Surprised by God

I do not understand the ways of God's coming into consciousness. For example, one day with high intent I quieted my body, prayed my prayer and waited to be hosted to the "place" of contemplation. It did not matter that I quieted my body, followed my breath, and spoke my prayer word. I never got to Merton's "Palace of Nowhere."

Instead, my mind never got centered, images danced in my head and voices whispered from the edge of the path beckoning me to step aside on diverging trails. With determination I sought to silence the voices but they droned on, occasionally laughing at my faltering efforts. The nets I cast around those enticing or distracting images came back empty. Even though these self-initiated efforts cannot bring me into true contemplation, I tried anyway. Preparation is important though it holds no guarantees.

Finally, I gave up. No self-judgment or gossipy condemnation of myself! Like so many times when I have gone fishing and sat all day catching nothing, the spirit of prayer escaped me. Yet, the lack of fish on my stringer never kept me from showing up the next day with rod in hand.

There are days like this that I don't understand. Some days I show up like a laborer ready to punch the clock and eager to begin the day, and it happens! Before I can get the request for guidance out of my mouth, I am centered. My thoughts lie asleep in the light of a blue cloud and I am aware of being in the Sacred Realm, a place deeper than thought. The contemplative spirit comes almost immediately, and even when I ask a grace for my companions, my contemplation does not cease.

Persisting in the background of my mental utterances, I also feel the spirit of contemplation. Contemplation remained background to the foreground of my intercession. It was as if my consciousness functioned on two planes at once – an active intercessory plane and a receptive, contemplative plane.

When I finished the intercession in my conscious mind, the contemplative spirit again filled me (or emptied me) and the hour hastened by. Afterward, writing these words was as effortless as riding a waxed snowboard on a black diamond run. When I had finished I was surprisingly beckoned into contemplation again.