Imagine a multitude of people walking along a raised path in the wilderness.  They are crowded together, having to move carefully as there are ditches on either side of the high way.  Most of the people seem to be walking resolutely towards some destination.  You notice a marked difference though between those at the front of the line and those at the end, who are just beginning to join the throng.  A significant transformation has taken place in the souls of those who have travelled longer on this path.  It becomes evident, in light of this conversion, that the destination of this journey is not necessarily to a place but to an increasing state of freedom—a freedom associated with holiness.

Those at the front of the line seem to shine with a winsome glow that inspires and motivates the people behind them.  Every now and then, those behind catch a glimpse of the virtue that the saints ahead of them are enjoying, causing a noticeable ripple of enthusiasm through the crowd.  But regardless where people are positioned on this path, they seem satisfied and grateful to be there.  The motivation that those ahead of them provide is not so much one of envy but one of anticipation that serves to quicken their step.

You notice, as well, that there are people wandering in the fields and rocky areas on either side of the raised highway, some alone and others in small groups.  These people seem lost and oblivious to the parade that is taking place right beside them.  But you also notice some who are walking among them with much more of a sense of purpose.  They are those who have sacrificed their place in line in order to go search for these lost souls.  You watch as one of them approaches a group of wanderers and begins speaking to them.  You can tell by the way she keeps pointing towards the highway that she is inviting them  to come and join her in the journey.  Some do, but many don’t.  Instead, they keep  wandering in the field, their eyes looking far into the distance for whatever they are searching for.

There is a high hill nearby, off to the side of the road.  You climb it, and you can now see the whole multitude at a glance.  You notice that there is a bulge of people in the middle of the throng while the numbers seem to thin out at both the front and rear of the line.  The ones in the middle are carrying items with them that will serve the whole community on their journey—tents, food, water, as well as musical instruments, books for teaching, liturgical vestments and other articles that express something of their common destination.  Every night they set up their tents and serve the many people who gather for a common meal.  It is an opportune time as well to share stories and to remind one another of the hope that inspires their trek.

At the rear of the line you see some people who are obviously new at this pilgrimage.  Though they seem to begin each day with an inordinate amount of enthusiasm they soon start complaining about tiredness, blisters and the heat of the noon-day sun.  But there are others among them, people with the same glow as those in the front of the line.  They have purposely fallen back in the line, choosing instead to walk among the new pilgrims, encouraging them and reminding them of where they are going.  They are keeping an eye out as well for stragglers who might get left behind.

Curiously, there is something similar happening at the front of the line.  You see people who had previously been glowing with the winsome radiance of purpose who are now sitting down, seemingly dejected on the side of the road.  Their glow has faded as they seem confused about their way, disheartened by the challenges that the process of conversion continues to impose on them.  Others from the front line leave the highway to sit with these people.  They are talking with them, gently bringing both understanding and encouragement to these discouraged souls.  As you notice the glow slowly return to these people, you remember Moses and Elijah’s conversation with Jesus at the transfiguration.  Finally they get up and rejoin the crowd, grateful to those who cared enough to notice them.

As you strain to see how far the front line extends you are startled by what you notice.  The people at the very front seem to be mysteriously disappearing.  Their souls, which were getting brighter and brighter with each step, are now becoming increasingly  transparent so that they blend into the bright light of the sun.  They are becoming one with the light that has been following them their whole journey so that they seem to disappear as they reflect the very holiness they have been seeking.  The brightness of these souls attracts the attention of the pilgrims behind them.  Suddenly, these same people who just a moment ago were dragging their steps, are now throwing themselves forward, making a renewed offering of themselves to whatever lies ahead for them on this journey.  They do this so joyfully that it reminds you of your own deep desires for holiness.  That you too have been called to walk on this highway.

You have been watching long enough.  It is time now for you too to join this pilgrimage.  You step down from the hilltop and run towards the highway.  The people see you approaching and turn to welcome you.  With a song of praise in your heart, you realize how blessed you are to be on this road.  You too will soon reflect the light that now surrounds you.  You thank God for this hope, and for the love you feel for all those who walk with you on this pilgrimage.  And with great joy, you go forth.

Luke 15:8-10

It is not uncommon us, even as Christians, to lose our sense of God.  As the hymn suggests, we are “prone to wander, prone to leave the God we love.”  For countless and often trivial reasons, we choose to no longer remain in His love.  But as Jesus’ teaches in this parable, there is cause for celebration in heaven each time we repent of this.  The woman finds her lost coin, she calls her friends and neighbours, they share her joy, and all ends well.

But let us back the story up a bit.  To the part just before the lost coin is found, when that happy outcome is not yet certain.  It is easy to imagine the concern that precipitates the frantic search for this precious item.  If heaven rejoices when the coin has been found, does it not also suggest that it shares the worry over what, for the moment, appears to be lost?

Is there concern in God’s heart when we stray—that we might not return?  The French poet Charles Péguy (1873-1914) thinks so. He believes there is a genuine, heart-felt fear on God’s part whenever His children have been away for too long.  In his epic poem, The Portal of the Mystery of Hope, Péguy surmises that it was the lost sheep who first introduced such fear in the Shepherd’s heart.  He writes,

By his very going away,
and because he was going to miss the evening call
the lost sheep aroused fear from the very heart of God,
and thus he caused hope itself to spring forth.
Because of this lost sheep, Jesus experienced fear in love.

Our “missing the evening call” is surely a cause for concern in heaven.  There is, after all, the real risk that the exercise of our God-given freedom might become a snare for us.  We could succumb to the arrogant words of the Israelites which Jeremiah records, “We are free to roam; we will come to you no more’?”  (Jer. 2:31).  If not for God’s grace, we too could be swallowed up by the very idols we create.  What, for instance, might the fate of the prodigal son have been if, rather than ending up in a pig’s pen, he had instead prospered from his own initiatives?

As we ignore the continued appeals of the Holy Spirit to return to God, there is always a possibility that our faith might be shipwrecked (1Tim. 1:19).  It is not, after all, just for idle speculation that the book of Proverbs warns us that “there is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death” (Prov. 14:12).

As a wise preacher once noted, there are as many Scriptures that assure us of the security of our salvation as there are that caution us not to take the Lord’s grace for granted.  In other words, God has valid enough reasons to be concerned for us when we wander too far on our own.

The three parables of lostness—the lost coin, the lost sheep, and the lost son—all speak of the rejoicing that takes place in celebration of the return of that which was lost.  But they also hint at the very real parental concern that remains in God’s heart until the precious item has been recovered.

Rom. 4:5

In her biography, Before the Living God, the Carmelite Abbess Ruth Burrows writes about the pilgrimage of trust that she and her fellow sisters have long been on.  She sees the development of our growing trust in God as the principle agenda of the spiritual life, something that we can only enjoy to the degree that we have put to rest the anxious “work” of trying to manage our relationship with God.  She writes,

I want to show people that what really matters is utter trust in God; that this trust cannot be there until we have lost all self-trust and are rooted in poverty; that we must be willing to go to God with empty hands.  The whole meaning of our existence and the one consuming desire of the heart of God is that we should trust God enough to let ourselves be loved.

Trusting God’s love for us means doing so also in the context of our sense of personal inadequacy, especially with regards to the spiritual life.  To fret over our failures, or to presume that these disqualify us in any way, is to usurp God’s prerogative to love us even in our poverty.

As a young nun observing her fellow sisters, Burrows remembers the many so-called spiritual acts that, in her estimation, betrayed more of a lack of trust among those who had otherwise committed their lives so wholly to God.  She writes,

Looking at my dear friends, living for God, I saw in fact that something was yet wanting in them. They had not yet come to perfect trust. They felt they were spiritual failures because this or that had not happened to them.  They felt they had missed out on something because their experience carried none of the features  they assumed a truly authentic spiritual life should yield.

It is the nagging sense that we are never spiritual enough that reveals our lack of trust in God.  As we chase the spiritual life like a carrot at the end of a stick we never get to truly rest in God’s present love for us.  Concerning her friends Burrows adds,

They knew they were loved by God and yet there was an indefinable anxiety which inhibited their total surrender to that love.  I saw these dear people, self-giving, generous, full of love for God and yet still anxious, still hesitant before the last step which would release them from themselves and open them to God’s love.

Far from criticizing the weakness of human faith, Burrows writes with the compassion of a co-captive who is just beginning to feel the bindings of her own fears giving way.  She longs to instill this hope in others as well.  She writes,

I long to convince them that, here and now, in their present ‘unsatisfactory’ state, in their so-called ‘failure’, God desires to give himself to them; that this state of poverty is precisely what he wants and that it represents his way into them. He has laboured with love for a long time to open up this way for them.  Will they now block it?  If they do, they are turning from the straight path of poverty, and choosing instead the winding road of spiritual riches.

Burrows clearly understands the sufficiency of Jesus’ word, “Blessed are the poor in spirit” (Mt. 5:3).   She is convinced, as we should be, that if God blesses our poverty, His promises are in no way hindered by our failure to deserve them.

Let the one who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the LORD and rely on their God.

Isa. 50:10

The Dene (pronounced Den-nay) are a Northern Canadian aboriginal tribe who govern themselves by a council of wise men.  As is typical in many aboriginal societies, the male elders are chosen by the women.  I once had the occasion to speak with a Dene woman about the process of selecting elders in their communities.  I asked what I assumed was an intelligent question, “On what basis do you decide who’s an elder among you?”  She answered me with a puzzled look,  “You just know.  Some people are elders while others are just old people.”  It struck me as an important distinction to make for my own life, as I too grow older.  Will others see me as an elder in God’s kingdom, or as just another old person?

In a recent publication by Regent College* a number of students and faculty were asked to reflect on the topic of aging well.  In one article, professor Maxine Hancock speaks of the characteristics she has observed in people who age well, especially in debilitating circumstances.  She writes,

I have had the privilege of watching people whose long habits of spiritual discipline and personal devotion taught them to accept infirmity with patience, and care with gratitude.  Even those who experienced dementia retained a core identity grounded in Christ; they met death at peace and unafraid.

Often, when I meet with younger people for spiritual direction, I will ask them what type of old person they want to be.  I try to encourage them to start preparing now for the characteristics they wish to see in their future selves.  As Eugene Peterson notes, it is a “long obedience in the same direction” that ultimately forms the character of old age.

What are the character traits that God is presently investing in you for your old age?  What is it that you are being obedient to today that will bear fruit for the person you will soon enough be? How, in your old age, might all that you have learned from a life of seeking and finding God contribute to the fabric of the Christian community around you?  In other words, what type of elder will you be?  Or will you be just another old person?

In the same publication, Dr. James Houston reflects on the life-long relational qualities that contribute to the making of an elder.  He writes,

An elder is someone who, all his or her life, has been committed to relational values such as friendship and family.  As elders grow old, they continue to foster communal values and strong relationships.  In the Old Testament, the elder is the one who facilitates the maturing of personal relationships within the community

This relational emphasis is also echoed by Regent graduate Linda Seale who sees mentoring as one the chief tasks we should anticipate and equip ourselves for as we age.  She writes,

Mentoring involves wisdom.  In a world overwhelmed with information, we are sadly lacking in wisdom.  Wisdom develops over a lifetime of pondering and integrating the experiences given by our Lord.  We need to pass this on to the next generations to help them mature, to stand there with encouragement, and to provide that fertile soil in which new leaders can develop.

The prophet Hosea counsels us to “sow righteousness for yourselves, reap the fruit of unfailing love, and break up your unplowed ground” (Hos. 10:12).  In other words, the making of an elder is a seasoned work that begins long before we reach old age.  As Linda Seale wisely concludes, “Aging well is a process that begins by doing any stage of life well.”

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith “A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!”

Rabbi Ben Ezra, by Robert Browning

*see http://www.regent-college.edu/pdf/regentworld/RegentWorldSummer2011.pdf for a pdf of this publication.

Makarios the Great was a Syrian spiritual director who ministered in the fourth century near the border area of Cappadocia (Turkey) and Syria.  He was a disciple of St. Antony, the first of the desert fathers.  In his teachings, Makarios often stressed the importance of a felt experience of God.  He saw this as an indicator of the Holy Spirit, through whom we come to “taste and see that the Lord is good” (Ps. 34:8).  Such experiences of God cause us to grow in our desire to be united with God as the object of our love.

For most early theologians, the highest expression and purpose of faith was the union of the soul with God.  It is why God became man through Jesus—to unite Himself to our humanity so that our humanity would be united with His divinity.   As Makarios taught, “The infinite God diminished Himself in order to be united with His creatures, so they can be made participators of divine life.”

The apostle Peter, as well, teaches that God’s promises in Christ—in whom the fullness of both humanity and divinity are joined—represent an invitation to “participate in the divine nature” (2Pet 1:4).  And we do so by submitting our lives to the Holy Spirit.  This is why theologians often refer to the third person of the Trinity as “the agent of our participation.”   Spiritual maturity then is the fruit of our ongoing response to the Spirit’s invitation which we participate in through the yielding of our hearts.

One of Makarios’ most memorable metaphors for the passive way we make ourselves available to the Holy Spirit is that of the heart serving as a “resonating chamber.”  In the same way that the body of a guitar or a violin serves to amplify the sound of the plucked or bowed string, so our bodies become a place where the song of the Spirit re-sonates within.  He writes,

As breath sounds when passed through a flute, so does the Holy Spirit make music in the holy and God-bearing saints who, from a pure heart, become hymns and psalms to God.

Echoing the insight of other desert saints, Makarios recognizes the resulting “music” as that of the Holy Spirit lifting us up in the praise of God.  It is the Spirit within us—the “Word” which does not come back empty—who returns praise to Christ through the instrument of our yielded hearts.  As Makarios expreses,

The Spirit, taking possession of the soul, now sings a new song to the Lord with the timbrel of the body and so it sends up praises, through the believer, to the life-giving Christ.

If such be the case, all the more should our desire be to make room for the Holy Spirit’s resonance in our souls.  Let us heed the Psalmist’s call to worship when he says: “Awake my soul!  Sing and make music to your God.”   As we offer our hearts as instruments of His praise, we will discover what it means to truly worship in Spirit and truth (Jn 4:24).

I will sing and make music.

Awake, my soul!
Awake, harp and lyre!
I will awaken the dawn.

Psalm 57:7-8

1John 1:1

The testimony of a first-hand experience of God is what is most needed in our witness to the world today.  Without the conviction that comes from a direct knowledge of God the most we can offer in the marketplace of spiritual ideas is one more belief system among many others.  What makes Christianity unique though, is that it is much more than a theory about the spiritual life.  It is a living relationship with the very Creator of that spiritual life.

Father Matta El-Meskeen, also known as Matthew the Poor, lived his life in the prayer-birthed experience of God.  Recognizing the importance of such a witness for the world, he moved as a young man to the Tunisian desert in order to more profoundly seek God for himself.  He believed that what he learned of God in the experience of his own life could become a light that testifies to the reality of this same possibility in others.  In his book The Orthodox Prayer Life, he speaks of his motivation he had for becoming a hermit.

So many books tell about Christ; so many preachers speak about Christ; but so few people live and speak with Christ.  What had attracted me to the solitary life and absorbed my mind was the idea that once I had found Christ this knowledge would be turned into prayer for the whole world.

More than a theology to believe in, the gospel is an action of the Holy Spirit that we observe from the vantage point of our own lives.  Prayer introduces us to the immediacy of God which then becomes the certainty from which we bear witness that such an experience is also possible for others.  It also becomes the motivation for our own continued pursuit of God.

There is a story of the desert fathers that wonderfully illustrates the tenacity that this first-hand experience produces in us.  One of Abba Hilarion’s disciples asked him a question about monks who give up on the spiritual quest.  The Abba replied with a story,

Consider the hunting dogs which chase after hares.  Imagine one of these dogs sees a hare in the distance and immediately gives chase.  The other dogs that are with him see this dog run off and take off after him, even though they have not seen the hare. They will continue running with him, but only for a time.  When at length the effort and struggle exhaust them, they give up the chase and turn back.  However the dog that saw the hare continues chasing it by himself. He does not allow the effort or struggle to hinder him from completing his long course. Nor does he allow the turning aside of the other dogs behind him to put him off. He goes on running until he has caught the hare he saw.

The way this story applies to the value of first-hand knowledge is obvious.  It also suggests the strong motivation that the experience of God provides for us to remain in the chase.  Because we are certain of what we have seen, even when we have lost sight of our target, we do not lose hope that it actually exists.

The life appeared; we have seen it and testify to it, and we proclaim to you the eternal life, which was with the Father and has appeared to us.

1John 1:2

John 15:6

“Without prayer, we lose sight of the meaning of our existence and the purpose of life.” So writes the desert hermit, Father Matta El-Meskeen. “We also risk losing the glory of our image,” he adds, “so that we no longer resemble God in the same way as when we pray.” The unknown author of The Cloud of Unknowing teaches similarly that, “If we neglect prayerful contemplation we will sink ever deeper into unawareness.” And Jesus also warns us, in His parable of the vine and branches, of the loss we will suffer if we do not remain attached to His love.

We all stray at times from the practice of prayer and there are many reasons why we do. But they all stem from a misplaced confidence in our own sufficiency. As Father Matta observes, “a person who does not pray is one who is content with their own condition.” Paradoxically, the withering that results from neglecting our prayerful dependence on God is what serves most to reveal the true poverty of our God-less existence. Concerning those who willfully or inadvertently stray from the vine, Father Matta writes,

Without their awareness, the ties that bind them to the earth and the flesh increase. Their ego remains the principle source of all their desires and ambitions. As for their relationship with Christ, it remains only superficial and outward. It has no real power to change or amend things.

Without the light of daily prayer we no longer grow in truth as we should, but are left unpruned and uncultured, like a wild olive branch. Since we are not turning the soil of our lives through prayer, our ground becomes fallow, and the progress of conversion stalls. As Father Matta writes,

The inward light of prayer exposes the blemishes and defects of our daily conduct. If a man does not pray, he can never be changed or renewed. And he who is not changed or renewed can have no genuine or effective relationship with Christ.

Jesus could not have made it easier for us to understand the dynamics of spiritual life. It is quite simple—if we do not remain in the vine we will wither. But the Lord also gave us hope that the opposite is equally true, “If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit” (Jn. 15:5). Through prayer, the meaning of our existence and purpose in life will be renewed daily. It will restore the imago dei within us so that our lives will more truthfully reflect the grace of God. And it will keep us in fruitful relationship with the love of Christ so that we will continue to be transformed in our conversion.

Gen. 8:8-12

We don’t have to read very far in the Bible to see how the use of “go-betweens” in our relationship with God is an acceptable practice that the Lord Himself often seems to encourage.  By “go-betweens” I mean tangible aids in discerning God’s will through the interpretation of our circumstances, where these are offered as vocabulary for divine communication.

We read, for example, the famous story of Gideon’s fleece.  Gideon, in seeking assurance of God’s will, discerns according to whether the dew falls on his fleece or not that a certain action is what God would have him do (Judges 6).  We see this also in the book of Acts where the casting of lots is used as a means of choosing a new apostle to replace Judas.  Perhaps we’ve all set up similar transactions with God at times.  “If you do this Lord, I will take it as a sign that You are confirming Your will with me.”

Noah, as well, is versed in this language.  In the story of the deluge, Noah has been drifting for several weeks on an endless sea.  He has no way of knowing how much longer he will be confined to the ark.  Perhaps he is running out of food, space, or patience so he sends out a “fleece” in the form of a dove to see if there is any hope for change.  Is there land out there?  Is this journey nearing an end?  The dove, having found no place to rest, returns to the ark and Noah must accept that the answer is no.

Though the dove’s return is, undoubtedly, a disappointment, Noah sees it as only a temporary setback in his discernment process.  A week later, he sends the dove out again to search for land.  Such fleeces are a form of prayerful inquiry—a means of exploring, with God, possible alternatives to our present life.  As it was for Noah, they represent prayers of reconnaissance through which we seek clarity in the discernment of God’s will.  They are “soundings,” from which we await an echo of confirmation or assurance from God.

In querying his circumstance as he does, Noah models for us a valid form of prayerful inquiry whenever we are uncertain about the shape of our lives.  We too, at times, might consider putting “feelers” out in a certain direction just to see what the Lord might do (1Sam 14:6).   In what areas of your life do you find yourself longing for change—for the waters of your circumstances to recede and reveal new land to you?  What are the “doves” that you have sent out in search of possible places to land?  How do these serve as a vocabulary of hope in your relationship with God?  And what happens to your disposition when they return empty, or not at all?

Noah’s resolute faith serves as a helpful model for us when we too face disappointing yields.  It validates our persistent inquiries regarding God’s will for our lives.  It also models the hope we are encouraged to maintain until the waters of our unwanted circumstances have receded.  Our gentle, but persistent, probing into God’s purposes will feel much more empowering to us than sitting below deck and waiting for the ark to ground itself.

The prologue of John’s gospel teaches us that the light of Christ shines on every person born (Jn 1:9).  And we will experience either comfort or discomfort depending on how we feel about what that light reveals.  As we open our lives to God, Christ’s light inevitably exposes more and more of who we are.  It is therefore important for us to consider the quality of faith we will need in order to continue presenting ourselves to its increasing scrutiny.

Already, in the dim light by which we presently see ourselves, we find ourselves often  resisting the implications of what is exposed.  Like our original parents we are quite adept at the art of misdirection—using whatever is at hand to conceal, even to ourselves, the uncomfortable truths of our being.  How much more will this be the case as the glare of God’s light increases?  How long will it take before we feel it necessary to reach for whatever fig leaves we can find to cover ourselves with?  How soon will we too cry out for the rocks to fall on us and hide us from the face of “Him who sees all” (Rev. 6:16)?  Long before God has occasion to pronounce judgment on us it is we who will more likely disqualify ourselves out of fear of the discrepancies that His light so clearly and indisputably reveals in us.

Such will be the natural response of all but the most arrogant and self-justified among us.  There are many of our race who rashly choose to dismiss God in order to justify themselves (Job 40:8).  They refuse to accept the conviction of the Holy Spirit that calls them to repent.  But for those who cannot deny the truth of what is revealed, rather than inspire diffidence, the reality of our sins can easily tempt us to dismiss ourselves long before God has had opportunity to address us.  It is a natural response to the fear of having our shadows brought to light.  As Jesus tells Nicodemus, we resist coming into the light because we do not want our deeds exposed ( John 3:20).

Left to ourselves, when confronted with negative truth, we will either cling to the lie of self-justification, or else we will disqualify ourselves long before we come to recognize the merciful intent of God’s exposing Light.  By presuming to be our own judges we will eclipse God’s mercy with our own self-judgment.

But there is another recourse, and that is the one offered through the accepted sacrifice of Christ.  To the degree that we believe Jesus’ words—that His blood is shed for the continual forgiveness of our sins (Mat. 26:28)—we will be confident to welcome His light, regardless of what it exposes of our poverty.  Though increasingly aware of the disqualifying truth it reveals in us, we will nevertheless boldly approach God in full confidence, not of our own merit, but that of Christ’s finished work on the cross.

Scripture gives us great assurance for such confidence in the fact that all authority to judge has been given to Jesus, who has expressly stated that His intention is not to condemn the world but to present us to Himself as without blemish (Jn 3:17, Eph. 5:27, Col. 1:22).  Our confidence rests solely on the grace of God.  In faith, we accept the sufficiency our Lord’s sacrifice and, in celebration of this truth, we join the chorus of those who praise God for the far-reaching atonement of His mercy.

Distractions are a normal, through frustrating, part of our maturing ability to pray.  Eventually, we learn to ignore them—to realize that they are on the surface and that the place of prayer comes from a deeper place, in the temple of our hearts.  But we also grow in our assurances that the Lord is nevertheless working, encountering us at a deeper level in the soul, even through what is happening in our thoughts.

Thomas Green, in his book Drinking from the Dry Well, compares our unruly thoughts during prayer to children at an adult party.  He writes,

They don’t grasp what is going on between the adults (i.e. the soul and the Lord) and so they clamour for attention.  And the more we attend to them, the more demanding they become.  Like spoiled children they know they can get our attention by making noise.  On the other hand, if we ignore them they will eventually quiet down, since they learn that they won’t gain anything by their antics.

There will always be distractions in our prayers since our imaginations are always active.   Even when we sleep they fill our minds with data.  It is a natural process that we cannot stop by simply willing it so. But as we come more before the Lord, our thoughts become easier to ignore.  As Thomas Green writes, “As we cooperate with the stillness we are being invited to, the Lord tames and purifies our faculties of prayer.”

Teresa of Avila, in the fourth mansion of her Interior Castle, speaks of a “prayer of recollection” where the Lord Himself brings all the faculties to quiet and enables the pray-er to be totally centered on Him.  But this is a gift from God, which only comes to us occasionally.

Sometimes what we call distractions might actually be a dialogue in which the Lord is revealing, through our own thoughts, what He wishes to say or make known to us.  Green writes,

Our “distractions” are often related to the demands of our active life.  And they may well be inspirations from God concerning our choosing and acting.  The distinction we need to make in prayer is whether we are listening to the Lord or merely talking to ourselves.

If the objective of prayer is to bring all that takes place within us into relationship with the Lord, even our thoughts can serve as vehicles for this encounter.  If, however, our imagination sends us back to ourselves we have lost the basic intent of our prayer.  As Green says,

If I become all wrapped up in a discussion with myself about my problems and concerns—if the Lord is forgotten in the process—then these concerns are a distraction from our intent in prayer, which is to be with God.  But, if I bring these thoughts to the Lord and talk to him about them, then they are not really side trips.  They become the very substance of our encounter with Him.

The advice Green offers is that we first acknowledge our distractions and then intentionally translate them into the language of prayer.  He writes,

This is why I have not found it helpful to try to block out all the distractions in my prayer.  As I have learned over the years, it is better to begin the prayer by surfacing all my concerns, bringing them into the prayer and then handing them over to God saying, “Lord, these are my concerns as I come before you today.  If you wish to speak to me about them, fine.  But if not, let them pass away.”

Such an approach is a much more effective way of dealing with distractions than our struggling to stop them.  As we grow in our attraction to God we will find it easier to ignore whatever tempts us away from our first love.  In the meantime we are assured that God is sanctifying our prayer, and encouraging us always to choose the better focus for our attention.

Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.
Luke 10:42