On Being Faithful in Prayer

On most mornings, once my son has left for school and my wife for work, I sit at the collapsible table that is my desk, open my prayer book and Bible, and commit the day to God.

Sometimes this simple act of piety provides a framework for the day. Saying Morning Prayer connects me to the wider world and reminds me of the catholicity of the Church. As I pray, the liturgy helps me to appreciate that I am part of a body transcending space and time: the Holy Spirit somehow incorporates me, as well as countless others, into the body of the risen Jesus, and in this way we all are involved in God’s oversight of the world. I am coming to believe that saying Morning Prayer verges on the profound—not because I am saying it, but because God has given it as a gift to be said.

But sometimes, many times, saying Morning Prayer is simply nothing more than me vocalising words on a page as my mind wanders. Today, for example, I read Psalm 44, out loud (as is my custom), but I don’t recall much of what I read. The ancient words, which I believe are divinely inspired, have little impact on a mind that is thinking about writing a blog post about Morning Prayer (ta-da!), or wondering if I can slot in an hour or so of Fifa 20 later in the day, or speculating as to whether the home shopping delivery will come on time (with a free sample of COVID-19 slipped in among the branded cherry-flavoured, sugar-free cola).

Part of the problem, if problem it is, I suppose is familiarity. I’m well acquainted with both the words of Scripture and the words of Common Worship: Daily Prayer. To be sure, when I properly study the Bible, like I do when I’m preparing for a sermon, I always learn new things. Always. But often during my more intentionally devotional moments, in those moments after I’ve asked the Lord to open my lips so my mouth can proclaim his praise, the words are just marks on a page, sounds in the air, all distanced from my heart and soul and strength and mind.

For much of my life, I have felt guilty about this disconnection. Shouldn’t prayer be stirring, Bible reading invigorating, praise heartfelt, and interceding compassionate and sincere? I suppose all these can be so, and I’m sure they are for many people. But really, none of these practices has to electrify me or be thrilling in and of itself. If I truly commit to the great high priesthood of Jesus, I cannot suppose the effectiveness or otherwise of any of these things in any way depends on me. These days, I’m content simply to read the words of the liturgy—sometimes genuinely inhabiting the words, but mostly standing outside them in greater or lesser degrees of proximity—for I’m finally beginning to understand that faithfulness and commitment in prayer takes priority over novelty and excitement.