One of my nephews has written to me:
My mind is often so cluttered and conflicting, so noisy, that it
must be completely cleared out and silenced. But that is also a
preparation for prayer. Recently I have found that talking less
(and listening more), watching the sunset, taking time to
breathe in fresh air outdoors, or putting my mind and hands to
hard physical work – any of these can bring me closer to God.
The issue, however, is not me, but God.
In Europe during the first decades of this century a widespread movement of youth groups formed around the belief that bourgeois
conventions should be abandoned in favor of simplicity, sincerity,
honest relationships, and love of nature. They hiked in the mountains, played folk music, enjoyed the old circle dances, and in the
evening met silently around a fire, which for them was a spiritual
experience, the flames flickering on the faces of those gathered, all
looking to the center, a symbol of our inner centering on God. My
grandmother, an avid participant in this so-called Youth Movement,
writes:
We sensed that hidden in nature lay a mystery: God. Most had
not experienced God or had lost sight of him – if not through
disillusionment with the established churches, then through the
terrible experiences of the First World War. Out in nature, however, we felt something of a true quest for the unknown God – and a sense of great reverence for him – when we gathered and sang together. Behind all this stood a creator whose name we
hardly dared pronounce, it had been so misused and distorted.
Though careful to note the distinction between worshipping
creation and worshipping the creator, whose divine Spirit is seen at
work in it, my grandfather reveled in the beauty of nature and
often expressed himself in verses that are really personal prayers
put on paper:
The valley opens wide,
Warm sunshine floods the earth with light.
O may my heart awake to thee,
Be opened, opened wide,
That I for thee may be outpoured,
In stillness now may wait for thee.
My eyes be lifted high
To view creation’s wondrous might,
To view the wideness of the plains:
Yea, thou art great! Not I.
Thou all in all, no separate one,
In thy creation oneness reigns.
God, thou art great, so great –
To thee the widest land is small.
Thy spirit is unbounded, free.
We love thee without end.
Surrendered wholly to thy call,
I lose myself, to live in thee.
Eberhard Arnold
I often wonder whether we sufficiently grasp
or appreciate
the tremendous gift of being able to come to God in prayer. As
many of the stories I have recounted so far indicate, sorrow and
heartache drive most of us to God without a second thought. As
for thanking or praising him when things are going well, however,
we are often negligent. All the same, I believe that worship must
be a part of our prayers. When we have joy in God, we will feel a
natural urge to honor him, for we will be unable to forget for even
an hour that it is he who protects us, holds us through hard times,
provides us with everything we need, and gives us hope for the
future, no matter how bleak things may seem.
Take, for example, the following part of a letter written by Etty
Hillesum, a Dutch Jew who suffered and died in a Nazi death camp.
You have made me so rich, O God, please let me share your
bounty with open hands. My life has become an uninterrupted
dialogue with you. Sometimes when I stand in some corner of
the camp, my feet planted on your earth, my eyes raised toward
your heaven, tears run down my face, tears of deep emotion
and gratitude. At night, too, when I lie in my bed and rest in you,
O God, tears of gratitude run down my face, and that is my
prayer. I have been terribly tired for several days, but that too
will pass; things come and go in a deeper rhythm and people
must be taught to listen to it. It is the most important thing we
have to learn in this life…
I may never become the great artist I would really like to be,
but I am already secure in you, God. Sometimes I try my hand at
turning out small profundities and uncertain short stories, but I
always end up with just one single word: God. And that says everything, and there is no need for anything more.
We have so much to be thankful for, so infinitely much more than
Hillesum, yet how often we forget to thank and praise God. And
when we think of people in the so-called developing nations, in the
hunger-stricken, blood-drenched, devastated parts of this earth, it
is clear that most of us have suffered very little in our lives. We are
surrounded by peace and plenty. We have no reason and no excuse
for ingratitude – as Desmond Tutu calls it, the “deeper leprosy of
the spirit.” In all my travelling and reading, I have noted that
people who really suffer – who live in poverty and unbelievable
hardship – are much more thankful than we. Such people, it seems,
are continually praising God. Paul instructs us to rejoice in the Lord
always, to pray constantly, and to give thanks in all circumstances.
The prophet Habakkuk says, “Though the fig tree does not blossom,
nor any fruit be on the vines, though the produce of the olive fail,
and the fields yield no food, though the flock be cut off from the
fold, and there be no herd in the stalls, yet will I rejoice in the Lord,
the God of my salvation.”
God is so good that he not only accepts our feeble stammering,
but desires it. We may be small and weak, but God loves and affirms us in that very smallness. And it is in recognizing that we are
unworthy of his care, his love, and his generous gifts, that our
gratitude to him is born. Through our faith in him, we come to
know what an inexhaustible wealth of grace awaits those who call
on God.
Blessed that flock safe penned in Paradise;
Blessed this flock that tramps in weary ways;
All form one flock, God’s flock; all yield him praise
By joy, or pain, still tending toward the prize.
Joy speaks in praises there, and sings and flies
Where no night is, exulting all its days;
Here, pain finds solace, for, behold, it prays;
In both, love lives the life that never dies.
Christina Rossetti
God is spirit, life, movement, and change.
Jesus contrasted
“the wind that blows where it wills” with established routine, with
designated places of worship, with form and structure. Perhaps
that is also why Jesus never wrote anything down; he passed everything on to his disciples by word of mouth, so that his message
would spread in a living way, from heart to heart, from experience
to experience. It is recorded only once that Jesus wrote something,
and that was in the sand, where the wind would blow it away. If we
are open to the spirit of God moving in us and around us, we will
find ourselves in a worshipful attitude many times every day: upon
arising, in our relationships with others, and when we witness the
beauty of the world around us.
The early church father Clement of Alexandria expressed his worship
in written words that overflow with joy and an unwavering faith.
O bridle of racing young horses,
Wing of soaring birds,
Safe rudder of sailing boats,
Shepherd of the royal lambs!
Unite thy simple children
That they may sing thee praises
In holiness and clearness,
With consecrated lips…
O Word, eternally welling,
O aeon that never ends,
Eternal light undying,
O fount of mercy and love,
O source of all that is good!
Holy life thou art
For those who worship God!
When a heart is filled with joy, it may often overflow in song. Much
of our music-making is joyous and inspired by the desire to worship, but music can express our sorrow or grief and, indeed, most
other emotions as well. Anneta, the young nurse who worked in
Haiti, wrote:
There is a song I have sung many times with the refrain, “Grant
us wisdom, grant us courage for the facing of this hour.” Singing
as a form of prayer is very real to me, and I sometimes sing out
loud through those hardest times. The people in the room often
join in with me, even when they are in tremendous pain.
Martin Luther said, “Next to the word of God, music describes the
highest praise.” And Johann Sebastian Bach wrote at the top of his
manuscripts, “S.D.G.”
– soli Deo gloria.
He wanted his music to
bring glory to God alone.
My grandfather once wrote that the church is “filled with such
an exuberant joy of the Holy Spirit that out of the fullness of her
heart she will bring praise and thanks to God, singing fervent songs
overflowing with the Spirit.” When we are together in a spirit of
joy and worship, God will be praised in our singing.
Carolyn, a neighbor, credits parochial school with teaching her
the essence of musical worship.
I can still see Sister Benecia standing in front of our class, urging
us to sing with all our hearts because, as she told us, singing is
twice praying. (Later I found out that the saying is attributed to
Saint Augustine.) It has stayed with me all my life, and much of
my prayer life takes the form of a simple song to God.
One of the many things for which I am thankful to my parents is
the love of good music they instilled in us children. We grew up
listening to Bach, Beethoven, Handel, Haydn, and Mendelssohn,
and learning about their lives. My parents knew that listening to
classical music was also a wonderful way to learn Scripture: the
wonder of creation as set to music by Haydn, the story of the
prophet Elijah in Mendelssohn’s oratorio, the suffering and death
of Christ portrayed so movingly through Bach’s Passions. There is
also the memorable chorus in Mendelssohn’s
St. Paul:
“Oh, great is
the depth of the riches of wisdom and knowledge of the Father.”
These works made a lasting impression on me; I remember the
words to this day.
I especially love the final movement of Beethoven’s
Ninth Symphony
with its words from Schiller’s “Ode to Joy.” For me, listening
to this rousing piece is a powerful musical experience:
You millions of people,
Do you bend your knees before him?
World, do you sense your creator?
Seek him beyond the galaxies!
He is far beyond the stars.
Nearly two hundred years after it was composed, Beethoven’s glorious work continues to bring joy and hope to listeners. When the
Berlin Wall came down in 1989 and a wave of freedom swept across
Europe, there was no question in people’s minds what music should
be played to celebrate the event. While 500,000 Berliners poured
across the newly opened border on Christmas Eve, conductor
Leonard Bernstein led an international orchestra and choir in proclaiming the new era across the whole world with an unforgettable
performance of “the Ninth.” If that was not worship, what is?
I have lived
all my life in church community. At the Bruderhof we
share our earnings and hold possessions and assets in common, and
in return the community cares for each person’s needs, much as the
early Christians did. As we share in outer things, so we also feel
compelled to an inner sharing, from heart to heart. To us, such community is the essence of a truly living church. By this we mean a
church in which the Holy Spirit rules, one in which there is a free
and open relationship among all members, based on faith in God
and trust in one another. Without this sharing of our inner lives,
there is no true congregation, and thus no true community. Certainly it demands faith in God, and grace to live by this faith, but
its fruits bring unparalleled blessings.
How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in
unity! It is like precious oil poured on the head, running down
on the beard, running down on Aaron’s beard, down upon the
collar of his robes. It is as if the dew of Hermon were falling on
Mount Zion. For there the Lord bestows his blessing, even life
forevermore.
Psalm 133
Few people have the privilege of experiencing spiritual unity – our
world is so torn, so divided. In our country the fabric of society has
crumbled and individual lives are fragmented as never before. It is
hard to imagine unity on any level. But unity can be given, and I do
not mean blind conformity or similarity in outer things or uniformity, or that devilish leveling of minds called “brainwashing.” Jesus
said that he often wished to gather his people “as a hen gathers her
chicks,” and in his last prayer he pleaded that his followers be
united as deeply as he is with his father. Not only that, but this
unity was to be the sign by which the world would recognize his
disciples.
What was so remarkable about the first Christians was their relationship to each other, their togetherness, their fellowship. This
was an entirely new thing – unity. Of all the gifts of the Spirit, this
was the most precious for them. They had known other kinds of
fellowship before; they had known the ties of common loyalty to a
group, such as a political party; they had known love of their country. But this togetherness was of a completely different order. It
was not a human power at all. Those Christians literally loved one
another as truly as they loved themselves.
My father-in-law, Hans, used to explain to visitors to our community
that it is necessary for us to be in unity before praying together.
“Prayer,” he would say, “is serious business”; we are asking for real
things, and therefore we have to be ready for real answers, for
whatever God may ask of us.
One may well ask how unity is achieved, but in a sense that is an
unanswerable question. Though we may strive for it, we will never
achieve it; it is a gift just as faith is a gift. Still, a gift must be received, and if our fists are closed we are unable to take hold of it. If
we keep a tight grip on our opinions, our self-image, our ambitions,
we will not receive anything at all. Thus in the first place we must
let go; we must remember that in our own strength we have nothing and are nothing; we must be humble and open our hearts. As
members of a congregation, we should be eager to meet together,
frequently and intensively, to worship God and to seek his will.
Without unity, how can the church ever become more than the sum
of its members, each of whom remains bound to his own values,
ideals, and personal goals?