Light On Dark Water

To Pray As We Ought

I don’t say this at all proudly, but I’ve never
been much for reading Scripture on my own. Catholics of
course are often criticized for this lack of attention to the
written Word, but in my case the Church can’t take the
blame, since I grew up Protestant and certainly didn’t lack
for good examples and encouragement in this respect. I’ve
been noticing, though, as I get older, that Scripture speaks to
me more and more, whether encountered in solitary reading or at
Mass. Frequently it’s almost oracular, as if a very
specific message were being given to me, which I have no doubt is
in fact the case for everyone who has “ears to
hear”—the same words, with distinct and providential
import for each one who receives it.

Today’s Epistle, for instance, always strikes me as
immensely comforting and directly applicable to my own life:

Likewise the Spirit also helpeth our infirmities: for we know
not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself
maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be
uttered.

And he that searcheth the hearts knoweth what is the mind of the
Spirit, because he maketh intercession for the saints according
to the will of God.    (Romans 8:26-27)

It seems that I often find myself unsure of what to pray for
beyond the always-safe “thy will be done.” I feel
myself to be intruding on God’s prerogatives when I pray
very specifically. I second-guess myself, particularly when
praying for other people, and wonder if what I want is really
what is best for them. This is true especially when the context
is some situation where I’ve made such a mess of things
that no resolution, no correction of the original wrong, is
possible without further damage.

There is, moreover, something worse at work in me, a
superstitious streak which is directly traceable to that
well-known story by W. W. Jacobs, “The Monkey’s
Paw.” It can be found online easily enough, but I’m
not providing the link: if you haven’t read it, I
don’t particularly recommend that you do so, because I
don’t want it to haunt anyone else as it has haunted me.
Suffice to say that it’s a variant of the old three-wishes
pattern, and gives a truly horrible turn to the adage “Be
careful what you wish for.” It’s marvelously
effective, a masterpiece of the Edgar Allen Poe school of
implicit horror. I read it as a child, and have (obviously) never
forgotten it; I might have had this quirk about prayer without
the story, but the story gives my misgiving a very definite and
unforgettable shape: suppose I pray for the wrong thing, and
God grants it, and something bad follows? Of course I know
that this is nonsense, a defect in me, and that God is not
the malign nemesis at work in the story, but still the idea floats
around in the back of my mind when I pray for anything very
specific.

It’s interesting that the King James Version from which
I quote above—and which of course is not what I heard at
Mass—has “what we should pray for” while the
New American Bible has “how to pray.” They’re
not necessarily contradictory—“how to pray”
can, obviously, include the object of prayer—but I prefer
the KJV. It emphasizes a more elemental form of assistance.
“How to pray” might refer only to the difficulty of
finding the right words; “what to pray for” gets at
the fundamental problems of will and understanding, and offers to
correct our deficiencies at their root and heart, assuring us
that those groans—those longings, praises, regrets,
petitions, and confessions—which cannot be uttered are
perfectly known to the One to whom we so imperfectly direct
them.