I am surely not alone in having found the events of last week a trifle trying. Add to that one’s own personal difficulties or annoyances — in my case not being well and the guilty feeling that engulfs me when not able to meet requests for help/attention as I’d like — and one can end up in a state of negativity that is as exhausting as it is disheartening. All over the world it seems other people are experiencing exactly the same, with little hope of any remedy. Poverty, sickness, corruption, political chaos, a sense of betrayal by the Church or other institutions on which we thought we could rely — it is all black, bleak and broken. Only, I’d say it isn’t quite.
Yesterday evening I walked into our chapel to pray for one of our oblates who is going through a tough time. The little silver lamp that burns before the tabernacle was glowing brightly in the darkness. I’d like to say I was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of Presence, but I wasn’t. It was, to be honest, a rather barren experience: the prayer of hanging on rather than anything more obviously comforting. But I think that is precisely the prayer most of us are called to make most of the time. We know that the mercies of the Lord never end, that they are new every morning, but connecting that knowledge with our daily experience isn’t easy.
Today’s gospel (Luke 18. 1–8) is often presented as being about persistence in prayer. I think it goes deeper than that. God is not an unjust judge, only willing to give us a hearing if we pester him night and day. On the contrary, his ears are always attuned to our prayer, but Luke’s deeply subversive portrayal of God is meant to shock us into a more adult relationship. Luke’s God is not a fairy godmother, handing out treats to all and sundry, irrespective of whether they are good for them or not, but rather a God who confounds all our expectations, a God of infinite compassion and holiness whose justice exceeds our own grudging conceptions. In short, Luke’s God really is God, not the pale imitation of him that we are apt to construct in order to shield ourselves from the reality.
Whatever is black, bleak or broken in our lives or the lives of those around us is shot through with light and grace but we may have to put a lot of effort into discovering that for ourselves; and we are unlikely to discover it all at once. That is where we can identify with the widow’s persistence — that stubborn hoping against hope almost, that constant going over the same ground. It is not so much that we must continue to pray — though we must — as that we must be prepared for our prayer to be changed and ourselves with it. We must grow in prayer just as we grow physically and emotionally. The image of God that may have sustained us in childhood is not usually adequate for us as adults. It is, as the author of the Letter to the Hebrews remarked, a terrifying thing to fall into the hands of the living God, yet that is what each of us must do, not just once, but again and again. And that is not a childish business.