Love, Pray, Love

#Fenelon #100DaysintheSecretPlace #Prayer #Love #OolaFaith #FindingOola

"Real prayer is nothing more than loving God." Fenelon

To say that religion is complicated is the definition of an understatement. There are currently over 4000 recognized religions in the world. And inside each religion hundreds of different sects, denominations, or ideas.

Prayer itself is complicated. In some religious circles it is mandated, by who, when, where, how and why. In other belief systems it's less formal.

As a child I talked to God daily, informally and lovingly. Soon though, religion took over and I was instructed on what, when, and how to commune with God.

First and foremost I was taught the need to confess, over and over, that I was a worm, a helpless, vile sinner. Then I needed to beg for mercy, over and over. And only after a ritual, for which I needed to be of a certain age, and after more instruction, was I absolved of my sin. But not once. No, this as well, had to happen over and over.

As teenager I was introduced to another branch of Christianity. One less formal but no less regimented. Now, in order to assure salvation, I needed to learn how to pray in other languages. Not French or Spanish, although they could happen. Just any language that I have never learned. And if, by some special favour, I became the recipient of a heavenly language, all the better, all the more mature, all the more spiritual.

I know there's a bit of an edge in my voice as I write this. It's not that I'm ungrateful for my religious upbringing. It's just that I hate religion. It ruined my child-like relationship with Papa God.

I can still still see, and hear, the chubby six-year-old skipping down the sidewalk. The spring sun splashes promises on her grey-woollen-princess-cut-Sunday-best coat. (how I mourned the day it no longer fit)

She's singing a song straight from her heart, made up in this blissful moment. The world is hers. Nothing is impossible. God is her Papa. She is a much-loved child. But life, and religion, have a way of casting doubt on the simplicity of such a relationship.

Pray must be taught. Pray must be persevered through. Prayer must, fill in the blank, to be accepted.

Even as an adult I've been told I do it wrong. Memories of prayer meetings where others were asking God, in point form, from a preselected list, for what was required at that moment, my heart would burn for the hurting.

Eventually, unable to hold back any longer, I'd end up passionately, and sometimes in tears, crying out for God's intervention. My plea included, "Help us be Your hands and heart in this situation."

Silence followed and after an awkward pause, someone would continue with the point form acceptable subjects to bring before God.

But worse than silence, and a return to the duty of predictable prayer, is when someone follows your prayer, outlining to God how you were wrong in your request and maybe, God, you should do it this way instead. That's really a spiritual gut punch.

Now I learn that 400 years ago, Fenelon, a Catholic Archbishop, taught true prayer is simply loving God. His definition of praying without ceasing has nothing to do with a 24-hour clock. No, it's when "there is true love in your heart, and love, hidden in the depths of the spirit, prays constantly even when your mind needs to attend to something else." Like skipping down a spring sun-splashed sidewalk.

But Fenelon says it all comes back to love. And God is love. Love is birthed from God to me and all I need do is love Him back. I love Him back as I love others, especially the least. That is my kind of prayer.