Deep within each of us there is a great desire, a longing for something more, for something beyond, for something better than the best. This longing could be for an answer to life’s ultimate questions; for a job that offers us happiness and contentment; for the uncomfortable and painful present we find ourselves in to change; for the simple joy of being with a loved one. Beneath all of this is a longing for truth, goodness and beauty, which we can only find in God alone.
Such longing cannot be ignored, denied or demonized. It is that ache in the belly felt by every human person at some point in life, and we should pay attention to it. In this week’s gospel, when St. Peter knows it is Jesus walking on the water, he calls out, “Lord, if it is you, bid me come to you on the water.” At Jesus’ invitation, Peter jumps into the water and soon finds himself threatened by the waves. Peter cries out, “Lord, save me!” Our longing for God is often threatened by our busy lives and denied by our doubts. We can find ourselves, at times, unable to call upon the Lord to save us.
Often times, during this summer, I have written about taking time to rest and recharge ourselves so that we are able to continue living out our calling to be better disciples. We even are reminded in today’s Gospel that “after sending the crowds away, Jesus went up into the hills by himself to pray.” Jesus wanted space and time; space where he could be alone, and time when he could be with his Father.
What happened when Jesus was alone with his Father? Was it something like what was described in today’s first reading: Elijah, alone on the mountain of God, standing with his back to the cave, waiting for God to pass by? After Elijah had witnessed a fierce cyclone, an earthquake and fire, the reading goes on: “…There came the sound of a gentle breeze.” And we’re told that, “Elijah covered his face with his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.” With his face covered, seeing nothing, he stood immersed in the sound of sheer silence. I wonder if that, too, is what Jesus’ prayer was like: seeing nothing, just immersed in the sound of sheer silence.
There are lots of ways of praying. Some of us prefer to sit with our eyes closed and simply be in the presence of God. This is a form of praying with a long Christian tradition. St Teresa of Avila spoke about prayer as “gazing upon God present within us.” The omnipresent God is present within us, in the deep core of our own being. We may not see anything; maybe there is nothing to gaze upon. If we listen, all we hear is the sound of sheer silence…. So, seeing nothing, and hearing nothing, we simply seek to be in the presence of the unseen, unheard God, who we should believe is present within us, and who loves us unconditionally.
The aim of the prayer is simply to seek to empty the mind, to think of nothing, and just to be with God, all the while repeating a brief mantra to keep the attention from wandering. Sometimes we may not succeed. Our imagination may be like a thousand monkeys. It may fill with memories of past happenings, or fears, or worries, or desires or plans for the future. In fact, the here and the now, the present moment, is desperately slippery. Eventually, the time of prayer seems to be more constant and steady as we become aware of our distractions, gently let go of them, and patiently bringing ourselves back to the sheer, empty silence of the present moment.
Does praying like this achieve anything? Its purpose is not to achieve anything, other than to stand open and honest before the mystery that is God. But there is a hope, all the same, a desire that keeps on coming up: the hope that, by being simply available to God, by getting our “self” out of the way, by letting go of our ego and its addiction to control, we might make ourselves less cluttered so that God may do in us, do with us, whatever God wants. And that, we hope, is to share with us the vision and the heart of Jesus. What is most important is that we know and believe that, through prayer, we can feed our longing for God.