The Cathedral of All Saints in Albany, NY
Recently my prayers are most importantly that—prayers—while they often flow from a discombobulated mind and unsettled heart. For someone such as myself, sensitive and somewhat disorganized by nature, the Daily Offices of the Book of Common Prayer are effective means for steering myself toward God.
And so I am thankful that Thomas Cramner, Archbishop of Canterbury, pieced together that good English book from the Good Book and traditional prayers during his time of turmoil and reformation.
But I also have a creative mind that seeks itself to build a raft on which to float toward the uncertain future. Therefore I have an affinity for St. Ignatius, the day dreamer who discerned God’s action in his life and sought to teach others to do the same. Though I have not made a full retreat of his spiritual exercises, on most days I read a suggested passage of scripture for making the retreat. Then I revisit it, sometimes wrestle with it, sometimes draw it, throughout the day.
My first attempt at drawing an imaginative prayer—The angel’s visits to Mary and Joseph became conflated into one visit in my mind as the couple both accept the call to parent Jesus.
More on Ignatian prayer in the next blog post. Meanwhile, while I work on integrating his work, I enjoy our poetry workshops at our cathedral and listen to a variety of online podcasts and services.
A comfort to me during the pandemic has been my YouTube subscription to Canterbury Cathedral, where all prayers began to be said outside in its various gardens when it closed. All spring and summer, Dean Robert has read stories, such as The Little Prince, has begun prayers with quotes (this morning it was from Sylvia Plath’s journal), and gives homilies as the green around him becomes increasingly boisterous and shot through with blossoms.
I am no stranger to church mice and an occasional bat, but many animals live at Canterbury Cathedral. A cat is always somewhere in the frame at Morning Prayer, stealing the show. A few mornings ago, a black one ran as if chased. “It is a very windy day here,” the Dean said. “The cats don’t like it because it gets in their whiskers.”
He spoke with the same authority and inner knowledge in his voice that his homilies contain. I always listen to the liturgy rather than speak with him due to our different prayer book and lectionary. He seems aware of this as he invites me to say the Lord’s Prayer in whatever language I can muster. When I give thanks with him for anniversaries in the life of the world that he is careful to name, my private beast—my concern—jumps off the table as if to set about grooming itself straight.
A week or two ago, after Morning Prayer in a chicken coop had ended, a long series of grunts began. Hearing no prayer, I looked at my phone to see what had begun. It was a three-hour video of Clemmie the sow giving birth. Now, if I have already listened to Morning Prayer and I feel lost, I watch the videos of the growing piglets.
Grunts mean that life goes on even when cathedrals are closed and prayer has ended, even when pandemics rage. Jesus Christ is the same today, yesterday and forever. Clemmie and Winston are too busy in the piglet nursery to imagine that it could be otherwise. Dean Robert, always mindful of whiskers, the Cathedral looming above him and the sky above it, attest to the truth of these things.
