Stay in the River
In my last blog post, I tried something different, sharing tips that have helped my prayer life over the years. These included the idea of praying about praying, the importance of being yourself, and learning to see prayer as a colloquy (a two-way conversation). Seeing those pointers now in print makes me think they look so frightfully two-dimensional. Please understand me, these ideas have changed my life. However, now that I try to share them with others, something is missing. I want to persevere in exploring why.
It reminds me of a time when I was fly fishing in southern Alberta. My friend Don and I had been fishing this creek all afternoon. It was my first ever outing to a place that is heaven on earth for the humble trout fisher. Incredible landscapes are cut through with rivers whose crystal-clear pools host wise trout, visible to the naked eye. These little ghost-like torpedoes wait for their food to drift downstream before darting in a flash, breaking the surface to feast on a fresh fly, whose waterlogged wings are at the mercy of this Lazy Susan.
Don and I were both moving upstream, leapfrogging each other to fish different pools. I came around a corner just at the right time of day to see the sun’s rays spilling into the canyon. The warm light was perfect, with a cinematic quality. It lit up the forest high above me, illuminating the rocks on the riverbed and transforming them into dazzling jewels set in precious gold. I later learned that it was a mineral called pyrite, also known as fool's gold. The glittering and the glory stole my breath, and my desire to fish. I stood motionless as the current of the creek carried on, ribbons of bright blue and white waved wildly by gravity. As this canyon was lifted into the rays of the setting sun, all kinds of mysteries, beautiful mysteries, were read aloud from the book of creation.
I hadn’t caught a fish that day. This big Scot, who moved as deftly as an old Shire horse over the river bed, had lots to learn about stalking nimbly in a place where I could see my gilled prey and their wise eyes could cannily observe me. Maybe because my net was empty and I wanted a wee souvenir, I reached into the icy stream and picked up a flat pebble slightly bigger than a fifty pence piece. I put it into a pocket of my fishing waistcoat. I thought no more about it and returned to being a human metronome, bringing cast after cast to life.
Later that evening, when I was back home and sorting through my fishing gear, I found that memento. It was now just a dull, grey rock. Ichabod. If I hadn’t seen that late afternoon spectacle, I would not have believed you if you told me about it. The same is so with pointers in that last blog. They belong in the river of God’s life-giving Holy Spirit. I can’t just extract a principle or two, even with the best motives going. The living God won’t be reduced, tamed and domesticated. It’s essential to recognise that we are not inviting God into our lives and our predetermined plans. Rather, in his beloved Son, God invites us to dwell in him and he in us. We are asked to forsake everything and join with him in his story of redemption. We lose our lives to find them in these currents. It is from this mutual indwelling that all wonder and glory opens up to us at certain points along the journey, when the light is just right and humble things are lifted, kissed in a glory that transforms both them and the viewer. May we be given the grace of a contemplative gaze and a childlike heart to appreciate them.
