Being Christian is a challenge, a challenge for everyone. Considering my circumstance, it should be easy. After all, I was brought up in a loving church-going family with plenty of food on the table. I was expected to be ‘a nice people and do things for others,’ something I’m pretty good at, something I can surrender to, that is, on my own time and conditions. But that doesn’t make me a Christian.
     When our kids were growing up we were active in the Unitarian church, where people were nice and where opportunities to do things for others abounded. But that wasn’t enough for me. I wanted a God church, no, not wanted but needed a God church. Being nice on the outside, but critical, envious, judgmental, superior, angry, you name it, on the inside was gnawing at me. If it were just a question of trying, I’d be perfect. I knew I needed help. I returned to my roots, the United Church of Christ.
     Being Christian is a challenge. To follow Jesus means being a servant not a master: it means seeing the Christ in others, which means everyone; it means putting others before myself. Being a Christian means turning my world upside down and living it in from a Christ perspective; it means giving up my motives and surrendering to God’s.
     Being a Christian is a life challenge. The Bible is no easy self-help book. It takes complete surrender to God, living for God not for self. It takes prayer and willingness to open the door to the Holy. I want to believe that I’m in control of that door, but no, God is the door opener, Jesus the gate keeper. I have to be willing to see the opening and then go through.

    I’m sitting this morning in an Edinburgh café sipping coffee and enjoying a butter croissant. My writing is going well. Each day I post about it on my cottagebythesea blog. Today after church at St. Andrews and St. George West  Church near St. Andrew’s Square I’ll meet a friend for lunch. My days are grace filled.
     How easy to see my life through this grace-filled lens, to stop there and wallow in the blessings God has given me, and thus allow vain glory to creep in. The way I see it, vain glory is the sin of believing that God has singled me out for a special relationship, more special than God has done with others because I am so wonderful. No wonder vain glory is at the top of the sin continuum, separating us from God more than such sins as pride, envy, wrath, gluttony, lust, sloth and greed. Why? Because it removes us from thy will be done, replacing it with my will be done.
     I feel God calling me to view the world through a different lens. I see homeless men (and a few women) begging on the streets here in Edinburgh. On Iona Mark Braverman, a Christian Jew (author of A Wall in Jerusalem) spoke about the sin of violence against the poor and the refugee that is accepted and normalized in the name of religion. President Trump is neglecting human rights in his foreign policies, and choosing not to speak out against hate crimes in our country. My home church cut its outreach to the poor in order to balance the budget.
     Jesus saw the Roman Palestine of his times through the eyes of the oppressed, the poor, the powerless. If I am to follow Jesus, my gaze must go there, too. This is a humbling thought, with no place for vain glory, but definitely grace filled. I feel God is leading me to something new.
"Speak, for your servant is listening," 1 Samuel 3:10.

When I consider Christian mission, I ask what God is calling us to do. For many years I’ve heard and come to believe that God is calling me to pray for people. With that, questions arise. What does it mean? How do I do it? How do I know I’m doing it right; that God is listening; that it makes a difference? The answers I hear come not from my mind but from my heart. They have to do with love.
God is love, so whatever God calls us to do is one of the myriad ways in the world we can show love. When I pray with an open heart, that is with love, without judgments or conditions, I know my prayer makes a difference. That is enough for me.

I believe that the prayer I offer makes a difference. I have to believe this or my life purpose would be a sham. I keep hearing that God is calling me to intercessory prayer, as the theological phrase goes, but to me, I just say that I pray for people. I do so for an hour in the morning and then throughout the day. My procedure varies but in general I say the person’s name and surround h/her with God’s love; sometimes I picture the person walking along with Jesus. When my mind starts taking over (a common occurrence) and I judge what ‘should’ happen, I take a few deep breaths, shake off the thought and sink deeper into God’s presence.

      In rereading this, I realize how inadequately I have described what goes on when I pray; but today, at this moment, it is the best I can do. I try to put it into words because I feel called to help others interested in prayer. I share what I do in the hopes my example will help readers discern their own call.

      It is difficult to write about prayer. Reading what I just wrote proves the point. Prayer is difficult and mysterious. I get distracted when I pray. I have doubts. Really, where did that call to pray for people come from? Who do I think I am?  But I keep going. It has to be a call; but what does that mean? I keep going.

In her book "The Healing Light", Agnes Sanford found she had difficulty praying for healing for people when she was not in their presence. She records a conversation she had with a lady Minister on this subject: 

"I can help them when I'm with them, but my prayers from a distance don't seem to result in healing at all."
"Oh my dear, you're seeing them sick", cried the beautiful old minister.
"What do you mean?", I asked puzzled. "I'm not seeing them at all, I'm just thinking of them. And, of course, they're sick, or I wouldn't be praying for them."
"Yes you are seeing them," she replied patiently. "When you think of someone you always see the person in your mind. If you really believe he's going to be well, you see him well.". "…When you pray for someone, you must learn to see him well.

 This from St. Cuthbert’s Parish Church, Edinburgh, http://www.st-cuthberts.net

     Much to ponder. When I pray for someone who is physically ill, it is difficult for me to really believe that they will be cured, much less that my prayer will make the difference. On the other hand, I have more hope when I pray for someone to come out of the darkness, to rise above depression. My call to pray for people goes on.

The Service of Commitment last evening was led by a group of young boys, about 12 years of age, who are on retreat at the Macleod Center, which is part of the Iona Abbey complex.

      Two boys participated in a dialogue between Jesus and Peter. Jesus, called out, “Peter, follow me.” Peter kept asking what that would entail. Jesus kept answering, “Follow me.”

    The second part of the services was comprise of four readings, each expressing different reasons for our reluctance to follow Jesus, each excuse framed as a secret: issues of money, relationships, health, and private faith.

     What to make of this Jesus call? It’s frightening, counter cultural. I’m not used to following without asking questions, without getting answers. What fool would do that? None of us.

      And what about my very legitimate excuses? I fit into all four categories, although probably a ‘exclusive’ relationship with God is my specialty. I don’t want to give up my illusion that I am in control of how God acts in my life.

    There’s much to take on, primarily taking on the role of fool.

…. I wrote the above before my walk. Now I’m back. Can’t believe that I started out asking Jesus a bunch of questions, to which he answered, “Follow me.” So I’m trying to follow and listen.

Sometimes there isn’t much I want to write about on this prayer diary blog. Like right now. I ask myself why that is so, since prayer is so central to my life. At the moment the answer that comes is that prayer is beyond words, that sometimes to talk about it detracts from its sacredness. Like right now. That instead of writing about prayer I want to be praying—for two friends who are having surgery on Thursday, for the mother of three who had to stop breast feeding because she’s scheduled for a double mastectomy, for…. Like right now.   

You may have noticed that I frequently quote Thomas Merton. He one of my mentors. Merton grappled with the desire to live a life of solitude but also to go out and live in the world. This dialectic had to do with his personality more than with his circumstances. After all, he chose/was called to The Order of  Cistercians of the Strict Observance, a Roman Catholic religious order of cloistered contemplative monastics. I, too, am called to a solitary life but I also have family and friends that I’m committed too. I like my choices, even as I feel the pull and challenge of both solitude and social.  

    Merton shared through his writing. He spoke publically, but evidently was rather shy in that arena. During my teaching days I did a great deal of public speaking and I liked it. I talked about what I did in my classroom and why I did it. It was all about me and the kids.

     But I don’t want to take public center stage anymore. Perhaps it has to do with the topic: God. Writing about God gives me the chance that, with God’s grace, what I say will be about God, with me as humble servant. Well, I sure have a long way to go with that one but I’m praying.