RonRolheiser,OMI

All Saints and All Souls

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At a conference which I attended, a psychiatrist shared this story. A woman came to see him in considerable distress. Her anguish had to do with her last conversation with her husband before he died. She shared how they had enjoyed a good marriage for more than thirty years, with never more than a minor quarrel between them. Then one morning they had a quarrel over some trivial thing (she couldn’t even remember the substance). Their argument had ended in anger, and he had stomped out the door to go to work – to die of a heart attack that day, before they had a chance to talk again.

What awful luck! Thirty years without an incident of this kind and now this, anger in their last words to each other! The psychologist first, humorously, assured her that the fault all lay on her husband, in his choosing to die at that unfortunate moment, leaving her with that guilt!

More seriously, he asked her, “if your husband was here right now, what would you say to him?” She answered that she would assure him that after all their years together this little incident meant nothing, that their love for each other utterly dwarfed that mini moment. He assured her that her husband was still alive in the communion of saints and was with them right now. Then he said to her, “why don’t you sit in this chair and tell him what you just shared, that your faithful love for each other completely obliterates your last conversation. Indeed, share a laugh over its irony.” Fanciful thinking? No.

As Christians we have a doctrine which asks us to believe that we are still in live, conscious contact with those who have died. This doctrine, The Communion of Saints, is enshrined in our creeds and is celebrated explicitly on two days each year, All Saints and All Souls Days.

Among other things, this doctrine invites us to pray for the dead. Not surprisingly, some people balk at this, protesting that God doesn’t need to be reminded to be merciful and forgiving. They are right. However, in the end that is not the reason we pray for our deceased loved ones.

The real intent of our prayer for the dead is for us to stay in touch with them, to continue to be in a conscious communication, to maintain our relationship of love, to finish unfinished business, to apologize to them, to forgive them, to ask them to forgive us, to remain mindful of the special oxygen they breathed into the planet during their lives, and to occasionally share a celebratory glass of wine with them.

Thus, among other things, our belief in the communion of saints gives us a second chance, and that is a much-needed consolation. No matter who we are, we are all inadequate in our relationships. We can’t always be present to our loved ones as we should; we sometimes say things in anger and bitterness that leave deep scars; we betray trust in all kinds of ways; and mostly we lack the maturity and self-confidence to express the affirmation we should be conveying to our loved ones. None of us ever fully measures up.

At the end of the day, all of us lose some loved ones in ways similar to how that woman lost her husband, with unfinished business, with bad timing. There are always words that should have been said and weren’t said, and there are always things that shouldn’t have been said and were said.

But that’s where our faith comes in. Indeed, we aren’t the first ones to come up short. At the time of Jesus’ arrest, trial, and death, virtually all his disciples had deserted. The timing here was also bad. Good Friday was bad long before it was good. But, and this is the point, as Christians, we don’t believe there will always be happy endings in this life, nor that we will always be adequate in life. Rather, we believe that the fullness of life and happiness will come to us through the redemption of what has gone wrong, not least with what has gone wrong because of our own inadequacy and weakness.

G.K. Chesterton once said that Christianity is special because in its belief in the communion of saints, even the dead get a vote. They get more than a vote. They still get to hear what we’re saying to them.

So, if you’ve lost a loved one in a situation where there was still something unresolved, where there was still a tension that needed easing, where you should have been more attentive or where you feel badly because you never adequately expressed the affirmation and affection that you might have, know it’s not too late. It can still be done!

And, in having that make-up conversation, don’t be afraid to share a laugh about how the inadequacy of our human situation has the devilish habit of fudging our best intentions.

The Psalms as Prayer

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“God behaves in the psalms in ways he is not allowed to behave in systemic theology.”

That quip from Sebastian Moore might be highlighted at a time when fewer people want to use the psalms as a form of prayer because they feel offended that the psalms speak of murder, revenge, anger, violence, war-making, and patriarchy.

Yet for centuries the psalms have been central to both Jewish and Christian prayer. They form the very heart of the Divine Office (the Church’s prayer for the world), are sung in Vespers’ services, are prayed daily by millions of men and women, and have been chanted by monks for centuries as a central part of their prayer.

Why the objection to the psalms?  Some ask: “How can I pray with words that are sometimes full of hatred, anger, violence, and speak of the glories of war and of crushing one’s enemies in the name of God?” For others, the objection is to the patriarchal nature of the psalms. For yet others, the offense is aesthetic: “They’re terrible poetry!” they say.

Perhaps the psalms aren’t great poetry and they do, undeniably, smack of violence, war, hatred of one’s enemies in the name of God, and the desire for vengeance. They’re also patriarchal in character. But does that make them poor language for prayer? No, to the contrary.

One of the classical definitions of prayer suggests that “prayer is lifting mind and heart to God.” Simple, clear, accurate. Our problem is that we too seldom actually do this when we pray. Rather than lifting to God what’s actually on our minds and in our hearts, we treat God as someone from whom we need to hide the real truth of our thoughts and feelings. Instead of pouring out mind and heart, we tell God what we think God wants to hear – not murderous thoughts, desire for vengeance, or our disappointment with him.

But expressing those feelings is the whole point. What makes the psalms so apt for prayer is that they do not hide the truth from God and they express the whole gamut of our actual feelings. They give honest voice to what’s actually going on in our minds and hearts.

Sometimes we feel good and our spontaneous impulse is to speak words of praise and gratitude. The psalms give us that voice. They speak of God’s goodness – love, friends, faith, health, food, wine, enjoyment. But we don’t always feel that way. Our lives also have their cold, lonely seasons when disappointment and bitterness smolder under the surface. The psalms then give us honest voice and we can open all those angry feelings to God.

At other times, we fill with the sense of our own inadequacy, with the fact that we cannot measure up to the trust and love that’s given us. The psalms give us voice for this, asking God to have mercy, to soften our hearts, to wash us clean, to give us a fresh start. And then still there are times when we feel disappointed with God himself and need in some way to express this. The psalms give us this voice (“Why are you so silent? Why are you so far from me?”) even as they make us aware that God is not afraid of our anger and bitterness, but, like a loving parent, only wants us to come and talk about it.

The psalms are a privileged vehicle for prayer because they lift the full range of our thoughts and feelings to God.

But we tend to struggle with that. First, because our age often fails to grasp metaphor and taken literally, some of the images within the psalms are offensive. Second, we are often in denial about our true feelings. It’s hard to admit that we feel some of the things we sometimes feel:  grandiosity, sexual obsessions, jealousies, desire for revenge, murderous thoughts. Too often our prayer belies our actual thoughts and feelings and tells God what we think God wants to hear. The psalms have more honesty.

As Kathleen Norris puts it: If you pray regularly “there is no way you can do it right. You are not always going to sit up straight, let alone think holy thoughts. You’re not going to wear your best clothes but whatever isn’t in the dirty clothes basket. You come to the Bible’s great book of praises through all the moods and conditions of life, and while you feel like hell, you sing anyway. To your surprise, you find that the psalms do not deny your true feelings but allow you to reflect them, right in front of God and everyone.” Feel good aphorisms that express how we think we ought to feel are no substitute for the earthy realism of the psalms which express how we actually do feel at times. Anyone who would lift mind and heart to God without ever mentioning feelings of bitterness, jealousy, vengeance, hatred, and war, is better suited to write greeting cards than to give out spiritual counsel.

The Perfect Posture for Prayer

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In her autobiography The Long Loneliness, Dorothy Day shares how she once prayed at a low time in her life.

Dorothy Day, as you know, grew up without faith. An intellectual, moving in Marxist and anti-church circles, she entered her twenties convinced that if anyone had the courage to look life square in the eye, she or he would not believe in God. She had support in that. The love of her life at the time was a man who shared her views. She moved in with him and bore his child outside of marriage. The birth of this child, a daughter, changed her in ways she had not foreseen. Holding her infant daughter, she was so overcome with awe and gratitude that she prayed spontaneously: “For so much joy, I need to thank someone!” Her faith was born from that, from the purest spring of all, gratitude.

She took some instructions, was baptized, and became a Catholic. The father of her child, upset by the change in her, warned that if she had their child baptized, he would leave her. Her daughter was baptized and he did leave her. Many of her friends reacted similarly. So, even though now she was buoyed up by her newfound faith, she found herself very much alone, without most of her former friends and her usual support systems, a single mother, living on her own, lacking money, and without any vision of what she should do.

She floundered like this for a time, feeling ever more alone and unsure of herself. One day she decided she needed to address this. She left her young daughter in the care of friends and took a train to Washington, D.C. where she spent some hours praying at the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. Her prayer that day was one of complete helplessness. In essence, this was her prayer to God: “I’ve given up a lot for you, and you haven’t done anything for me! I’m lost, alone, unsure of what to do, and running out of energy and patience. I need help – need it now, not in some distant future! Help me! Help me now! I can’t go on like this!”

When she got back to New York a man was waiting to see her. He told her he had heard about her, had an idea, and he needed her help. He then explained to her the concept of “The Catholic Worker.” The man’s name was Peter Maurin and the rest is history. From that moment on, she had a vision for the rest of her life.

Not everyone gets so quick and clear an answer in prayer, although more people than you would suspect have similar stories. Martin Luther King, for instance, shares how he once prayed at a low point in his life:

“One night toward the end of January, I settled into bed late, after a strenuous day. Coretta had already fallen asleep and just as I was about to doze off the telephone rang. An angry voice said, `Listen, nigger, we’ve taken all we want from you, before next week you’ll be sorry you ever came to Montgomery.’ I hung up, but I couldn’t sleep. It seemed that all of my fears had come down on me at once. I had reached the saturation point.

I got out of bed and began to walk the floor. Finally, I went to the kitchen and heated a pot of coffee. I was ready to give up. With my cup of coffee sitting untouched before me I tried to think of a way to move out of the picture without appearing a coward. In this state of exhaustion, when my courage had all but gone, I decided to take my problem to God. With my head in my hands, I bowed over the kitchen table and prayed aloud. The words I spoke to God that midnight are still vivid in my memory:

‘I am here taking a stand for what I believe is right. But now I am afraid. The people are looking to me for leadership, and if I stand before them without strength and courage, they too will falter. I am at the end of my powers. I have nothing left. I’ve come to the point where I can’t face it alone.’ At that moment I experienced the presence of the Divine as I had never experienced Him before.” (MLK, Stride Towards Freedom)

Christina Crawford, the author of Mommy Dearest, a memoir of what it was like growing up in Hollywood as the daughter of a famous movie star, shares how at a certain point in her life she felt hopelessly and completely lost; but then adds: Lost is a place too!

She’s right. And lost is a place from where we are especially invited to pray. When we hurt all over, feel hopeless and helpless, and are on our knees because we are too weak to stand, we’re in the perfect posture for prayer. Lost is a place for prayer!