My whole prayer life can be boiled down to one phrase: “God, help.” Of all my expressions, intercession, petition, thought, or utterance the basic premise of my prayer reiterates is that I cannot. I am unable. I am weak. I am insufficient. I am inadequate. I am lacking, deprived, bereft, stripped, empty; helpless. Prayer again and again reminds me of my own limits. It reminds me of how impossible the world is when I am left to my own devices. How frail my own attempts to tame the world are, how hollow my tryings must seem.
I am the grain of sand lying on the sea shore looking at the ragged rocks of the coast imagining that like them I can hold back the force of the waves, never knowing that the sand itself was once haughty crags and rocks, bluffs, and cliffs pummeled into miniscule fragments by those never ceasing heaves of water. I no more than the grain of sand can hold back the surf. Prayer reminds me that I am not the one capable of bringing an end to the pounding waves or the rolling tumult of wars, sickness, loss, grief, anger, sadness, depression, or rage. I cannot hold back the current of need in the world any more than the grain of sand can. Prayer reminds me of helplessness.
In prayer I see my finiteness. Against the grandeur of the universe I see my place shrunk. I am made small in the shadow of the cosmos. When I ask God to move I am reminded of all I cannot move. Despite my resourcefulness I discover in prayer how short my arm really is. I cannot even reach into the heart or mind of the person beside me and cause them to drink a cup of water, let alone set them free of their besetting woe or transform their sulking day into one of wonder. Far less can I touch the systemic injustices of poverty, the travesty of divorce and broken relationships, the robbery of illness. I am helpless in the face of a world that does not halt at my command. In prayer I become small. In prayer I become helpless.
In the final, psalmic section of C.S. Lewis’ compelling science fiction novel Perelandra the angels in hymnic fashion expound on the small place which humanity holds. Though they are great in that God as come to the cosmos as a human being, humanity is still small in the universe.
“…the worlds are for themselves. The waters you have not floated on, the fruit you have not plucked, the caves into which you have not descended and the fire through which your bodies cannot pass, do not await your coming to put on perfection…. Be comforted, small immortals. You are not the voice that all things utter, nor is there eternal silence in the places where you cannot come… Blessed be He!”
— C.S. Lewis, Perelandra
For Lewis smallness is a comfort not a curse. In the recognizing of our smallness the burden of turning the worlds is replaced by the comforting sigh of coming home. It recognizes our own habitat rather than forcing us live out a story which is not our own. Smallness in prayer lets us release the burden of ill-assigned duty and freely ask without compulsion to preform. In our helplessness we are able to encounter God as he is and not as we have created him to be.
Prayer frees me of my power obsession. In my helpless state unable to transform the cosmos I am liberated from my constant attempts at control. I am set free from my ever-greedy worship of power and strength. In the helpless place of prayer I am forced to laugh at my own delusions of autonomy. In prayer I am freed to live in a world where power is not the ultimate decider. I am freed to live in a world were the last word belongs to the weak instead of the strong.
In helplessness we are able to encounter a God more helpless than our attempts at control allow him to be. We can commune with the weak God knowing ourselves weak. We can commune with the small God knowing ourselves to be small. In prayer I see the God who is not as much as the God who is. I see the God who does not move as much as the God who does. I see the God who is weak as much as the God who is strong. The God who does not know as much as the God who does. In prayer I see myself helpless. I see the God who is helpless.
Tags: C.S. Lewis, Christianity, Helplessness, Pelelanra, Prayer, Religion & Spirituality, Smallness, Why Prayer?























