Lent, Beautiful Old Friend

The first article I ever published was about Lent. I sent it in with what I thought was a great title: “Lent, Beautiful Old Friend.” But (as usually happens!) the original title did not stick. The publisher sensibly renamed the piece “Welcome, Lent.”

I remember this every year when Lent rolls around. Because I do think of Lent as my beautiful old friend. Lent is familiar and reliable but, like any good friend, still able to inspire and spark something new in us. Lent offers us the gift of limits—a set amount of time to focus and encounter the sacred. There are some things I may not be able to sustain forever, but I can do them for 40 days!

This year, within the beautiful limits of these 40 days, I’m determined to find silence. Like yours, my life is full of noise. Most of that noise is good: voices of loved ones and friends, the sound of news and music, family activity at home, generative activity at work. But some noise is just extra. It’s filler. There’s nothing wrong with it, but we don’t need it.

When I talk to people about silence, I see longing on their faces. We want it. But it’s almost like we’re yearning for something that we don’t expect to achieve. We give up before we even start. We desire silence, but we keep choosing noise.

Lent is the perfect time to carve out time and space for this silence that we crave. There are many ways to do this. Can you commit to 15–20 minutes of silence per day? I’m doing this by making my commute to work a silent one—no radio, no podcasts, no phone calls. Sometimes I’m bored. But sometimes I’m praying for someone or thinking about something special or important. My mind is resting, and my soul feels refreshed. It’s a sacrifice of sorts, but it’s the best kind of sacrifice—the kind that comes back to you as abundance.

If committing to this kind of silence feels like too much, think about the little pools of silence that naturally punctuate your day: when you’re getting dressed, walking through parking lots, rinsing dishes. Being intentional about these 2–3 minute “pools” can be restorative. Use these mini-silences in the way that feels most natural to you. Perhaps this means offering a dedicated prayer during that time, or perhaps it just means cherishing the silence, letting it wash over you, and gently turning your heart toward the God who dwells in us with love.

As someone who loves to pray the Stations of the Cross during Lent, I’m often struck by where this prayer journey takes us: right into the tomb of Jesus. This is a place of total silence—but it isn’t dead silence. It’s living and pulsing and brimming with potential. Go right in and immerse yourself in this silence! It may not feel like it when you first arrive and gaze upon the body of Jesus, but this silence is full of life—seeping into our bones, restoring our souls, and strengthening us for what comes next.

Welcome, Lent—our beautiful old friend!

If you’d like to think a bit more about prayer and silence, you can listen to my recent conversation with Fr. Ricardo da Silva, SJ, on the “Preach” podcast from America Media by clicking here or on the YouTube link below. Blessings!

Can't Sleep? Try Praying.

So many of us struggle with restless nights. Several years ago I posted a “Prayer When I Can’t Sleep,” which I’m sharing again today, along with a reflection about praying in “the night watches.” These dark and quiet hours are particularly vulnerable times. They can open us to surrender, self-offering—even praise—if we can transform them from empty moments of worry and frustration into vigils of prayer and connection.

From the October issue of Give Us This Day, shared here with permission.

__________

Holy One, Maker of the Stars,
In the beginning there was only darkness,
And your wind swept across the face of the deep.
Tonight I see this darkness. I hear its silence.
I feel its emptiness. It surrounds me.
In my home all is still except my mind.

Sweep across me, Holy One, whole and entire,
Across every undone thing in me, every unresolved thought,
Every restless rustling of my soul, every ache and pain of my tired body.
Speak with your creative breath into my night,
Speak the light of your presence into every crack and crevice,
So I may have peace and sleep, and wake to the gentle hope of morning.

Praying Through the Night

When the psalmist couldn’t sleep, he prayed.

He prayed in his bed, he prayed on his couch, he prayed in the sanctuary and under the stars. He cried aloud, he wept, he stretched out his hands, groaned, pondered, meditated, and exhorted. He blessed God. He felt God’s hand upon him. He remembered God’s name and proclaimed God’s faithfulness. And according to the psalms, he did all of this “by night,” in “the watches of the night,” or even “all night.” (See, for example, Psalms 6, 63, and 77.)

Most of us have struggled at one time or another with falling or staying asleep. Lying awake at night can feel frus­trating, wasteful, and lonely. But the middle of the night has traditionally been a fruitful, even intentional, time for prayer. In some religious communities, rising in “the watches of the night” to pray is customary.

The nighttime hours are dark and quiet, with fewer distractions than our full and busy days. If we live with others, they are likely asleep. We are not needed. We won’t be inter­rupted. There is nothing we need to accomplish. In the stillness and silence, we can turn our full attention inward, to our hearts, and raise our hands outward, to our God.

The dark of night can feel oppressive, but we can learn to experience it biblically—as the “original darkness” before creation, from which light sprang forth and life overflowed, out of which the relationship between God and human beings emerged. Darkness may feel like a void, but it is the void that gives way to all that lives.

The darkness of our sleepless nights teems with potential. Our wakefulness can become a vigil, our restlessness an invitation, our silence a summons to the Maker of the Stars to speak in us with the same creative breath that swept across the original darkness. In keeping this vigil, our own darkness may be filled with light—the light of Christ that cannot be extinguished.

And so it is that in the watches of the night, we may come to share another experience of the psalmist—faith that in the presence of God who neither slumbers nor sleeps, darkness is not dark at all, for the night shines like the day (Ps 121:4; 139:12).

___________ 

Amy Ekeh, from the October 2024 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2024). Used with permission.

Prayer vigils. Photo by Tim Vineyard.

Is Prayer Enough?

Sr. Irene Nowell, a beloved Benedictine scholar of the Hebrew Bible, makes a striking recommendation. She suggests that we pray with the book of Psalms in one hand and the newspaper in the other. While few of us read an actual newspaper anymore, we get the point: pray with the pain of the world.

Sr. Irene says it this way: “Take the psalm book in one hand and the daily newspaper in the other. After every few psalm verses, read another headline. The voices that cry out in the daily news also cry out in the psalm. Every time we pray the psalms, we pray in the name of the whole Body of Christ, in the name of the whole world. We carry all those people in our prayer; by praying the psalms we take responsibility for the well-being of all of them.”

The current situation in Ukraine is agonizing. Other situations come to our minds—school shootings, abuse, drought and famine, the toll of pandemic, wars and violence around the world. What are we to do? “Thoughts and prayers” are not enough.

Or are they? It depends, of course, on how we understand prayer. According to Sr. Irene, prayer is not an individual, inward exercise. It is a communal, universal experience. My prayer, with the newspaper in one hand, is what joins me to my suffering brothers and sisters in Ukraine and around the world. And once joined with them, I must do what I can to alleviate their agony.

Prayer is not an escape from reality or action. It is a commitment to community, a sinking into community, an authentic identification with both the joys and sorrows of others. It is only natural, then, that prayer—which begins as words, silence, the state of the heart—should spur us to action, love, commitment. This too is prayer. Prayer reminds us who we are. It reminds us that we are a people of love. We need the discipline of prayer because it reminds us of this, and we are very forgetful.

Is prayer enough? If prayer is just words, then no, it is not enough. But if prayer is engagement with God and others, words-leading-to-love, an identification with every human being that is lonely or afraid or hungry or hurting, if prayer is action that addresses affliction, silence that clarifies, self-poured-out-for-others, only then is prayer “enough.” Only then do our lives become prayer—when the newspaper, the psalms, and whatever other love we have pondered or uttered have moved us to understand, to be, to change, to serve. Thus the instruction of St. Paul: “Pray without ceasing” (1 Thess 5:17).

Hear, Lord, my plea for justice; pay heed to my cry; listen to my prayer (Psalm 17:1).

Open Hands

You open your hand and satisfy
the desire of every living thing.
—Psalm 145:16

To describe or even think about God, we rely on our own words and experiences. This means we are limited of course, and yet, what beautiful images we have! And what depth of experiences to draw upon.

The simple image from the psalm verse above—the image of God with open hands, providing for everything that lives and breathes, giving boundlessly to everything that desires—is such an image. I have experienced these outstretched hands. So have you. We’ve seen and touched them. We’ve received the gifts flowing from them, the generosity of God’s open hands.

And we’ve held our own hands open, in imitation of the God we love. We’ve outstretched them to our children, our students, our parishioners, and our coworkers, to friends, family, strangers, and spouses. We’ve kept them open longer than we ever thought we could. We’ve learned from covenants and crosses and stories of prodigal children to give more than was expected, to extend our hands deep into whatever inner stores we’ve kept and share whatever good we can find there. We’ve given till it hurts, and still we’ve kept our hands open.

This is the image I choose this Thanksgiving and Christmas, as these times stretch us and the challenges of the season await us. This is the image I choose—of a God with open hands, endlessly open, boundlessly open. Of me, remembering the times I’ve opened my hands and imitated the God I love. This is the image I choose—to stretch myself, to keep my hands open when I’m tired or disappointed, when what was supposed to be perfect isn’t, when there doesn’t seem to be enough. This is the image I choose—to keep my hands open, to imitate the God I love.

A Short Litany of Open Hands

God of open hands,
You care for the needs of every living thing.
Open my hands to imitate your love.

When there are needs to be met, open my hands.
When there is emptiness to fill, open my hands.
When there is work to be done, open my hands.

When I don’t think I can, open my hands.
When I’m willing but weak, open my hands.
When I’ve given my all, open my hands.

For the love of creation, open my hands.
For the joy of salvation, open my hands.
Without hesitation, open my hands.

God of open hands,
You care for the needs of every living thing.
Open my hands to join in your love.
Amen.

A drawing of open hands by Siobhan Ekeh.

A Prayer When I Can't Sleep

I know I’m not the only one who’s having trouble sleeping these days. I hope this prayer may bring some comfort to your nights.

Holy One,
Maker of the stars,
In the beginning
There was only darkness,
And your wind swept across
The face of the deep.

Tonight I see this darkness.
I hear its silence.
I feel its emptiness.
It surrounds me.
In my home all is still
Except my mind.

Sweep across me, Holy One,
Whole and entire,
Across every undone thing in me,
Every unresolved thought,
Every restless rustling of my soul,
Every ache and pain of my tired body.

Speak with your creative breath,
Into my night,
Speak the light of your presence,
Into every crack and crevice,
So I may have peace and sleep,
And wake to the gentle hope of morning.

Late morning moon. Photo by Tim Vineyard.