Perhaps it’s no wonder that I’m drawn to medieval mystics. Having spent the better part of my life studying, the mystics teach something I need to hear: we come to know and love God not through our intellect, but through our heart.
One of the most popular mystical texts was written by my favorite author — Anonymous. In the late 14th century, this man (probably an English monk) penned a guide to contemplative prayer called the Cloud of Unknowing.
These days, the Cloud of Unknowing is one of the main texts used in the practice of centering prayer. It has many techniques and words of wisdom. I’m especially drawn to the part where the author talks about failing at prayer. Because we all do. Our monk says:
No sooner has a man turned toward God in love when through human frailty he finds himself distracted by the remembrance of some created thing or some daily care. But no matter. No harm is done; for such a person quickly returns to deep recollection.
I like this monk’s down-to-earth approach. When our mind wanders, we return to God. We don’t worry about it; we don’t dwell on it. We simply return. I find such grace in this message!
One of the most beautiful stories in Scripture, and one of the most familiar, is about returning to God. It’s the story of the Prodigal Son. I love the way Rembrandt paints the moment of the wandering son’s return. The tender embrace between father and son captures, for me, the way God longs for each of his children to come home — no matter what we’ve done, no matter how far away we’ve gone.
We often think of the Prodigal Son as a parable about returning to God after a time, perhaps a long time, spent away. Might it also be about the way we return to God each day? I’ve come to see the Prodigal Son as a metaphor for my everyday prayer life. When I pray, I begin strong. I’m ready to take hold of the riches. Then, despite my best intentions, I begin to wander. Before I know it, my treacherous mind is far from the place it began — I end up, alongside the prodigal son, in a metaphorical pig sty of my own making. But God is always waiting, arms outspread, for me to return.
I hear the reassurance of God’s untiring welcome when I read the Cloud of Unknowing. I have to admit that it’s also nice to hear it from someone living in my own century. One day, after “failing” an exercise in contemplative prayer, I admitted my wandering mind to a friend.
“I had to restart my prayer about thirty times,” I complained.
“Thirty times? That’s great! You actually thought about Jesus thirty times!” my friend exclaimed.
She sounded, in her own way, a lot like the Cloud of Unknowing. And I realized she was right. During my prayer exercise, I’d drifted away. There’s no question about it — I’m full of what our 14th-century monk calls “human frailty.” But when I wandered, I came back. And each time I did, Jesus was there. It’s reassuring to know that I may drift away, but he never will.
We all wander. But do we return? That is the real question.
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