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Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18)
My prayer began in the car, at the intersection of Maple
and highway 53. But maybe that’s just when I noticed what was happening.
Jimmy Buffett sang on the radio, Remittance Man, a song I
didn’t know, but know all-too well, about a wayfarer wandering from one port of
call to another because he cannot return home.
The Spirit blows where it wills, Jesus once said, and the
sea breezes of Jimmy’s songs are as good a place as any. And so it was, his
lyrics stirred a deep longing.
I kept listening, hoping the song would offer a verse of
redemption, of healing, but it was not to be. The remittance man just keeps wandering
the world, round and round, ever longing, never home.
The light turned green, and I kept driving, down the hill
then back up to College Drive, a left turn then another into St. Procopius
Abbey for a walk on a light-deprived November day … and to pray.
I don’t think prayer is a particularly religious thing,
that is to say, everyone does it, religious or not. They may or may not ever
notice it, and if they do, they are likely to call it something else. But it is
prayer nonetheless, the remittance man’s longing for home where lies tender absolution
for whatever failures of our humanity may haunt us.
Often as not, our prayers are not bidden by us, not
chosen, but are awakened in odd moments, unguarded moments, when a song, a stray
word, an old hurt, a familiar face on a faded photograph, or … whatever … unveils
the deep hope of our soul for which we have no name other than … home … or love
… or God. Maybe they are all the same, or at least so it seems to me.
We are never far from home. The Word, the Living Flame of
Love, the Wonder who is God speaks, warms and awakens tears from the deep
center of our being, awaiting their moment to remind us that we bear a beauty
beyond all telling, welcoming us to know ourselves as temples of the Love from
whom all things come and to whom all things go.
‘I am,’ the Voice says. ‘I am the hope of your longing. I
am the Love who calls you home. I am the secret center of your soul. I am the
home that is now and forever, if you would but come to me and rest.
‘I am the One you cannot conceive, but whose touch you know
in all that is good and love and beauty and hope, in the sweetness of joy and the
silent tears of your sadness. I am, and I am here.’
Yes, and in Jimmy Buffett songs and in the gnarly briars
of the Abbey Woods that snare my hair and tear at my jacket, and definitely in
the six, grazing deer who greeted me in the meadow—the gentility of their steps
revealing the Grace of the One who longs for my heart, their stillness a call
to be still and know the Heart who is the answer to every prayer.
Bidding the deer farewell, I walked to the half-light of the
chapel and sat to pray, but there was little need. I sang hymns written by my
old friend Herb and his friend Carl, asking God to let them know how grateful I
am for the words and music they left us when they went home a few years ago.
I suspect I will continue to sing those songs until it is
my time to join them. Then, we can sing together … and Jimmy can join in.
David L. Miller
