“I don’t pray very well by myself, and therefore I am always grateful for a larger surrounding system of prayer that sweeps me up and it carries me along, makes up for my inadequacies.”

These are the words of Father J. Bryan Hehir, a Catholic priest well known for his church leadership and currently the dean of Harvard Divinity School. His surprising admission about not praying well was made at a public forum last spring at which scholars discussed their religious identity.

Two parts of this statement merit attention. First, for this priest, long experienced in the spiritual life, prayer does not come easily. And second, he finds his inadequacies in private prayer counterbalanced by belonging to a community of faith.

Of course, the prayer that he is talking about here is the prayer of silence or, at least, of few words. This kind of contemplation differs from the kind that relies mainly on words, either spoken aloud or repeated within mind or heart. Some people rely mainly on spoken prayers and may not experience the same difficulties that mark prayer that is often called “mental.”

For me, what Father Hehir says about the difficulty of wordless prayer comes as  welcome self-disclosure. In revealing his inner experience, he gives me hope because I, too, find prayer difficult. Perhaps others will be encouraged in their own attempts at praying by knowing that it does not flow easily for a person of his spiritual credentials.

The second part of his statement also touches me. In sharing with an audience how he compensates for his own inadequacies in prayer, Father Hehir gives a convincing reason for being part of a community that is committed to worship. In this instance, he is talking about the Church to which he has belonged since birth.

His words “sweeps me up and carries me along” suggest more than mere membership in that community, however. They describe something dynamic: an ongoing process whereby a spiritual force seizes him and propels him further along the spiritual journey.

For me also, belonging to a community of faith has long meant having a share in the spiritual strength that comes with access to the prayers of other people. They can compensate for my own spiritual shortcomings. I am glad at not having to go it alone spiritually. It is not all up to me.

That feeling also marks my attitude toward the five-person prayer group to which I have belonged for the last several years. Often I find myself staggering through the half-hour of silence when we sit with one another, eyes shut and attention gently fixed. Sometimes I battle the impulse to fall asleep; much of the time I fend off distracting thoughts that flood over me. But knowing that others are engaged in the same spiritual enterprise buoys me up and gives me needed courage.

For people devoted to frequent prayer, their experience of this prayer is not always difficult, of course. In times of feeling good about themselves, when welcome events are happening in their lives, their hearts can feel full and they may even find it easy to turn to God in prayers of thanksgiving.

For some, prayer may have become a comfortable habit as they have grown older. A researcher looking into the prayer life of older women has reported this of them: “Over the course of their lives, prayer has become more simple, more intimate, more meaningful, more flexible and open.”

It sounds as if their prayer life is harmonious and free of hassles. But even for these women, there will almost inevitably be occasions when praying gets to be a chore rather than a consolation. Dryness then becomes the main interior atmosphere during the time set aside for prayer and the temptation to give it up feels overwhelming.

Then you might be feeling what British author C. S. Lewis refers to as “the abyss of silence from which no echo comes back.” Mystics of various traditions have given often eloquent expression to this kind of nothingness. That is a time when you might feel especially grateful for belonging to a community of faith equipped to “sweep you up and carry you along.”

Richard Griffin

“We want to control our own destiny.” That statement still echoes in this writer’s ears long after hearing it spoken by an elderly woman testifying before a committee of state legislators.

Those words give expression to a zeal for political and social change that many spiritual traditions of the world would endorse. What the woman said can be understood as a form of love for one’s neighbor, a love that traditions such as Judaism and Christianity, among others, highly approve.

It can also be understood as the expression of a need for political and social independence, a spirited refusal to be written off, or even patronized, by those in power. One can only applaud this assertion.

But, on a deeper level, none of us, however powerful, can control our own destiny. At least, that is how persons deeply grounded in spirituality would see it. Instead, they would locate personal destiny in the hands of God.

Another expression of destiny centered in the individual person came more recently in the final statement of Timothy McVeigh, executed for his mass murder in Oklahoma City. As his last testament, he chose a famous nineteenth century poem by the Englishman William Ernest Henley to express his view of human life.

The best known lines of that poem are the last two: “I am the master of my fate / I am the captain of my soul.” These sentiments express a romantic viewpoint popular in the Victorian era when Great Britain was riding high and the sun never set on its empire. Looked at now, these sentiments sound naïve and thoroughly unrealistic. It was sad to hear Mr. McVeigh using them for his farewell, rather than words that might express at least a measure of regret at his monstrous deeds.

Is human destiny ours to manage or does it ultimately depend on the work of a higher being? That is the crucial issue vital for each person to determine. Modernity seems almost to require the answer that we are in complete charge of ourselves. However, huge numbers of people have discovered a different answer.

Two of the classical teachings in the Western tradition of spirituality that bear on the question have been called providence and abandonment. Both names are admittedly old-fashioned these days but the reality underlying them remains vital for many people who are searching for ways to ground their lives in the deepest reality.

Providence might be translated as divine caring. It is closely joined to God’s action in creating the world. It means that God cares about the world and watches over it with solicitude. The fall of a sparrow, the welfare of each human being matters to the maker of all creatures.

Jesus gives poetic expression to these ideas in the Sermon on the Mount. There he speaks of the God who takes care of the lilies of the field whose splendor is “greater than Solomon in all his glory.” He urges his followers to put aside anxiety and instead trust to the Father of all creation.

Applied to personal spirituality, providence is related to the effort to decide what God wants of us. As one theologian sees it, providence is practical: it helps one “to discern God’s will in accordance with time and circumstance, to attune oneself to his calls, to distinguish between trials sent from God and devilish temptations, and to persevere in faith even through severe struggles.”

The other theme, abandonment, can be understood as letting-go. It is closely related to providence because it means the surrender of self to God. It implies a trust that God will take care of you, no matter what lies in store.

Jesus serves as a  model  of letting go, especially when he abandoned himself to the Father as he suffered on the cross. That is the meaning of his words “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” These words from a Hebrew Psalmswere probably known to Jesus as he grew up at home and may have often formed the content of his prayer.

Many other people committed to spirituality have used these words as a daily theme in their prayer. Those especially who have suffered serious illness have had recourse to this way of confiding in God. Though this kind of letting go may seem extreme and even irrational to people for whom God remains distant and uncaring, these words have brought peace of soul to many in times of stress and hardship.

Richard Griffin

A friend has called to report on her vacation in Italy. This woman, whom I will call Janet, went there with some members of her family for three weeks in June. They stayed in the countryside but visited Florence and other cities in Tuscany as well. During this, her first sojourn among Italians, she was taken by the beauty of the country and the marvels of its artistic heritage.

Janet also confided a secret to me. This secret was a small action that she took on a kind of impulse. It was the first time in her life she had done such a thing. Even now, she is amazed at what came over her and she feels half apologetic about her action.

What she did was light a candle in a church. Two factors moved Janet to do so: first, she was moved by the atmosphere of simple piety in the church, the art and the people who came there to pray; secondly, her thoughts often turned to a sick friend back home, a woman with a life-threatening illness. So, as a kind of silent prayer for that friend she lit the candle, as many other people do.

Lighting a candle does not seem anything notable, people do it all the time. Yes, but for Janet this was no ordinary act. She considers herself an agnostic as she has for much of her adult life. She does not deny God’s existence or that of a world beyond this one but she has no confidence anything can be known about this subject. Though she is a person with high moral standards, they are not based on an ethic derived from faith.

She thus regards it as quite extraordinary to have found herself doing something that is normally associated with believers and with pious believers at that.  That she should have done what simple people of faith are accustomed to doing still strikes her as amazing.

How could this have happened? Could it have been a moment of revelation, a precious time when a person becomes suddenly aware that reality goes far beyond what we can see and touch?

Of course, no one really knows. But many people of faith would find the desire to light the candle a sign of the divine presence. They would interpret the impulse as a gift of the Spirit that leads a person to live on a higher level.

Almost certainly Rabbi Abraham Heschel, a revered New York-based spiritual leader who died in 1972, would have agreed. He once wrote: “There is no human being who does not carry a treasure in his soul, a moment of insight, a memory of love, a dream of excellence, a call to worship.”

The five spiritual gifts mentioned by the rabbi can be seen manifested in the action taken by Janet. Her soul was stirred, suggesting a richness in her inner life. The moment of insight came upon her suddenly, without warning, as she found herself in a sacred space. The memory of her ailing friend reminded her of the love that they felt for one another. Perhaps she felt some kind of aspiration toward a divine excellence. And, finally, she may have felt stirred to light the candle in recognition of a higher reality.

This one event may not prove strong enough to change Janet’s life forever. However, it may. At the very least it seems likely that she will remember the moment, reflect upon it from time to time, and perhaps find continuing inspiration in it.

That’s the way it was for me when, some fifty years ago, I felt myself to have received a sign of God’s reality. At the time, I was walking in a cemetery, in a beautiful setting featuring hills forming a giant bowl, and flowers in profusion in the nearby gardens. There, suddenly, without warning, I felt hit by the realization, not only that God was the deepest reality of life, but that I would always remember the moment. In fact, I have done so, now and at many other times.

There is no guarantee, of course, that what happened to me then was authentic. But, still, the sudden realization has stayed with me and has enriched my spiritual life. For my friend Janet too, I hope that her lighting of the candle will have permanent good effects. I would be happy if this became for her a privileged moment to which she can keep returning spiritually and find in it a source of richness, pressed down and flowing over.

Richard Griffin

“Don’t wait till you’re sick to pray,” is the advice of a religious sister of my acquaintance. If you have ever been seriously ill, you have discovered the wisdom behind this suggestion.

That was my experience recently when I spent twenty-four hours in a hospital for some tests. During this period there were times when I wanted to pray but found it impossible. The main reason was the feeling of nausea that I was feeling. It made me so uncomfortable that I could not concentrate my thoughts or succeed in praying without being able to focus.

The machines that were attached to me also caused constant discomfort so that it was hard to attain peace of soul. In addition, nobody knew what, if anything, was wrong with me so the uncertainty made prayer difficult.

As often happens in modern hospitals, my fellow patients kept their televisions on so that I was subjected to constant unwanted noise. Though the three other men were fine people, they regarded the chatter of news and advertising as routine and normal, whereas I found it an obstacle to recollecting my thoughts.

So it was a stressful time, not at all conducive to prayer, even though I felt the need of spiritual consolation.

Fortunately, in the late morning my restlessness was temporarily broken by the arrival of an unexpected visitor. He was a eucharistic minister who was bringing the sacrament to patients who wished to receive the host that he carried. This marked the first time that I had seen a layman administer this rite.

He introduced himself as Joe Tomlinson, a eucharistic minister from St. Joseph’s parish in Lincoln, Massachusetts. Retired several years ago, Joe now has taken over the small electrical engineering company started by his daughter. He has been covering four hospitals, visiting patients and offering them communion.

At one of the hospitals, that specialized in serving people with mental problems, Joe does not go to individual rooms but instead conducts a Eucharistic service for patients who wish to come to him. The service features scripture readings and hymns in addition to the reception of communion.

When he came to my bed, Joe held hands with me and my visitor and led us in reciting the Our Father. His manner was at one and the same time relaxed and reverential. I was impressed by the sincerity of his faith as he reached out to me and the other sick people in the room.

Catholics of a certain age never saw this kind of visit happen when they were growing up. It was only in the middle 1960s that the church appointed lay people as eucharistic ministers. Previously, only ordained priests were allowed to touch the host and give it to others. To me, it is still a reason for thanksgiving that lay people are now expected to exercise this kind of ministry.

In the light of traditional theology, this activity can be seen as the priesthood of the baptized at work. Lay people thus perform a rite for which they are equipped by their own baptism.

The occasion on which Joe first became interested in serving as eucharistic minister happened when his wife became seriously sick. He asked his pastor to commission him for this role so that he would be able to give communion to his wife. Later she died but with the consolation of having received communion from her husband many times.

Joe Tomlinson appreciates the spiritual significance of it all. “Spiritually, I go to the church,” he explains, “and get the host, then I pause to reflect on what I’m about to do.”

He goes on: “It’s got nothing to do with me. The person I am visiting is Jesus Christ because he said, ‘whenever you do this to they least of my brethren, you do it to me.’”

Most people are very respectful, Joe observes, even when they say no to receiving communion. And he senses a spiritual effect on himself when he completes his task: “When I leave the hospital, I feel really energized.”

If Joe and other lay ministers can have the same effect on other sick people that I received, I count it a grace for everyone concerned. As described here, I felt a spiritual lift from the sacrament given me by a fellow lay person and feel thankful for his kindness.

Richard Griffin

When a leading Hollywood movie actor and television comedy star shows up to lead a prayer service, what would you expect him to say? That’s what I asked myself last week when John Lithgow, who until recently could be seen on the TV sit-com “3rd Rock from the Sun,” spoke at Harvard University’s Appleton Chapel.

Though widely known for his comic roles on television, Lithgow has appeared on Broadway in many serious plays as well. Similarly, his movie parts have included a wide variety including the two successful films “The World According to Garp” and “Terms of Endearment.” Tall and dignified looking, this distinguished actor graduated from Harvard College, magna cum laude, in 1967.

Some fifty people were present in the chapel as this visiting alumnus stepped into the pulpit. We sat in choir stalls that spread on either side of the pulpit along the dark paneled walls of this intimate space. As Lithgow ascended the pulpit, his listeners eagerly awaited what he would say in a talk by custom limited to five minutes.

As Lithgow noted at the beginning of his talk, Appleton Chapel has hosted morning prayers for over three hundred years. This fact made him ask himself what he could possibly talk about that had not been heard before. The words of  Psalm 33 (“Rejoice in the Lord, all you righteous”) that he chose as his text did not reveal what the subject would be.

This question he answered by telling of an event that he had experienced three days previously on Hollywood Boulevard. There, among much hoopla, a golden star set in the sidewalk bearing  his name was unveiled. Publicity cameras flashed, autograph seekers pressed close, and yet another show biz person was immortalized.

This newest star to be so honored found thrilling, not being added to the “Walk of Fame” himself, but rather treading upon famous names such as Cary Grant, Spencer Tracy, and Marilyn Monroe. But these instantly recognizable names are among hundreds no one knows any longer. They have quietly passed into obscurity.

In a phrase nicely coined, Lithgow referred to his star as “this modest symbol of tawdry immortality.” Looking at it with rare perspective, he called this stretch of pavement “the Hollywood walk of temporary fame or impending obscurity.”

About his profession as actor he noted that “everyone is trying to achieve a moment of drama or tears in an audience member.” But even when that happens, it soon becomes a memory that will fade. The whole experience is “a process reminding us how forgettable we all are.”

What moral did he draw from it all? “It reminds us to savor entertainment when it happens, to live in the present moment.”

Looking back to the event of three days before, he said: “For the moment, I was the most famous person in Hollywood.”  However, that fame is fleeting; it offers nothing solid to cling to.

Rather, in the spirit of the Psalm, he urged, “let us be thankful for this day.”

Hearing a person who is rich and famous talk this way boosted my morale. To judge from what others said at the reception afterward, many felt the same way. Lithgow himself seemed gratified by people congratulating him on his remarks.

Who would have thought that wisdom would come from such a source?  Here is a man whom the glare of the great American celebrity system has not corrupted. His spirituality has survived the relentless hype that batters the lives of the stars. After years of being idolized, he still recognizes the emptiness of fame.

In his mini sermon, John Lithgow had managed to take an age-old theme, the fleetingness of fame, and place it in a present day setting. Speaking with the oratorical skills of a polished actor, he drew a moral that has relevance for his listeners.

Even though hardly anyone of us stands in any realistic danger of being seduced  by the celebrity system, we still allow ourselves to get distracted from the beauty of each day. In calling us to notice the value of living in the present moment a man whose star is set in stone led us to set a new value on each present moment.

Richard Griffin

Nine adult students at the University of Massachusetts in Boston, nearing the end of a course on human development, had arrived at the section on old age. To treat the subject, the professor, who is my friend and neighbor, had invited me to teach the class and share with the students my experience of later life. This I did while also learning from them something of their deepest personal concerns.

These men and women, though few in number, represented a surprisingly wide range of identity and experience. Black, brown and white; foreign and native born; young adult and middle-aged –  – these students are typical of many now found in large public urban universities and community colleges. By reason of having been heavily engaged in the serious issues of life, they have all brought much value to the learning experience, as I was soon to discover.

When invited to introduce themselves and speak briefly about their lives, almost all spoke of mistakes they had made when younger. The prominence of this theme in their life stories –  –  and the students’ willingness to acknowledge it to others –  –  surprised and impressed me. Clearly, these mistakes had played a large part in shaping their lives up to now.

In response, I acknowledged to them my own record of serious errors of judgment, decisions, and behavior. Often, as I look back over the decades of my life, I blush to see how I many times I have acted stupidly or at least unwisely. Fortunately, no one of these bad moves was enough to damage seriously my own life prospects or appears to have hurt other people badly.

Some of the students did not specify their mistakes. However, others  mentioned unwanted pregnancies, ill-advised marriages, macho behavior, and serious drinking addictions. Other behavioral problems, even more difficult to talk about, seemed to lurk in the background.

I suggested to these learners that the most appropriate response to these mistakes is compassion.  Acknowledging that it is often harder to be compassionate toward oneself than toward others, I encouraged them to take as model the way they would feel about a dear friend who had done something wrong or mistaken.

Just as they would accept friends for their inner worth and perhaps find excusing reasons why those friends had behaved badly, so they might reasonably direct these feelings toward themselves. Everyone in the classroom seemed to agree about the reasonableness of this approach, while acknowledging its difficulty in practice.

In general, we Americans today can expect to live into our seventies or eighties. Barring fatal disease, accidents, or violence, most of us will have a long range of years from which to look back on our lives. That perspective makes it possible for us to grow in knowledge of ourselves and to learn how to accept ourselves better, warts and all.

One of the many advantages of living long is the increasing ability to see misdeeds of the past in a new light. As I look back, these errors look more human than they once did. They still dismay me but I take them now as part of being only sometimes a rational animal. I may feel called to higher ideals but I have frequently lapsed to levels beneath my basic dignity.

The adults sitting before me seemed already to have developed a greater wisdom about their lives. At least they looked encouraged as they heard me lay it out before them. Already they had grown enough in wisdom to recognize how going back to school could help them.  Even in the midst of serious obstacles, they had leaped over these hurdles and determined to get college degrees for themselves.

The beauty of this decision is not only that it allows them to gain credentials for improving themselves in the world of work. It also enables them to learn more about themselves and their inner world, a knowledge far more precious in the long run.

Asked about his take on the students’ revealing of mistakes, their professor says he was not expecting such a strong theme of regret about the past. He sees the good that has emerged from the experience, imagining it as “new growth coming from a felled tree.”

Richard Griffin

At my friend George’s memorial service last week, one of his two sons told an anecdote about his father that made everyone laugh.

George had grown up in New York City in a family of some wealth so he was used to privilege. But he chose to live modestly as a look inside his home quickly revealed. It was located in one of the poorest parts of my urban community, close to a city square that has been run-down for decades.

One day George, wearing his usual old clothes and looking disheveled, was walking through the square when a woman obviously poorer than he approached him and pressed a five dollar bill into his hand. Taken aback, George refused the money and returned it to the woman.

In response, the woman said to him, “Take it, for Jesus’ sake.” George, unable to resist this invocation, did then take it.

The anecdote about my late friend says something important about his character. Though he was widely known for his work for improvement of the local and world community, George also was deeply spiritual. As his other son said of him, “George combined secular humanism with intense spiritual fervor.”

The memorial service brought out the two sides of his outlook. It featured Latin and Greek chants from the classic Christian liturgy: the Kyrie, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei from the Mass. These Gregorian chants George had first learned at Mount Saviour monastery in Elmira, New York where as a young man he spent a year doing religious studies.

George loved sacred music and himself played the flute. One of his heroes was Johann Sebastian Bach and an aria from this composer’s St. Matthew Passion was sung in the memorial service. The short aria concludes, “Welt, geh aus, lass Jesum ein.” (World, get out, let Jesus in.)

The service also included several remembrances from friends and colleagues who spoke of George’s work on behalf of the community. “He wanted to stop World War III,” said the person who managed George’s unlikely and doomed campaign for the United State’s Senate.

A distinguished physicist now retired from the M. I. T. faculty, after suggesting that some of the same challenges to world peace exist today, called George “a man of utmost integrity of mind and spirit.”

Another colleague recalled co-authoring a 1979 book with George that called for the Pentagon to cut its budget by fifty percent!  That same colleague, when he thinks of George’s approach to society, recalls the bumper sticker that urges, “Think globally, act locally.”

Despite the social privileges of his upbringing, George knew suffering his whole life. As a child he had polio and needed to spend months in an iron lung. His mother used to read stories to him during this time of confinement, stories that George later told to his sons. In the aftermath of polio, his lungs were damaged and he also experienced severe back problems. By middle age, he walked with much difficulty.

“Conformism was just not part of George’s vocabulary,” said one of his sons. Like all people who work for the public good, George could be difficult. He espoused causes that many other people considered wildly unrealistic, if not wrongheaded.

He was a man of prominent contradictions. Another friend calls him  “an aristocrat committed to democracy, a fierce warrior for peace.” Like other prophets, he was sometimes hard to take. But, those who knew him well respected his generosity of spirit.

His faith was deep. In his report to classmates preparing to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of graduation from college, George wrote: “My current interest is trying to stave off death until I finish the two and a half last (of twenty-nine) chapters of a guide of the Gospel of Matthew, chapter by chapter, verse by verse.”

His wife said at the service, “He really did consider St. Matthew’s Gospel a guide for life.” He did not succeed in staving off death as he hoped and the  Gospel guide remains unfinished. But George has finished his own life in a way that those who knew him recognize as unique and precious.

The service concluded with everyone singing the round “Dona Nobis Pacem” (Grant Us Peace), honoring a man of peace and of spirit whose memory will live on.

Richard Griffin