Prayer to a God Unseen
Truly you are a God who hides himself,
O God and Savior of Israel.
Isaiah 45:15
O God and Savior of Israel.
Isaiah 45:15
I watched him as he carefully lifted the bread between heaven and earth, invoking the words of our ancient faith:
How many times have I knelt there in silent adoration, with incense in my hands, feeling the cold hardness of the marble floor upon my knees, watching as priests of every size and shape perform those motions of our salvation, as Christ commanded them, lifting paten and chalice, for two thousand years, and forever more, offering God to God. The mystery of the moment— of being so close to that miracle of faith, as bread turned into flesh, and wine turned into blood— once was a source of great consolation for me, because I knew that He was actually, really there, a presence who was alive, an old friend coming to visit.
Kneeling there tonight, however, I felt strangely tired and distracted, even somewhat doubtful of what it was I was doing. The whole evening also seemed somewhat surreal, as though I had come home to a house I no longer recognized. Have I been gone too long? Has the world numbed the fervor of my youth so that even God no longer moved me, leaving instead a void that was silent yet comfortable? Already the people I had seen there, once so familiar that they were almost like family, were misplaced and alien, and the memories of our shared moments— in some cases, moments which ended even before they began— only heightened the feeling of nostalgia and loneliness, or perhaps, even of regret.
Where have I been?
What have I been doing?
Where am I going?
I did not feel like asking the questions tonight, because I was too tired of not getting the answers. I only knew the restlessness that I felt, and the silent loneliness of long evening drives, and the dull longing for a person or a presence I did not yet know or perhaps could not recognize— these were frequent whispered prayers I did not bother to remember, tonight, of all nights, especially; because before a God who did not see, I knew that there was only darkness; before a God who did not hear, I knew that there was only chatter; and before a God who did not speak, I knew there was only silence. And before God, this evening, I knew I was alone.
While they were at supper, he took bread, said the blessing, broke the bread, and gave it to his disciples, saying: TAKE THIS, ALL OF YOU, AND EAT IT: THIS IS MY BODY WHICH WILL BE GIVEN UP FOR YOU.The altar bells rang, and the fragrance of incense burst forth from the thurible burning hot with red embers, and together with the smoke that rose up to the heavens, the prayers of our restless hearts.
How many times have I knelt there in silent adoration, with incense in my hands, feeling the cold hardness of the marble floor upon my knees, watching as priests of every size and shape perform those motions of our salvation, as Christ commanded them, lifting paten and chalice, for two thousand years, and forever more, offering God to God. The mystery of the moment— of being so close to that miracle of faith, as bread turned into flesh, and wine turned into blood— once was a source of great consolation for me, because I knew that He was actually, really there, a presence who was alive, an old friend coming to visit.
Kneeling there tonight, however, I felt strangely tired and distracted, even somewhat doubtful of what it was I was doing. The whole evening also seemed somewhat surreal, as though I had come home to a house I no longer recognized. Have I been gone too long? Has the world numbed the fervor of my youth so that even God no longer moved me, leaving instead a void that was silent yet comfortable? Already the people I had seen there, once so familiar that they were almost like family, were misplaced and alien, and the memories of our shared moments— in some cases, moments which ended even before they began— only heightened the feeling of nostalgia and loneliness, or perhaps, even of regret.
Where have I been?
What have I been doing?
Where am I going?
I did not feel like asking the questions tonight, because I was too tired of not getting the answers. I only knew the restlessness that I felt, and the silent loneliness of long evening drives, and the dull longing for a person or a presence I did not yet know or perhaps could not recognize— these were frequent whispered prayers I did not bother to remember, tonight, of all nights, especially; because before a God who did not see, I knew that there was only darkness; before a God who did not hear, I knew that there was only chatter; and before a God who did not speak, I knew there was only silence. And before God, this evening, I knew I was alone.
