THE SURPRISE GUEST

The Saturday after the Second Sunday of Lent

Priests have to be trained to preach. When I was in seminary, the unfortunate clergyman whose lot it was to teach me and my classmates "homiletics" (that’s “seminary-talk” for “preaching”) was the Reverend Canon Brian Greene, a retired English priest who deserved something better. He did his best with the raw materials he was given, but nobody envied him his job. After weeks of instruction, and having read three “sermons” by me and my confreres, we began to “practice” on each other. Every day, we’d walk from the classroom to the chapel—after the first week or so Canon Greene’s visage took on the haggard, hopeless look of one of the men on the Bataan Death March—and three of us would preach. Altogether, we were each to deliver twelve sermons—some written out (I didn’t type then) word-for-word, some from notes and then some without, and finally three extemporaneous sermons—without notes, having been given the text only when you were standing in the pulpit.

On the day the lot fell on me to preach my first ex tempore sermon, I climbed into the pulpit and, from the back of the chapel, the Canon’s disembodied voice gave me my text. “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” Not bad. I could do that. So I began.

Across the road from the chapel, a long, many-windowed room, was a school for teen-age girls. That day, the snows of winter having receded, was bright, full of the promise of Spring; the girls were out on the broad lawn of their campus, directly across from the chapel, playing volley-ball. As I preached, I don’t think I noticed this, at least consciously. I was later told I preached sentence by sentence—that is to say, I’d say a sentence or two and then pause to think about what next to say (those who have heard me preach since say I now preach without having to think at all!)—and during those pauses, I evidently looked out the window, towards the squealing, volley-ball playing girls.

I don’t know how long I “preached.” I do know I was the only member of my class ever to be told to stop “preaching” and return to my pew. In mid-sentence, Canon Greene called from the back of the chapel. “Mr Wilcox, please, please, stop. You have not illumined St Paul’s text, but you have certainly made us aware that there are many attractive young women frolicking across the way. No only have you lost your listeners—your long glances elsewhere have actually led them astray!”

I think this incident may have happened during Lent, but that’s not why it comes to mind. I am easily distracted. When I try to focus my attention on a single topic, my mind wanders. Rarely is this more obvious than when I pray.

St John of Damascus teaches us prayer is the “lifting of the heart and mind to God.” I have never spent half-an-hour in prayer without my mind drifting somewhere else—to something which, were I otherwise engaged, I’d dismiss immediately. When we pray, almost anything will serve as a good distraction. A far off sound—“what was that?” “Did I pay the car insurance yet?” “When was the last time I talked to my sister?” “Wouldn’t some pork chops be good for supper?” Those cartoons which show a devil perched on your shoulder, whispering in your ear, are good pictures of what it’s like to pray.

It’s not hard to focus my attention on things I’m concerned about—when I pray about a problem or am holding a person up to God, the words come easily and my mind remains where it should. It’s when I intend to “lift my heart and mind to God,” when I approach the real meat of prayer, that I become a mental gnat, flitting from one thing to another.

In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, there’s a scene where King Claudius kneels in the chapel to pray. After a few moments he says ‘My words fly up/but my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts/ne’er to Heaven go.” While he’s not entirely correct, Claudius has a point. We can certainly say that prayer offered with a divided mind indicates at least something of a divided heart. It's certainly less beneficial than the prayer of a heart and mind fully turned to God. “Less beneficial?”-how can it be beneficial at all?

There is benefit to us even when we pray distractedly. That we have stopped our other activities to pray—to give God praise and thanks—indicates that we have a desire and intention to pray—to be with God. That we do so imperfectly—that our minds wander at Mass or that we’re aware we’ve said grace before our meal only after our “words fly up,”—shouldn’t be a surprise. Imperfectly is how we do most everything. The Lord sees the intention and desire of the heart and mind to pray, even if we flub it up most of the time.

Sometimes, we don’t. Sometimes, we do indeed “lift our hearts and minds to God.” There are those rare occasions when, as the collect from the Book of Common Prayer says, “we can be still, and know that Thou art God.” When such a time comes, a time pregnant with Grace, we may find no words necessary. In fact, no words will do. When we actually encounter God in prayer (almost, it seems, by accident), silence comes naturally (I want to say “supernaturally”).

It’s only later, when the Presence quietly recedes and God allows us to return to the words of our prayer, that we get a glimmer of understanding. Those gifts of God’s Presence, acts of His Grace, come to us because of all the imperfect moments of prayer that preceded them. When we persevere in prayer—through distractions, through times when “our thoughts remain below,” and through the whispered suggestions from our shoulder that none of this is doing us any good since we don’t “feel” God’s presence—God is able to open the eyes of our souls now and again—and let us know He’s been here all along, but only shows Himself to the ability each soul has prepared itself to see.

Lent plods along, day by day, calling us to prayer. If you plod along through the season, don’t be too surprised if one of those days—as we watch the sunrise or keep vigil late at night—you receive a most welcome Guest. We are not alone.