from the introduction that situates the Rule in its historical context, a context not unlike our own.

“The story of The Rule of Saint Benedict is the story of how a small movement within Christianity changed the landscape of the world for everyone. This movement existed before the Rule was written, springing up in the Egyptian deserts during the fourth century. There women and men who longed to know true life in Christ devoted themselves to prayer, intentionally distancing themselves from a society that was in shambles—despite the fact that it was becoming “Christian” in name. Because these men and women devoted themselves to one thing only—to the love of God—these experimenters on the edges of Christendom were called monastics (from the Greek monos, meaning one).

By the end of the fifth century, when a middle-class, young Italian named Benedict left his home in Nursia to go to school in Rome, the Empire that had been centered there was in total disarray. The church whose faith had become the official religion of that Empire was in turmoil. It was in every way a time of transition. In short, it was a moment not unlike our own. Everyone knew that a new future was being born, but no one was sure just what it would look like.

In a moment of clarity, Benedict saw that the system of education that had been designed to prepare him for a world that was passing away could only lead to a dead end. While it could teach him what had worked in the past, the system did not have the resources to present a way forward. A different kind of school was needed. Benedict had a hunch that the Desert Mothers and Fathers were creating it. He went to a cave, built himself a prayer cell, and so matriculated in the “university” of the world-to-come.”

Prayer has always been a central part of the Christian life. Unfortunately, it has also been the most difficult part to practice in my own faith. At least until recently.

See, I’d been trying to years to pray in the way low-church evangelicalism taught me to pray, and it wasn’t working. Not because that method of prayer is inherently bad, it gets twisted and misunderstood like any religious practice but is a powerful way of approaching God for a whole host of people.

But for me that way of praying has always been a bit of a losing battle.

Knowing how important prayer is, I would determine to get my act together and pray on a regular basis for more than a few minutes at a time. This would last for a few awkwardly forced days, with a spiritual high or two scattered in there somewhere, and then eventually my questions and struggles and inability to play by the language game I’d been handed would catch up with me and I’d quit trying for a while.

Until I came across liturgical prayer.

It started out of frustration really. Years of trying to “improve my prayer life” with different techniques and books had gotten me nowhere, so I resorted to the only thing I was really resonating with, the Lord’s Prayer. Every morning I’d pray through the Lord’s Prayer, sometimes verbatim, sometimes expanding on each section.

There was a reverence in it that I didn’t often feel in prayer, and it wasn’t all about me and my requests, however it was also a bit short and a little too repetitive.

I had been hearing many of like-minded believers talking about The Book of Common Prayer, and I had recently begun my initial ventures into the Church calendar and was starting to be sympathetic towards a more structured form of worship, so I decided to try using that to shape my praying.

It was a better idea in principle than in practice.

Don’t get me wrong, the Book of Common Prayer is beautiful and my use of it was one of the best things to ever happen to my praying. That said, for someone from a low-church background it’s more difficult to use than I expected. It is not a day by day liturgy, but various collections of prayers for different times and events.

I loved the prayers, but it was hard to keep it as part of my routine when I essentially just looked for a new section each morning.

So when I heard of a new prayerbook, one structured by both the Church calendar and a daily routine of prayer, written by new monastics and with an eye to the Global church, I was intrigued.

When this prayerbook, Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals, was released it turned out to be exactly what I needed. I didn’t realize this at first of course. For quite a while I used commonprayer.net as part of my morning routine without any real commitment. Then, in February, I realized I’d been praying those prayers almost every morning for the last four months and decided it was about time I got a copy of the book for myself.

A couple months later, Common Prayer has become an important and rooted part of how my faith is expressed. It grounds my faith in something deeper than my immediate surroundings, in the life of the Church and the Story of Jesus, while also shaping me to engage in exactly the place I find myself. It gives an order, and reverence, and Christo-centric shape to my prayers. And it gives me words to offer before God when often my own words come less than easily.

Common Prayer is certainly not for everyone, and neither is liturgical prayer in general. That’s not the point of this post. I’m not saying my way of prayer is better than yours, I’m celebrating that after far too long I’ve found a sort of prayer that brings joy and life instead of discouragement and frustration.

And, perhaps, if you’ve experienced the same struggles with prayer that I have, liturgically shaped prayer might help you as well.

Grace and peace.

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How about you? Do these struggles sound like your own?

Have you used Common Prayer or The Book of Common Prayer? What did you like/dislike?

What do you think is behind the rediscovery of liturgy among many low-church evangelicals?

This is part three in a series, you can find the first two posts here and here.

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