“Men ought always to pray, and not to faint.” The words are the words of our Lord, who not only sought ever to impress upon His followers the urgency and the importance of prayer, but set them an example which they, alas! have been far too slow to copy. How is it to be done? Not easily and not all at once. There are steps in the process. Says William Law: “The painful sense and feeling of what you are, kindled into a working State of Sensibility by the Light of God within you, is the Fire and Light from whence your Spirit of Prayer proceeds. In its first kindling nothing is found or felt but Pain, Wrath, and Darkness, as is to be seen in the first kindling of every Heat or Fire. And therefore its first prayer is nothing else but a sense of Penitence, Self-condemnation, Confession, and Humility. This Prayer of Humility is met by the Divine Love, the Mercifulness of God embraces it: and then its prayer is changed into Hymns and Songs and Thanksgivings. When this State of Fervour has done its Work, has melted away all earthly Passions and Affections, and left no Inclination in the Soul, but to delight in God alone—then its Prayer changes again. It is now come so near to God, has found such Union with Him that it does not so much pray as live in God. Its Prayer is not any particular action, is not the Work of any particular faculty, not confined to Times, or Words, or Place, but is the Work of his whole Being, which continually stands in Fulness of Faith, in Purity of Love, in absolute Resignation, to do, and be, what and how his Beloved pleases. This is the last State of the Spirit of Prayer, and its highest Union with God in this Life.”
1. The always speaks for itself. Prayer is not a meaningless function or duty to be crowded into the busy or the weary ends of the day, and we are not obeying our Lord’s command when we content ourselves with a few minutes upon our knees in the morning rush or late at night when the faculties, tired with the tasks of the day, call out for rest. God is always within call, it is true; His ear is ever attentive to the cry of His child, but we can never come to know Him if we use the vehicle of prayer as we use the telephone—for a few words of hurried conversation. Intimacy requires development. We can never know God, as it is our privilege to know Him, by brief and fragmentary and unconsidered repetitions of intercessions that are requests for personal favours and nothing more. That is not the way in which we can come into communication with heaven’s King. “The goal of prayer is the ear of God,” a goal that can be reached only by patient and continued and continuous waiting upon Him, pouring out our heart to Him and permitting Him to speak to us. Only by so doing can we expect to know Him; and as we come to know Him better we shall spend more time in His presence and find that presence a constant and ever-increasing delight.
I never prayed more earnestly nor probably with such faithful frequency. “Pray without ceasing” has been the sentence repeating itself in the silent thought, and I am sure it must be my practice till the last conscious hour of life. Oh, why not throughout that long, indolent, inanimate half-century past? [Note: John Foster]
It is in this sense that the old epigram is true, Laborare est orare. Epigrams are dangerous things if pressed too far, for they generally express only one element of truth. So it is here. To a certain extent it is true to say that “work is prayer,” but no more. All work done for God’s glory and man’s good is another form of expression of this attitude of mind to God, and in that sense it is prayer. The liturgy and the work are the visible outcome of the same state of mind and feeling. Work and prayer have a common factor, but neither can be the substitute for the other. [Note: T. W. Drury, The Prison-Ministry of St. Paul, 114.]
I am content to live the patient day:
The wind sea-laden loiters to the land
And on the glittering gold of naked sand
The eternity of blue sea pales to spray.
In such a world we have no need to pray;
The holy voices of the sea and air
Are sacramental, like a mighty prayer
In which the earth has dreamed its tears away.
We row across the waters’ fluent gold
And age seems blessed, for the world is old.
Softly we take from Nature’s open palm
The dower of the sunset and the sky,
And dream an Eastern dream, starred by the cry
Of sea-birds homing through the mighty calm. [Note: G. Cabot Lodge, Poems and Dramas, i. 66.]
2. Does “pray without ceasing” refer to continual acts of prayer, in which we are to persevere till we obtain, or to the spirit of prayerfulness that should animate us all the day? It includes both. The example of our Lord Jesus shows us this. We have to enter our closet for special seasons of prayer; we are at times to persevere there in importunate prayer. We are also all the day to walk in God’s presence, with the whole heart set upon heavenly things. Without set times of prayer the spirit of prayer will be dull and feeble. Without the continual prayerfulness the set times will not avail.
The steady reading of a chapter of the Bible in the morning and evening, and at least the deliberate utterance of appointed prayer, with endeavour to fix my thoughts upon it (often successful—and always sincere), gave me a continually increasing knowledge of the meaning both of the Old and New Testaments, and of what prayer meant for Christians of old time: farther than this, all my love of the beauty, or sense of the majesty, of natural things was in direct ratio to conditions of devotional feeling; and I never climbed to any mountain, alone, without kneeling down, by instinct, on its summit to pray. [Note: Ruskin, Modern Painters, ii. (Epilogue).]
It is given him “always to pray, and not to faint”. Not that he is always in the house of prayer, though he neglects no opportunity of being there. Neither is he always on his knees, although he often is, or on his face, before the Lord his God. Nor yet is he always crying aloud to God, or calling upon Him in words: for many times “the Spirit maketh intercession for him with groans that cannot be uttered”. But at all times the language of his heart is this: “Thou brightness of the eternal glory, unto Thee is my heart, though without a voice, and my silence speaketh unto Thee”. And this is true prayer, and this alone. But his heart is ever lifted up to God, at all times and in all places. In this he is never hindered, much less interrupted, by any person or thing. In retirement or company, in leisure, business, or conversation, his heart is ever with the Lord. Whether he lie down or rise up, God is in all his thoughts; he walks with God continually, having the loving eye of his mind still fixed upon Him, and everywhere “seeing him that is invisible”. [Note: John Wesley, Works, viii. 343.]
Other actions hinder one another: I cannot walk and sit down; I cannot build and write; I cannot travel and sleep. But prayer, as logicians say of substance, nihil habet contrarium, “hath nothing contrary to it,” but applies itself to everything. I may walk and pray, I may build and pray, I may write and pray. And St. Jerome will tell us, Sanctis etiam ipse somnus est oratorio, “that holy men do pray even when they sleep”. [Note: Anthony Farindon, Sermons, iv. 218.]
3. What was St. Paul’s idea of unceasing prayer? There happens to be a passage in one of his Epistles in which he seems to have hinted at it—in which, while not fully explaining himself, he gives us at least a clue to follow. “Praying always,” he writes to the Ephesians, “praying always with all prayer and supplication in the spirit,”—as though he had written, “Whatever you may be saying or doing, however head, heart, hands may be occupied, be praying always in the spirit of your sayings and doings, in your pervading temper and disposition, in your central animating principle”. Asking God and worshipping God were regarded by him, then, as the utterance at intervals of a certain spirit, a certain spirit which might be otherwise and variously uttered; and to live in that spirit, to have it constantly pulsing and ruling within us, would be his idea of praying without ceasing.
Now this spirit which constitutes prayerfulness, and which may be, and should be, habitually ours, is a compound of three elements.
(1) First, Aspiration. In all true praying we have the cry of an inward hunger for better being and doing. It means a soul looking onward and upward to an ideal which, seen afar off, is yearned after; it means a soul discontented with itself, with its present attainments and performances, unable to rest in things as they are, and craving more and nobler. “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.” There is the wistful reaching forth towards something higher and more perfect. Wherever, then, improvement is being desired and sought (not, of course, improvement in our surroundings, but in ourselves; not of course, improvement in what we have, but in what we are and do), there is prayer, even though it may not be breaking out at the time in any cry to God, since there is the very same spirit which breathes in the cry of prayer.
You know the picture which underlies those words of St. Paul—“Not reckoning myself yet to have laid hold, I press toward the mark for the prize of my high calling,”—the picture, namely, of the Greek racer in his agony of effort and hope, as with eye fixed on the distant garland, he throws himself into the struggle to win it, his body leaning forward, his chest heaving, every muscle strained, every vein starting, the sweat-drops beading his brow. That might stand for a pictorial representation of prayer—he is ever praying in the spirit who is ever aspiring. Well, here is a man, an artisan in his workshop, or an artist in his studio, engrossed through the day, from morn to eve, in striving to realize his idea of what would be fitting and fine; anxious to overtake, if possible, or at least approach nearer than yesterday, his vision of the truest and the best, in surpassing what he has hitherto done—trying to succeed, disappointed, dissatisfied with the result, and trying again, altering, rubbing out, touching, and touching anew, intent upon executing his noblest, until the night falls; and, “behold, he prayeth,” and has been praying unpausingly, the livelong day. [Note: S. A. Tipple, Sunday Mornings at Norwood, 114.]
(2) And again, what is praying but the utterance Godward of a holy and benevolent love—love for Divine things and for men? When the heart withdraws at seasons from the activities and occupations of daily life, from the customary round of work and duty, to commune with the beauty of the Lord, with the infinite perfection of the All-Father, and to make request of Him for light and guidance, for reinforcement and renewed inspiration, what is it but the uprising and forthgoing of the heart’s love for the great things of being, for those realities which, while most real and substantial, most precious and enduring, may have but comparatively little charm or attraction for the many? Is it not affection for them, temporarily sighing and suing at the feet of God? When, then, a man is seen devoted, for example, to the pursuit of worthy knowledge, pursuing it simply and sincerely for its own sake, caring more for it than for material comforts, mere worldly success, or fulness of gold, content, and willing to deny himself for it in some respects, and finding delight in the witnessed progress and diffusion of such knowledge; when a man is seen, eager in search and inquiry after truth, ready, if needful, to follow it through storms, to incur trouble, and suffer sacrifice for it; or concerned to keep a good conscience rather than keep or gain, at its expense, a good name; infinitely more solicitous for honour and righteousness than for pleasant place and smooth circumstance, giving the supremacy always to moral considerations, always sympathizing strongly with what is just and pure and true—when a man is seen living thus, is he not exemplifying from morn to eve the very holy love of prayer, that love for the best things of which all real prayer is the expression? There it is possessing him permanently, and in being permanently possessed with it, he prays “without ceasing”.
But who really prays for himself alone? Who can begin to call upon the great Father of the world, to enter with his burdens into the presence of the Eternal Goodness, and not begin to throb with desire for others? You hear the prayers, the repeated prayers, of the Church, in its assembly, “for all sorts and conditions of men,” for the sick in their chambers and the workers at their toil, for them that struggle and them that weep, for the heavy laden and the weary; and in so far as these are genuine prayers, what are they but love crying? Let love, then, be abiding in us, a spirit prompting to kindly thought and generous action, to unselfish considerateness and timely helpfulness, ready always to offer sympathy and afford what succours it can, to feel with those around it in their joys and griefs, to study their interests and charge itself with their needs; a spirit of willingness to serve, and that seeks and seizes opportunities of serving; let such love be abiding in us, constraining us to be ever recognizing duly, and answering graciously, the appeals to us, that may lie in the state and condition of others; and are we not in spirit and deed praying unceasingly, in spirit and deed, still praying, when we have risen from our knees, and though we should never kneel again?
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and lily-like in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold;—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer’d, “The names of those who love the Lord”.
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men”.
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest. [Note: Leigh Hunt, Abou Ben Adhem.]
(3) Then, last of all, all true praying has its root, has it not, in trust, and means trust. If it be anything, it is the casting of the soul on God as its all—as its refuge and support—and is the outflow of the soul’s confidence that He is mindful of us and cares for us; that the world is under His government, and that we are His children. In praying, we commit ourselves to Him, with the faith that His is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory; that His wisdom and goodness are ours, in exercise for us. This is the prayerfulness in spirit; for prayer is trust, trust in a reigning rectitude and benevolence, and in its invisible things; trust in conscience, and in moral principle, and in the Kingdom of God; and he who is thus habitually trustful,—able with tranquil courage to resign himself to duty, and fearful of nothing but unfaithfulness thereto—he, prays “without ceasing”.
If we with earnest effort could succeed
To make our life one long connected prayer,
As lives of some perhaps have been and are,
If never leaving Thee, we had no need
Our wandering spirits back again to lead
Into Thy presence, but continued there,
Like angels standing on the highest stair
Of the sapphire throne, this were to pray indeed.
But if distractions manifold prevail,
And if in this we must confess we fail,
Grant us to keep at least a prompt desire,
Continual readiness for prayer and praise,
An altar heaped and waiting to take fire
With the least spark, and leap into a blaze. [Note: R. C. Trench, Poems, 141.]
