On the Edge of Ultimate Mystery and Nothingness

I first learnt about prayer in a church. Week by week I sat in a half-empty church, kneeling quietly, and listening to the Minister exuding a pious ambience say words which had little meaning for me. What did have meaning, though I could not have articulated it at the time, was the feeling that I was in the presence of something larger than myself or the other people present. Whether it was the candles, the darkened wood, the stained glass, or high-ceilings, I don’t know… but something conveyed to me the mystery and wonder of the Holy.

I was then fortunate to be inculcated into a 1970s form of evangelicalism. By means of a simple formula I took Jesus to be my personal saviour and lord. One result of this was to be taught another way to pray. Instead of reciting responses in church I was now encouraged to imagine an invisible Jesus in my bedroom to whom I could chat at will. God was a human-shaped being who wanted to be my personal friend.

Chatting to Jesus served me well through adolescence. I remember walking through the bush on the way home from school sharing all the ups and downs of my day with my invisible friend, one who would never interrupt my monologue with his own needs. Of course I still went to church, though usually to services where songs were accompanied by guitars and repeated over and over. The personal god, Jesus, I was told wanted us to endlessly sing his praises.

Sometime in my teens Jesus the personal god became too small for me. I wanted something more, something that would interrupt me, even disturb me. I wanted to find a god who didn’t need sycophants to sing his praises. I was dissatisfied too with the glib and circular answers to hard questions like the persistence of pain, suffering and evil.

I then began a different type of journey, walking without knowing the destination, finding sustenance amongst unlikely people and thoughts, and all the time looking for ways to pray and being sustained by them. I meditated with other Christians, learnt Christian mantras, went on prayer walks and pilgrimages, was nourished by Taize and the Daily Office, and sat staring at candles for long periods of time. Poetry, music, prose, and silence were all part of my prayer. I also attended many churches and the holy places of other traditions, enjoying the beauty of some buildings and the care people took of them, and being repulsed by others. I enjoyed a variety of communities, worshipping styles and musical traditions, each trying to express that which was beyond words: a yearning and connectedness with the Divine.

Over these past thirty years I have sought a God whose vastness is honoured and who resists being reduced to fit our needs. I’ve sought a God who is both mystery and intimate, both lover and tormentor.

My experience has been that whenever I grab a model of God too hard it cracks. Father God cracked long ago. Mother God didn’t last too long either. God as Santa Claus was always seriously flawed. God as a being was doomed too. God as being lasted longer. God as comforter didn’t survive Elie Wiesel’s writings. God as ocean has enduring properties as does God as love, but both can be elusive. Even God as noun cracked.

This ongoing iconoclastic experience of searching, finding, relating, holding on, being held, letting go, and losing, has shaped my prayer. It’s been a spirited exchange on the edge of ultimate mystery and nothingness.