The Jesuit Guide To (Almost) Everything - James Martin [78]
“When I hugged the tree, I felt connected to the earth and to the beauty of God’s creation,” she continued. “Stretching my hands around its trunk made me feel grounded, connected to the earth, in a way that I never had. And here I was holding on to a living creature, which reminded me that God is continually creating.” Her comments changed the way I look at that kind of prayer.
My busy life in New York City means that I have few opportunities to appreciate nature. The view from my window is an array of brick walls with a tiny sliver of blue sky, visible only if I crane my neck. So I treasure any time outdoors. One fall, I traveled to Gloucester, Massachusetts, to direct a weekend retreat with Sister Maddy. The Jesuit retreat house is spectacularly situated only a few yards from the Atlantic Ocean. And only a few hundred yards from the house—separated from the ocean by a narrow spit of land—is a large, freshwater pond. To my mind, this is one of the most beautiful spots in the country.
On that Friday, however, I arrived in the dark of night, after a seemingly endless series of subways and trains that took me from New York to Boston to Gloucester. So I could see nothing of the retreat house’s lovely grounds.
But in the early morning, when I stepped outside into the bright autumn sunshine, the view almost took my breath away. Near the retreat house were tall trees with red and orange leaves that stirred in the cool breeze. Above me was the vault of a brilliant blue sky. As I walked behind the retreat house, I saw fishing boats chugging around the bay, plowing through the steel-blue water. And though the air was filled with the calls of seagulls, ducks, and blackbirds, it seemed as if a silence filled my soul.
The colors, the smells, even the sounds, seemed ways of God comforting, calming, and consoling me.
Most of the men and women on retreat said the same. “How are you experiencing God this weekend?” I asked one man. “With all this!” he said, making an expansive gesture toward the window. At a talk that weekend, Sister Maddy told the story of her young nephew, who once stood on the rocks overlooking the Atlantic, taking in deep breaths.
“What are you doing?” said Maddy.
“Trying to take all this into me so I can take it home!” he said.
An Ignatian use of the imagination can aid us in nature prayer. (Ignatius himself used to gaze at the stars from the rooftop of the Jesuit headquarters in Rome.) Whenever I stand on a beach, I use the ocean as an image of a God who bears away my worries. With each wave that breaks on the shore and recedes, I imagine my fears and worries borne out to sea, to be received by God.
Music is another way to pray. “Who sings well prays twice,” St. Augustine said. Ask any choir member or churchgoer who has felt lifted up during a worship service. Or ask a monk or nun who has chanted the psalms for years on end, until not only the words but the melodies become ways of expressing oneself to God. Sometimes the music itself can express what we are feeling better than words do. Lately, when I find it difficult to pray, I use a recording of the psalms, chanted by a monastery choir, whose songs pray for me when words do not come so easily.
Olivier Messiaen, the twentieth-century composer, once said that music serves for humanity as a conduit to the ineffable. When asked if a listener needed to have a spiritual experience to appreciate his music, Messiaen answered, “Not at all. But it would be the highest compliment to me as a composer if you had a spiritual experience because of hearing my music.”
Work can be prayerful if done contemplatively. “Hands to work, hearts to God,” as the Shakers used to say. Sometimes when I’m washing dishes or ironing or arranging the altar for Mass, I lose myself in the task and am reminded of doing small things with love.
But you have to be careful. Busy Jesuits (including me) sometimes say, half-mischievously, “My work is my prayer.” This may mean our work leads