Without God

Life Without God

they have
no knowledge
of God

A student and I were discussing the possibility of life on another planet. “What if we find sentient beings, who are our equals in every way with one exception” – I asked – “they have no knowledge of God?” He responded that the lack of faith would make them superior – less needy, more independent. I disagreed, arguing that belief in someone or something larger, more intelligent, and vastly more powerful than ourselves makes possible society, keeping us humble enough to tolerate, live with, and even care for others.

And even though the journey
was painful and lonely, it was a process that led
to both perspective and maturity.

Nearly a dozen years ago, I made a serious mistake in my position as a youth pastor in a small Idaho church. In spite of my carelessness (and stupidity), I had not been fired; but I faced painful truths about my character, questions about my place in the community, confusion about my future calling. I took a week away from work and drove to Oregon for a spiritual retreat at a primitive cabin near a private lake in the Willamette Valley.

And I prayed.

Or at least I tried to pray. One morning, I read Psalm 119 over more than a dozen times. Then I waited in silence. I wrote out a question for God. And another. And another. But each time, as I waited in silence, I had no peace, no sense of God’s presence. I went for a walk. I climbed a tree. I ate. I slept. On the next morning, I tried again. And the next morning. And the next.

At the end of the week, I felt just as confused as at the start. But I was convinced that God had been present, that God was waiting for me to work through the problem I’d been given, that God trusted me to learn and grow from the struggle.

In Prayer: Finding the Heart’s True Home, Richard Foster recounts a similar situation from his own life: his attempt to solve a long-standing problem at the university where he taught. And I recognize my experience in his claim that “we often pray in struggling, halting ways. . . . We do not know what to pray. We do not know how to pray.”

Roberta Bondi builds on this truth in To Pray and to Love with the story of a friend who discovered that “‘Success’ in prayer finally has nothing to do with how we feel, not even whether we feel the presence of God.”

That week I spent in prayer was the beginning of a journey that led me out of ministry (I resigned my position a year later) out of church (I stopped attending another year after resigning) and then back. And even though the journey was painful and lonely, it was a process that led to both perspective and maturity. It was a journey that brought me closer to God through hardship, heart-ache, and humility.

Contemplative Prayer

I’m not used to
silence. It is hard to wait.
I am impatient.

I love that Roberta Bondi refers to other people in To Pray and to Love as God’s images. It reminds me that I must see the value in others, the truth in others, the love of God in others, the good of others – even and especially when I disagree with their behavior or their ideas. But we’re not talking about “warm feelings” for the other. We’re really talking about noticing what was previously invisible. And I read in this book a personal challenge.

First, there is the challenge of growth, that I would not expect an overnight transformation of myself into the person God created me to be, nor will I expect such instant change in others. Instead, I will celebrate even the slightest glimpses of growth. I will notice the faint shadow of God at work in both my life and the lives of others.

Second, I must continue to pray. Unless I am intimately connected to God, I cannot see the work of God in me or in others.

Third, I must practice humility. I want to be a non-anxious presence, “realistic about all human vulnerabilities,” especially my own.

In Prayer: Finding the Heart’s True Home, Richard Foster offers with his chapter on "Contemplative Prayer" a method for growing more intimately connected to God so that I might become both transformed and a transformational presence in my relationships, in my church, in my community. The key, according to Foster, is silence. I must close my mouth and wait. I must close my mouth and listen. I must close my mouth and let God lead.

In addition, Foster suggests that the ultimate goal is union with God – not for the sake of transforming myself, others, or the world – but simply for the sake of knowing God. These other byproducts of prayer are honorable, but the point is relationship. Foster calls it “union.”

But this prayer is difficult. I’m not used to silence. It is hard to wait. I am impatient.

Our names for God
are human constructions, even if they
are revealed in scripture.

Each of us has an image of God. In our lives and in our communities, we have created God in our image. And we continually recreate that God as a reflection of both our experience and of our need.

We have many names for God – gracious Father, Father God, Abba, Daddy, precious Savior, Jesus Son of Mary, Redeemer, Comforter, Emmanuel, Adonai, Lord – but our words for God represent nothing more than “our conceptions of the divine nature” (Gregory of Nyssa). They do “not convey the meaning of that nature.” Our names for God are human constructions, even if they are revealed in scripture.

Why, then, do we name God?

The issue of naming is an issue of control. Consider the formula “to pray in Jesus’ name,” a formula that simply gets it wrong. To pray in Jesus name must always be a prayer of humility, must never be a prayer of control.

What, then, is spiritual maturity?

It is a willingness to let God be God.

At Barclay Press