It is no longer I who pray

I fully understand the sentiment that prompted you to write to me, “My daily contemplative prayer seems insignificant to me. I cannot imagine that this stammering prayer of a tiny creature could be of interest to the perfect and infinite God.” You possess a keen awareness of the creature’s lowliness and of God’s Majesty—a precious and essential perspective of faith; grace certainly plays a part in this. Yet there is another perspective of faith I would like you to grasp, so that you might hold your daily contemplative prayer in high regard, however wretched it may seem to you.

Let us first step back a moment, if you will. Before speaking of your contemplative prayer, let us speak of Christ’s contemplative prayer. In a passage I greatly admire, Bérulle celebrates the unique nature of Jesus Christ’s prayer, “Throughout all eternity, there was indeed an infinitely adorable God, yet there was not yet an infinite worshipper; there was indeed a God worthy of infinite love and service, yet there was no man—no infinite servant—capable of rendering infinite service and love. You are now, O Jesus, that worshipper, that man, that infinite servant—infinite in power, quality, and dignity—able to fully discharge this duty and offer this divine homage. You are that man who loves, worships, and serves the supreme Majesty just as He is worthy to be loved, served, and honoured.”

This text brings to mind Jesus withdrawing into the solitude of the mountains at night to pray. And, above all, it calls to mind Calvary, where the perfect worshipper offered perfect worship to the Father.

One might ask: Did the perfect worship of the Son—this prayer of Jesus—render human prayer futile, supplanting it once and for all? We can answer at once that this prayer of Christ—far from casting aside human prayers (all those faltering prayers uttered since the dawn of humanity, all those sacrifices from every religion and every age)—draws them to itself, incorporates them, offers them to God, and enables them to find, within and through it, a wondrous meaning and effectiveness.

Yet there is an even more marvellous answer. Christ wants His prayer to resound throughout the universe—from the equatorial bush to the polar ice, from the Far East to the Far West. He wants the humblest Christian at prayer to have something far better to offer than hesitant words and clumsy sentiments; He wants that such a person should have at their disposal the Son of God’s very own prayer. He wants that all people may lay hold of His prayer, make it their own, and present it to God.

But that is not all. Jesus Christ does not merely want His prayer to be ours—like a possession in our hands to use as we please; He wants it implanted and deeply embedded within our very depths, at the root of our being, as the soul of our soul. He wants us to be able to repeat, in all truth, the words of Saint Paul, “I live, yet it is no longer I...”—I pray, yet it is no longer I who pray, but Christ who prays within me. It is the Spirit of the Son—the Holy Spirit—who causes the cry of filial love to resound within me, Abba, Father! Thus, Christ’s prayer, far from supplanting human prayer, wondrously ennobles it.

Just as on Easter night, in the darkened church, the flame of the Paschal candle is gradually passed to the multitude of small candles held by the faithful, so too does Christ, through baptism, reach out to people one by one across the world, awakening His own filial prayer within their souls—drawing it forth from their very souls.

In all baptised people, it is His Son whom the Father recognises; in their prayer—however insignificant it may appear—it is the prayer of His Son that the Father hears.

It is Christ who prays within me

At the very beginning of your contemplative prayer, make an act of faith in the mysterious presence of Christ within you—a presence Scripture confirms, “You will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you.” (Jn 14:20); “Christ dwells in your hearts through faith.” (Eph 3:17)

If Christ is alive within you, He is praying there. Because to live, for Christ, is to pray. Join Him; grasp and make His prayer your own. Or rather—since the terms I have just used place too much emphasis on your own activity—let this prayer seize you, fill you, lift you up, and draw you toward the Father. I do not promise that you will perceive it; I ask only that you believe in it and, during contemplative prayer, give it—and renew—your full assent. Make way for it; give it all the room it needs. Let it take hold of every fibre of your being, just as fire penetrates wood and makes it glow.

To pray is to answer the request Christ makes of us, “Lend me your mind, your heart, your whole being—everything in man capable of becoming prayer—so that I may bring forth from you the great praise of the Father. Did I come for any other reason than to kindle a fire on earth—a fire that spreads from one to another, transforming every tree in the forest into a living torch? This fire is my prayer. Consent to the fire.”

Christ is present in the newly baptized child just as He is in the great mystic. Yet the life of Christ in each is at a different stage of development. While the prayer of Christ already vibrates within the soul of the newly baptized child, it exists there only as a seed—a seed of fire. It is throughout our entire lives—in direct proportion to our cooperation—that this prayer intensifies and gradually takes possession of our whole being.

Our cooperation consists, first of all, in embracing the prayer of Christ within us with the deepest part of our will. But take careful note of the powerful meaning I attach to the word “embrace”: it does not signify a lukewarm agreement or mere lip service, but a total self-giving—like a log surrendering itself to the flame to become fire in its turn. Our cooperation also involves seeking to understand, with all our intelligence, the makeup of Christ’s prayer within us—its major components: praise, thanksgiving, offering, intercession—so that we may more perfectly make them our own. — You asked me for subjects for meditation; I know of none better.

For a long time, the person devoted to prayer does not perceive this prayer of Christ within him—even though his faith guarantees its existence and his meditation allows him to know it better. Yet a day comes—not necessarily during the time of formal prayer—when he discovers it in his soul. He falls silent then, fearing he might startle it away, just as one fears frightening a bird that has landed on the windowsill… Then, suddenly, he realises it has vanished—he knows not how; perhaps during a split second of inattention. He feels sad. It had been wonderful to find this prayer deep within himself; he had hoped to find it there again—present the moment he woke up, and there during the day whenever he paused during his work. Let him not despair: the prayer of Christ is always there, even when we do not perceive it. We must return to it through faith, and above all, we must not concern ourselves—while at prayer—with trying to experience it all over again. It is a failure to render the honour due to God to approach prayer seeking God’s gifts rather than God Himself. The Lord—true to His promise (Jn 14:21)—would reveal Himself to us far more often were we not more avid for His gifts than for Him. Undoubtedly, the grace of perceiving Christ’s prayer will be renewed. Perhaps, once tamed, this prayer will no longer elude us—but not until we have given up trying to lay hands on that timid bird.

When the soul is utterly stripped bare and dead to self, it will experience what Saint Ignatius of Antioch expressed in unforgettable words in his letter to the Romans—written at the close of his long apostolic life, aboard the ship taking him to martyrdom, “My passions have been crucified, and within me there is no longer any craving for earthly things. Instead, a living water murmurs within me, saying, ‘Come to the Father.‘”

Henri Caffarel, Cahiers sur l’oraison, Initiation Series VI