Uncommon prayer

Oblivious

I learned to pray mnemonically. From repetition, songs and games, I learned to speak about God with big words and concepts. At a young age, I memorized almost the entire script of the Roman Catholic Mass—even the priest’s words. My friends and I played ‘pretend church’, and took turns being the priest—wrapping a tablecloth around our bodies and then kneeling before each other to receive little crackers or ‘Jesus cookies’, as we called them. We would say, “Body of Christ, go in peace” and feel so religious. Around this time (age 7), I did Catholic Catechism and received my First Holy Communion. I don’t remember what I learned, except maybe a few prayers and, of course, the correct way to hold my hands when I received the Communion. On the big day, I wore a frilly white dress and a wreath of fake baby roses on my head. I could recite the Lord’s Prayer and Hail Mary all in one breath (or two), and I felt special. Yet the preparation for all this was not enjoyable, nor did I understand it. I cried a week before the official ceremony because I didn’t want to do my First Confession—a prerequisite for my First Holy Communion, which entailed sitting in the darkness of a large brown box at the back of the church and telling the priest everything I’d ever done wrong. I was forced into it—maybe bribed—but either way, I did it. The priest prayed to God for me, and then told me to recite more prayers by myself. This was the first stage of my awareness of religious ritual and rubric: obliviousness. I didn’t understand what prayer was, nor did I want to do it. It only got worse, and I tripped my way through a few more stages, until finally my world was turned upside down.

Confused

My family and I went to Mass at Saint Charles Borromeo Church almost every Sunday throughout my childhood. My father used the service as nap time, while my mother nudged us children to sit still, be quiet, sit on our hands and refrain from laughing. I didn’t love it, but it was only one hour, and it felt good when it was over: it was as if we had done our duty and actually earned the doughnuts and orange juice served at the end in the foyer. When I reached high school (a private Catholic all-girls school), I made a friend who attended First Presbyterian Church of Hollywood. She invited me to her youth group. I went once, and found it foreign—especially the relaxed attitude of the minister and the lack of a real service. Here came the second stage of my religious awareness: confusion. My friend told me that she had ‘accepted Christ’, and asked me if I had done the same. I imagined myself receiving the Eucharist and responded, “Of course”. Then she told me that she had a relationship with God, and asked me if I had one too. I asked her what she meant by that. She said that she considered God a friend and that she ‘spent time’ with him. This made me think that she was plain crazy. God is not a friend. I mean come on, he’s God, I thought. I had never opened a Bible to read by myself until I attended that youth group, nor had I ever heard anyone pray a spontaneous prayer. I could recite the entire Nicene Creed by heart, but I never casually talked to God. Once in a while, I’d pray to Saint Anthony, Patron of Lost Things and Missing Persons, when I couldn’t find something important, but that was about it. In early high school, I completed my Confirmation—another initiation ritual for Catholics, which is a time to deepen or renew one’s commitment to the Catholic Church. I would attend my Confirmation classes with a few fellow Catholic friends, and we would goof around the whole time, not listening to the teacher. Deep in my consciousness, however, I remember longing to connect to God. But I wanted some meaning behind all the facts; I wanted it to make sense. Over the next few years, I continued attending Mass, but I didn’t know what I really thought about God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, or even the statues of saints. I knew a few Christians, and even had some friends who talked to me about their faith, but I just agreed with whatever they said … and never knew what they were talking about. The theme of ‘spending time with God’ would come up repeatedly. To be honest, it sounded creepy. “First of all”, I thought, “how does one ‘spend time’ with a huge and invisible being, and secondly, why?” I remember wondering if it had something to do with saying some prayers. So I tried it. Alone in my bedroom, I recited, “Our Father, who art in heaven” (the most famous prayer), and then sat quietly, waiting for something to click.

Sceptical

At this point, I entered a third stage: scepticism. As long as I was a good person, was nice to people around me, did a few noticeable acts of kindness (in my free time), respected my parents, and, of course, went to Mass, I felt completely fine. I didn’t need to fuss over anything more than that. But even with my sceptic attitude, I must admit I felt a little jealous: my Christian friends seemed so certain of their faith, and yet I was so uncertain. “I am the one who took all the initiation classes; I should be certain”, I thought. “How can they claim to know and love God? Is it just by stating it? And why are they so passionate?”I felt a kind of numbness regarding church, but deep in my heart, I envied others’ commitment to God. My mother began attending a mid-week Bible study at the same Presbyterian church I had been to once before, and she suggested that I attend the youth group that met on the same night. I conceded, but only because it fit into my schedule and didn’t conflict with any other activities. I went for a few months, mostly treating it as a social hour with friends and, of course, a chance to see boys. It wasn’t until I heard the youth minister say something insane that I began really paying attention. He said with certainty, “You can know all the Bible stories—all the right answers—and never really know God. That’s how the Pharisees were. Jesus spoke straight to them—straight to their core—and they rejected him. They were excessively religious, thinking they were the best examples of true religious people because they knew everything. But in reality, they were rotten and disgusting, and they didn’t even love God.” These words pricked me. From then on, I began listening intently to what this minister said. It seemed as if many of the words he spoke every week were aimed at me. The more I paid attention, the more I was shaken up. It was clear that I had never loved God; I had just learned a large amount of information about Jesus, his disciples, his parables, and some other bits—such as the appropriate times during Mass to do the sign of the cross, when to sit, when to stand, and when to kneel. That was my background. Even though I’d heard some vague talk about it, I didn’t understand that I could have a relationship with Jesus himself. One night after youth group, a new friend of mine came up and told me that she had been praying for me. This news was almost too much to handle. I wanted to ask, “Why?”, but instead I just replied shyly, “Oh, thank you”. It took a while to process: I am being prayed for. That obviously meant something. I needed to be prayed for.

Talking to Jesus

A few months later, I talked to Jesus for the first time. I was on a camp with the youth group, and my cabin counsellor asked me to pray for everyone before bed. I don’t remember my words exactly, but I think I said something to the effect of “Help us not to have nightmares”. I didn’t understand it all, but I wrote almost everything down that I heard during that camp. I got a free Bible too. At the end of the week, they had something they call a ‘commitment night’—basically a time when massive crowds of students clomped down to the stage of the amphi­theatre and made a public commitment to Christ. It was a very emotional night, but not for me; I stayed in my seat. In the meantime (back in real life, that is), I was still attending Mass on Sunday mornings with my family, as well as youth group on Wednesday nights. I hadn’t read my free Bible; it was just too over­whelm­ing. I had Christian friends, Catholic friends, Jewish friends, and even atheist friends. I liked hanging out with all of them, and felt like I identified with each of them in a slightly awkward way. But I was still trying to figure it all out. There is a phrase that is spoken aloud in the Catholic Church a few minutes before the Eucharist is served. It goes like this: “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed”. They say it in preparation for the Body of Christ. I’m not sure why, but I found myself liking these words. They sounded beautiful to me. I didn’t know their true meaning or context, but they resonated in me. For a while, I felt like I could actually pray those words to God. At youth group, they kept talking about the difference between being spiritual and being a follower of Jesus. They talked a lot about grace, and about not having to earn your salvation. It was something I had never heard before. The only grace I was familiar with was the “Hail Mary, full of grace”-type of grace. I always thought I was spiritual—even from a young age—but as it turned out, I was just trying to earn my way through life—through church—to heaven. I didn’t understand true grace, but it seemed like every time it was spoken about, I wanted it. The minister said all you have to do is open your heart to Jesus, and although I thought it sounded ridiculous and abstract, the idea stayed in my mind for several weeks.

“I need Jesus”

Then it happened: God killed the comfortable chameleon in me. Or maybe I said yes to him. Either way, I finally realized my depravity—that I am utterly sinful, that I’m nothing apart from God, and that I need Jesus. This was the first time in my life that I actually could say that I needed Jesus. And it happened during Mass, absurdly enough. I was sitting there in the middle of the quiet time before Communion is served, and I thought again, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you …” and then I stopped. Then I prayed—I actually prayed: “Jesus, I need you. I don’t need to sit, stand, kneel, repeat, but I do need you. I don’t need to do things to make myself seem spiritual; I just need you. You died for my sin. I don’t have to earn my salvation; you offer it with your grace. Thank you. You want a relationship with me, and I want one with you. I want to spend time with you. I don’t know what to do regard­ing that, but I’ll do whatever it takes. Forgive me for pretending like I knew everything, like a horrid Pharisee. Thank you for being the great High Priest. Thank you that I don’t have to go through a priest to confess to you. Thank you for being the real deal.” It’s funny; I thought I’d fall in love with God first and then commit, but in reality, he called me to himself through his Son, and as a result, I love him. If I was oblivious, confused and sceptical before, now my heart was plumping up with awareness, clarity and assurance. I began reading my Bible and, over time (and with much help from my minister and friends), it actually made sense. Psalms came alive. The words had a pungency I had never experienced before. And as I grew, I started to find joy in serving God through serving others.

A work in progress

As time goes on, I can still feel myself ripening. It’s a daily struggle to find my satisfaction in God above all else, but that’s all I want to do. I thank God for allowing me to speak to him as my Father and for inviting me directly into his throne room. It’s better than I ever imagined. To communicate with God, to bring all my cares and desires before him—what a beautiful privilege and how completely undeserved! Over the years, I’ve learned to encounter God daily (not just on Sundays) through his word and by praying. When I pray, I connect with God and align my heart to his. He’s accepted and forgiven me through the atoning work of Christ, and I’m continually brought to my knees by this truth. I still pray the Lord’s Prayer, and I occasionally state the Nicene Creed, but these now hold real meaning. It’s not about just reciting the words anymore; instead, I call on God to make his name holy, because this matters more than anything else. My deepest desire is for God to be glorified in my life. That’s all. I continue to pray for friends and family members who do not understand my lifestyle, nor have the slightest interest in it. Sometimes I like to freak them out by saying that I’m praying for them, just like one of my friends did for me. Certainly it’s clear that I’m still a work in progress.