Why Prayer is Boring

I once took a class on prayer. It was very interesting, I’m sure, but I still have no idea how to pray. I’ve even taught classes on prayer. I know there are all kinds of distinctions about mental prayer and vocal prayer and contemplative and mystical and meditative and on and on, but in all my many hours of “praying” (by which I generally mean sitting in a chapel talking to myself about things that have little to do with anything spiritual) I’ve only discovered three kinds: saintly prayer, snotty prayer, and boring prayer.

Saintly Prayer

When I speak of saintly prayer, I don’t mean the prayer the Saints generally speak of.  That’s often bitter and empty (à la Mother Teresa or John of the Cross).  When it’s not, it’s selfless and self-emptying.  It’s entirely about God, not about the one who prays.  I tell you, friends, I am not there yet.

I’m talking here about the prayer that feels good.  The kind of prayer where you’ve got something to say and so your holy hour speeds by.  The emotional high of singing praise music or the comfort of finding meaning in Scripture that hits you exactly where you are.  I hope you’ve all experienced this–some peace, some joy, some answer in prayer.  It’s a beautiful thing, a true gift.  And for those of us who have felt God in this emotional way, the experience can strengthen us through times of emptiness.

This kind of prayer is nice.  It might strengthen your faith or give you a passion for sharing the Gospel.  That’s lovely.  But emotional highs are candy–they are not daily bread.  If your prayer were all lovely and happy and fulfilling, you’d soon stop praying out of love of God and start praying out of love of the feeling of prayer.  That’s not virtuous and it’s not love.  If prayer is about growing in love for God, it can’t always be fun.  There has to be struggle and sacrifice and trudging through months of blah if it’s going to mean anything.

Cherish the gift of prayer that touches your heart and stirs your soul.  But don’t seek that in prayer.  God made you for something better than thrills.

Snotty Prayer

I was talking with an 18-year-old boy the other day and he started describing his experience from the previous night.  It seems he was having a miserable time over a girl and he needed to pray it out.  So he walked as far away from his house as he could get, off into the wilds of Kansas corn, and fell to his knees, screaming at God.

“I was sobbing,” he said, “tears pouring out of my eyes, snot running down my face.  It was disgusting.  And one of the most inspiring moments of my life.”

God didn’t answer his question, the desperate “Why?” he was crying into the night, but he came away comforted anyway.  Because that prayer, that desperate, guttural cry to the one who made the universe and holds us in his hand–that prayer reminds us that we’re alive.  When life is good and pleasant, it’s easy to start feeling lost.  This is why people in this country are so rich but so, so poor.  We coast through a life that gives us everything we’ve ever asked for but leaves us empty.  Snotty prayer reminds us with a stab to the heart that we are very much alive.  The pain exhilarates in a way that joy rarely does and we begin to feel again, to strive again, to fight again.  Sometimes rock bottom is exactly where we need to be.

I think that snotty prayer is also a testimony to the depths of our faith.  We doubt God’s existence when we’re unhappy, but we blame him when we’re miserable.  We hope he’s not watching us when we’re trying to get away with something but we insist that he listens when we feel abandoned.  I have my doubts about God–we all do–but never when I’m snotty.  When I’m on my knees in the cornfield (or sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, more often), I know God’s there.  I scream, “Are you listening?  Do you even care?  Why won’t you answer me??”  But in those moments of desperation, it never occurs to me that he might not be there at all.

There’s a depth of faith, still beneath the rolling surface of daily mediocrity, that we doubt until we find ourselves raging against a God who, it seems, we knew was there all along.

This prayer is miserable, but it’s a blessing.  It’s a reminder that we’re alive, a reminder that God is, too.  And so, as much as it hurts, it’s beautiful.  But faith can’t be sustained by this kind of prayer, either.  For one thing, it would be exhausting.  For another, your face would probably start to chap.  But more importantly, prayer is more than emotion, positive or negative.  Faith can be strengthened by this prayer, too, this prayer which in its suffering is somehow more real than even the saintly prayer.  But what feeds our faith is much more mundane.

Boring Prayer

Maybe your daily prayer time is meaningful and directed without being thrilling.  Maybe you find peace in practicing the presence of God and the stillness of your meditation strengthens you to continue.  If so, I commend you (with slight bitterness and more than slight suspicion).  For the rest of us, let’s talk about how boring prayer is.

It really is, isn’t it?  No, not always.  And, in my experience, it becomes less so the more you practice it.  Until it doesn’t.  And you go to the chapel and check your watch every 2 minutes until your holy hour is up.

Maybe I’m just more ADD than most, but my half hour meditation sometimes feels like a herculean task.  I remember going to visit a former student when I was fresh out of the convent.  I was a professional pray-er.  She was 17.  We went to do a holy hour together and mine looked like this:

Dear Jesus, I love you so much.  Um, I really love you.  A lot.  You’re great.  (58 and a half minutes to go)  Um, help me be holy.  I really want to do your will.  Make me like you.  (57 minutes to go)

Imagined continued platitudes and watch-checking for another 27 minutes, then various books and devotions and such to fill my hour.  Meanwhile, Katherine knelt silently for an entire hour.  I was so frustrated–I’m supposed to be good at prayer!  I certainly practice it enough, right?

First of all, Meg, don’t be an idiot and quit comparing yourself to people.  Remember when Peter did that?

Peter turned and saw the disciple following whom Jesus loved, the one who had also reclined upon his chest during the supper and had said, “Master, who is the one who will betray you?” When Peter saw him, he said to Jesus, “Lord, what about him?”  Jesus said to him, “What if I want him to remain until I come? What concern is it of yours? You follow me.” (Jn 21:20-22)

Jesus basically says, “Peter, shut up and deal with your own issues.”

But I think the real issue is that I naturally look down on prayer that’s difficult.  I think it’s not real prayer unless I feel something.  Why?  The Christian life is difficult.  It’s even dull much of the time.  Why would prayer be any different?

Here’s what I think: a lot of the time, prayer is boring because it’s supposed to be.  If I went to prayer every day because I enjoyed it, it would have nothing to do with love of God.  Yes, sometimes I enjoy prayer.  More often, though, I go because it is good, because he is good, because I want to be good.  St. Thérèse said that when we want to leave prayer 3 minutes early, we should stay 3 minutes longer.  If I took her at her word, I’d probably have to double all my prayer.  But the point remains that the prayer we do not desire has the most merit.

People are always telling me that they don’t pray (or go to Mass or read the Bible or whatever) because they don’t “get anything out of it.”  But that’s exactly when you get the most out of it!  You get discipline and selflessness and the satisfaction of offering yourself to God not because of what he does but because of who he is.

Look at it another way: I hate to run.  I refuse to do it.  ((Seriously, if you chased me with a knife, I wouldn’t run.  If I’m going to die anyway (which I will–I couldn’t outrun someone in a coma), I at least want to die breathing.))

Running is awful because I’m so out of practice.  If I ran every day, I’m sure eventually it would become bearable.  ((That’s what they tell me, anyway.  And the crazies even say that running becomes fun.  That I do not believe.))

Prayer is similar.  We were made to worship but the Fall has us terribly out of shape.  We need to practice. And as we pray each day and gradually increase our time in prayer, we will learn to hunger for it and even to experience God, to “get something out of it,” if you will.  It won’t matter which of the Teresian mansions we’re in or what approach to prayer we’re taking because it will have transcended all that.  But I would hazard a guess that most days it will still be boring.

I do get saintly prayer occasionally and I cherish it.  And I even manage to rejoice in the gross, snotty prayer.  But it’s the boring prayer where I put my money where my mouth is, where I kneel before the crucifix and tell God I love him.

“Prove it,” he says, and keeps his mouth shut.