Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: IVP Formatio
- Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Prayers for every aspect of life During the pandemic, priest and theologian David Taylor began writing collects (an ancient form of short prayer) as a daily spiritual exercise. It was a way for him to offer back to God his own fears and anxieties. As time went on, he began to receive requests for written prayers from friends and even strangers for a wide variety of circumstances and needs. His collection of prayers grew until it numbered in the hundreds. Prayers for the Pilgrimage is a compilation of Taylor's prayers, arranged by topic and accompanied by a series of paintings by his wife, Phaedra. Here are prayers for morning and evening, work and play, public life and private life, doubt and faith—from Advent to Lent, from birth to death. The Christian faith invites us to pray all of our lives back to God, lest we begin to believe that there is any part of our lives that God doesn't see or isn't interested in seeing. Prayers for the Pilgrimage gives us not only specific prayers but also a model for understanding our whole lives as prayer.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 200
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
with paintings by
Prayersfor thePILGRIMAGE
A BOOK of COLLECTSfor ALL of LIFE
To Blythe and Sebastian:
“Stand at the crossroads and look, and ask for the ancient paths,
where the good way lies; and walk in it,
and find rest for your souls.”
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
I began writing collect prayers, or what is simply called a “collect,” on March 15, 2020—the day that our country shut down on account of the coronavirus. At first, it was simply a way for me to cope with my own fears over an uncertain future. I’d written such prayers here and there, and I’d assigned them over the years to my students at Fuller Theological Seminary, but I now wrote them as a kind of daily spiritual exercise, and a rather desperate one.
I wrote a prayer titled “Against the Pestilence that Stalks in the Dark,” giving voice to the language of Psalm 91, which prior to Covid-19 may have felt like something that only medieval Europeans suffering from the bubonic plague would have understood, but which now made immediate sense to us as a twenty-first-century global people. The archaic language of the King James Bible never felt so apt:
Thou shalt not be afraid . . .
for the pestilence that walketh in darkness;
nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. (Psalm 91:5-6)
I wrote a prayer “For Dashed Plans” because it became increasingly obvious that there would be plenty of those to deal with in the months to come, resulting for some in bitter disappointment, for others in relief, grateful that they no longer needed to organize anything, at least for the foreseeable future.
I wrote prayers “For Beleaguered Parents,” among whom I counted myself, and “For Anxious Children,” including my own, who often lacked the capacity to verbally name the jumble of feelings that roiled beneath the surface of their conscious understanding. I wrote a prayer “For the Depressed” after hearing of the experiences of the elderly, like my uncle, trapped in their nursing home rooms, confused and afraid; and of single people who lived alone in their apartments without any opportunities for meaningful physical touch from others.
I also wrote a prayer “Against Neighbor Hate” after the 2020 election, hoping it might arrest an impulse that had become all too easy to indulge for many of us in America.
For me, the writing of such prayers became a way to make sense of the realities of our world in upheaval.
In time, I began to receive messages from both friends and strangers, often through social media, requesting prayers on behalf of people who deserved our very best intercessions: “For Grocers Managing Panic-Buying Shoppers,” “For Medical Professionals Overwhelmed by the Countless Sick,” “For Garbage Collectors Working Overtime,” and “For Untimely Deaths.”
When schools began to open their doors again, my bishop asked if I might consider writing a series of “Back to School Prayers,” which I did, keeping in mind the unique challenges faced not only by students but also by teachers and administrators. I published a separate batch of “Prayers for a Violent World” because our world had turned increasingly savage.
With my wife, Phaedra, a visual artist, I conceived a series of illustrated prayers that might allow people to pray not just with words but also with images—to see the shape of sorrow, to imagine the texture of death, or to perceive the beauty of feet that chose to publish peace instead of hate. For this particular venture, Phaedra and I created three sets of prayer cards for the Rabbit Room, a marvelous organization committed to cultivating creativity through community and artmaking.
Often after posting my prayers on social media, I found that they resonated with people across denominational and political lines. They gave voice, it seemed, to things many Christians believed God would never be interested in. My hope, of course, was to persuade readers otherwise—that God was, in fact, interested in hearing everything that we have to say to him in prayer.
God cares little about whether we get our prayers “right” or whether we tidy up our lives prior to making our intercessions known. True piety, as the psalmists repeatedly suggest, ought not to be a precondition for talking to God. Showing up is all that’s needed, as well as a commitment to being brutally honest with God—honest about our doubts, honest about our anger about unanswered prayers, honest about the failures and fears we might be ashamed to admit out loud, among others.
Stanley Hauerwas puts the point this way in his book of prayers, Prayers Plainly Spoken:
God wants our prayers and the prayers God wants are our prayers. We do not need to hide anything from God, which is a good thing given the fact that any attempt to hide from God will not work. God wants us to cry, to shout, to say what we think we understand and what we do not. The way we learn to do all this is by attending to the prayers of those who have gone before.1
All aspects of our lives must be prayed, then, lest we become atheists in the quotidian parts of our lives because we have come to believe that these parts are, in fact, godless, devoid of God’s interest and care. But that is not the kind of God we encounter in the Psalms, nor in the life and ministry of Jesus, whom the book of Hebrews calls the true Pray-er. He is the infinitely gracious one who eagerly welcomes our whole selves, along with all the details of our lives.
Around the two-year anniversary of the shutdown of our world that Covid-19 demanded of us, I discovered that I had written close to four hundred collect prayers. It was at this point that I wondered whether they might become a book of their own. The editors at InterVarsity Press believed that they could, and for that I am deeply grateful.
The Collect Prayer
Three questions that I’ve often answered over the past few years are: What exactly is a collect? Is it a CAW-lect or a cuh-LECT? (it’s the former). And why did I choose to work nearly exclusively with this form of prayer?
To answer the first question, a collect is an old form of prayer, concise in form and immensely useful to any circumstance of life. It is also a theologically disciplined prayer. Dating back to the fifth century, the collect is rooted in a basic biblical pattern that “collects” the prayers of God’s people.2 As C. Frederick Barbee and Paul F. M. Zahl explain:
This at-first extemporaneous prayer would later also be connected to the Epistle and Gospel appointed for the day. A Collect is a short prayer that asks “for one thing only” . . . and is peculiar to the liturgies of the Western Churches, being unknown in the Churches of the East. It is also a literary form (an art comparable to the sonnet) usually, but not always, consisting of five parts.3
The five parts that Barbee and Zahl speak of include, nearly always, the following things:
1. Name God.
2. Remember God’s activity or attributes.
3. State your petition.
4. State your desired hope.
5. End by naming God again.
While covering a good deal of ground, the collect is notable for its economy. It’s a blessedly short prayer. It’s short because it typically revolves around one idea only, which in principle is drawn from Scripture. In doing so, several benefits accrue to the one who prays it.
Most basically, it invites us to call to mind what God has done in the past before we make our present petitions known. We remember before we request, and we look back on the faithfulness of God in the lives of others prior to welcoming the faithfulness of God in our own.
The collect also offers an opportunity to discover how the triune God attends to the details of our lives. If the devil is in the details, as the common saying goes, God is in the details infinitely more so. God is intimately interested in those specific aspects of our lives—doing laundry, suffering illness, aging rapidly, fighting traffic, spending time with a friend—where we find ourselves actually believing, or disbelieving, that God wishes to meet us in the pain and pleasure of our life’s circumstances.
Another way of making this point is that the collect is a concrete species of prayer. It deals with one concrete thing without, hopefully, devolving to idiosyncratic vocabulary. My prayer for the pandemic, for instance, was born out of a specific experience that was foisted upon our world, but its language is “open” enough to make it useful to present-day circumstances where plague-like tragedies may require a prayer drawn from the ancient language of the psalmists.
The prayer that I wrote for Phaedra when she makes bone broth (a regular thing in our household) may not feel relevant to 99 percent of humanity. Yet the actual language of the prayer draws attention to ingredients that are, in fact, common to 99 percent of humans on planet earth: root, leaf, fish, fowl, spice, and so on. Surely, I imagine, there will be plenty of occasions to ask God to take the basic elements of creation and to bless them to our health.
The stuff of life, then, that populates collect prayers is of a concrete sort, without being distractingly subjective, and in this way the prayers offer themselves as universally accessible, capable of being prayed by all sorts of people in all manner of life settings.
Yet while I have tried to steer clear of too-subjective language in most of these prayers, it has been impossible to escape the subjective nature of the selection itself.
I am mindful, for instance, of the US-focused nature of the prayers for major holidays and the somewhat random choice of prayers for work. I’ve written, for example, prayers for Martin Luther King Jr. Day and Juneteenth, but none for Guy Fawkes Night or Chinese New Year. Likewise, I’ve written prayers for pastors and ministers, but I’ve included no prayers for accountants or postal workers, though they undoubtedly warrant them.
I’ve also produced a batch of prayers just for creatives. I’ve done so not because they deserve our special attention, any more or less than nurses or engineers deserve our attention as performing God-blessed work, but because I’ve spent a good deal of my life ministering to artists and creatives and I wished to offer to them this particular set of prayers.
All of this, unfortunately, is the nature of an occasionalist book of prayers written by an individual person, rather than a comprehensive one compiled by a denominational task force. My hope, however, is that you will be able to adapt these prayers to serve your own particular needs.
Collects are also typically written prayers. Some of us who, like me, were reared in contexts where extemporaneous prayers were privileged over written ones may feel uncomfortable praying such prayers. Yet while it may take a little getting used to, written prayers offer us a unique gift, as I have come to experience firsthand.
In this vein, I’ve given a good deal of attention to crafting these prayers in the hope that they will reward repeated praying. Much like the poetry of the Psalms, collects involve a dense mix of language and imagery, and the words, at best, say exactly what needs saying to God and what needs saying continually to God.4
We ought never to tire, for example, of praying the penitential words of Psalm 51 or the exultant but compact language of Psalm 100. The same can be said of the Lord’s Prayer. Prayed with a sincere heart, it remains fresh every time.
With the prayer I wrote for those who struggle with mental health, for instance, a good deal of hours were required to get it right. I needed to understand what people in such conditions struggle with, and I needed also to understand which Scriptures might be the right place to camp out, so to speak, for those who would return to this prayer again and again because they find that it gives voice to the yearning of their hearts.
I should also mention, finally, that I am naturally drawn to the musicality of collects. This may be the result of the influence of sixteenth-century Anglican archbishop Thomas Cranmer on my thinking; his prayers “sing” rather than plod along. So while I am not a poet, I have always loved the way words can sound, and I have attempted to retain the sonorous qualities of the English language in these prayers.
A Family of Prayers
I readily admit here that there isn’t anything terribly original in this batch of prayers. In fact, there is a good chance readers will hear echoes of others’ prayers—the prayers of Saint Paul, or Augustine, or Charles Wesley, along with the wonderfully earthy prayers of the Celts.
While I have tried to infuse fresh language into familiar forms of prayer and to give voice to specifically contemporary situations, I stand in a long tradition of written prayers. I do so not only because humility demands it but also because freshness of language comes not out of rejecting the prayers of our forefathers and mothers but out of a wholehearted immersion in the tradition—in that which has been handed down to us by God’s grace.
To be traditional in this sense, as the church historian Jaroslav Pelikan saw it, is to actively receive the “living faith of the dead”5 as a gift rather than as an imposition. We do not, that is, find our voices as writers in antithetical relation to tradition but within and among the communion of the saints.
John A. McGuckin, a priest in the Romanian Orthodox Church, writes, “We stand in the presence of the craftsmen and women of the Spirit of God who have gone before us”6 and to whom we apprentice ourselves in the habit of prayer. The English poet T. S. Eliot says something similar with respect to the work of artists: “No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists.”7 As far back as the book of Psalms, then, God’s people have found immense benefit in writing out their prayers.
This isn’t to say that there is no place for spontaneous cries of the heart. While certain ecclesial cultures may feel particularly allergic for liturgical or theological reasons to such extemporaneous practices, I’ve been blessed over the years to participate in communities that have prayed beautiful prayers “of the moment.” There is a certain art to spontaneous prayer that comes, much like the learning of a musical instrument, only with repeated practice.
But for the purposes of this book, I gladly stand on the shoulders of those who have gone before me in the art of the written prayer. I think here of the prayers of the Cappadocian bishop Basil the Great (ca. 330–379), the German monk Thomas à Kempis (1380–1471), and the Spanish Carmelite nun Teresa of Ávila (1515–1582). I think also of the prayer-hymns of Ephrem the Syrian (ca. 306–373).
The Protestant Reformers have likewise inspired me with their crafted prayers, including Martin Luther (1483–1546) and Thomas Cranmer (1489–1556), who spent his greatest energies editing and translating the collects that belonged to the medieval sacramentaries, or liturgical books. These contained the prayers of the fifth- and sixth-century Roman church, the three most famous being those attributed to popes Leo I, Gelasius, and Gregory the Great.
I’ve similarly appreciated the prayers of writers closer in time to myself, such as those of the Anglo-Catholic author Evelyn Underhill (1875–1941) and the Catholic writer Flannery O’Connor (1925–1964), who, as a twenty-one-year-old student at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, kept a record of her prayers in a journal that was eventually published in the 2013 book A Prayer Journal.
In more recent history, a small explosion of prayer books has occurred. This includes David Adam’s The Rhythm of Life: Celtic Daily Prayer, Kate Bowler and Jessica Richie’s The Lives We Actually Have, and Douglas McKelvey’s three volumes of liturgies, Every Moment Holy. McKelvey’s work in particular has trailblazed a practice of liturgical writing for many today. And I’ve found much encouragement from the prayers of Cole Arthur Riley’s Black Liturgies: Prayers, Poems and Meditations for Staying Human, which originally appeared on Instagram.
What makes Prayers for the Pilgrimage unique, then? While there is an obvious overlap with the collects that appear in The Book of Common Prayer, this collection of prayers aims at a more contemporary vernacular, less formal or “churchy,” as it were, and seeks to address a greater range of concerns for our modern world.
And rather than being liturgies (as with Kayla Craig’s To Light Their Way: A Collection of Prayers and Liturgies for Parents), freeform prayers (such as the Cláudio Carvalhaes-edited Liturgies from Below), or prayer-poems (like Malcolm Guite’s marvelous Sounding the Seasons), my book restricts itself largely to the collect form of prayer.
The exception is my inclusion of a small number of prayers that break the collect form, a handful of Celtic prayers, and the prayers I have written for children that attempt to capture the typically musical character of such prayers, which, in the words of the historian William Bright in his 1857 collection of prayers, “the child’s ear so readily welcomes.”8
Lastly, like the Scottish pastor and theologian John Baillie’s 1936 book A Diary of Private Prayer,
