ADVENT AND BLESSEDNESS

In the Advent of this most peculiar calendar year, and thus in the beginning of a new liturgical year, it seemed to me that a few thoughts on the Sermon on the Mount might not be out of place. The Sermon, after all, is, we are told, the new Torah, the new Law; so that just as in Lent , before the celebration of the Redeemer we may usefully study the Law the obedience to which we invariably muck up enough to need redeeming. 

As in the New Testament, specifically Matthew's Gospel, I thought I would begin with what are usually known as the Beatitudes; of which the first is

BLESSED ARE THE POOR IN SPIRIT, FOR THEIRS IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN

We do not know what Yeshua said in Aramaic, but whoever translated the shorthand notes of ‘Matthew the Exciseman’ into clear if clumsy Greek said it thus: ‘Makarioi hoi ptōchoi tōi pneumati, hoti autōn hè basileia tōn ouranōn.’  Let’s try to parse this. Makarios (some us are old enough to remember a Greek political bishop of that name) means ‘fortunate, lucky’ more than religiously ‘blessed’: but St Jerome clearly thought this unworthy of both the speaker and the occasion and translated it as Beati; and all English translators from Wyclif on followed him. A ptōchos in ordinary Greek is a beggar: here, though, it is at once metaphorised by being followed by ‘in the spirit’ (spiritus/pneuma/ruach, the great noun of which the meaning runs from Him Who brooded over the primeval waters in Genesis to the breath that comes out of our nose or mouth.  So it does not necessarily limit itself to the beggar in rags at the gate: a rich man may well be ptōchos tōi pneumati.

            Considering that these people, whoever they are, are fortunate, because theirs is the rule of the heavens, it seems important to find out who and what they are. How is one poor in spirit? To start with the highest: one cannot imagine that the Heavens will be ruled by those who have little of the Holy Spirit. Poor, perhaps, in divine inspiration? In a year of Covid-19 there are of course many who are poor in breath and hooked up to respirators; but those surely also are not meant. (If I sound deliberately obtuse it is because I’m trying to recover the way this must have read to those original readers who were not already converted.) The consensus among theologians is that those who are meant are those who are spiritually poor, and especially who are so in their own estimation: those who know that they have few resources and that they are dependent on the Father for literally everything. It is those who have that kind of humility, and therefore that kind of instinctive trusting dependence on the Father, who – beggars as they feel themselves to be – are fortunate, He reassures them. Why? Because theirs is – to them rightfully belongs – the basileia, the kingship, the rule, of the heavens. (ouranos in daily Greek was the sky, the vault of heaven, but also the heaven of the deities, a heaven which in the Old Testament’s Psalm 96/7 had become plural.)

            Goodness. The last shall be first, indeed. At least, those who see themselves as the last, those who do not think much of their powers, those who are, in fact, ‘as little children’, utterly dependent on their parent and content to be so because living in complete unquestioned trust. Those who, as Yeshua puts it later on in the same discourse, do not take thought for the morrow, but take each day as the Father sends it. Those who, like the Samaritan trader, interrupt their business trip when they chance upon a bleeding robbery-victim, take him to the nearest pub, tell the landlord to see to him, promise to pay all costs on the return journey, and go on to their destination. Those who, working in a hospital, do not think much about being saintly but just do their job and say a prayer while doing it. Those who, without metaphysics or other philosophy, can see that ‘heaven and earth are full of Thy glory’ because they are so little occupied with their career plan that they have eyes to spot glory, divinity, in all the tiny nooks and crannies where it lodges. 

            They are makarioi. Already here on earth, because being what they are they are happier than others: not given to bitching, kvetching, grouching, glooming, weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth. And this happiness, this good fortune, this makaria, follows them to heaven. To heaven where, true to the ancient Athenian wisdom that governance should be given only to those who do not desire it, they will be placed in charge. It is a comfort to think that Heaven will be ruled by the simple, the einfach, the onefold, those for whom one Father, whose Will they happily do from day to day, is enough. 

            Now, who are they? Referred to here as a class, they might appear to us as people with a specific gift. Poverty of spirit: well, A has it, B doesn’t. Like blue eyes, or an inborn talent for mathematics. But the whole trend of the Sermon is not that way. The Sermon is the new Torah. The fulfilled, not the abolished, Torah. The Torah fulfilled in inwardness. So it is filled with what we should learn, learn to do, learn to understand, learn to become, as was the old Torah: see Psalm 119, which is a lingering love-song to that old Torah. Hence the ptōchoi tōi pneumati, those lucky, fortunate people, those makarioi, are Us. They are what we could be. What we should be. What we may be, if we learn not to be too clever or too ambitious or too rebellious for our own good.  

SO WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT, THEN (AND NOW)?

a nasty dogma (cf Psalm 59)

A recent discussion with a friend about religion, church, and dogma set me thinking about such things, and trying to work them out. I post the result here in case it may be helpful to some. (NB: A None is not a canonical Hour, but someone who to the pollster’s question about one’s religion answers “None”. A Vaguist is, well, vague.)

 

A. What was the Eu-angelion, the content of Yeshua’s teaching?

 

1.     The Law is fulfilled.

2.     Yeshua bar Yosef from Nazareth is the Meshiach.

3.     Yeshua Meshiach is the (new) Law, and the new Temple.

4.     Our role is to be as children: in the innocence of trust, and the trust of innocence.

5.     Yeshua is present with us, in the Eucharist and in prayer.

6.     Our childlike life is to be governed (as He said to Nicodemus) by the two Great Commandments.

7.     The first we obey in prayer (and sometimes in fasting).

8.     The second is exemplified in the Samaritan: we obey it in giving (as he did).

 

 

B. How does one discuss faith with a 21C None? Very difficult. If the occasion arises, perhaps say “Let me tell you my faith, and then you tell me your reactions to those points.” And tell it more or less in the above form. 

 

The points the None will almost certainly make are 1) Auschwitz and 2) earthquakes or the equivalent.  Possible answers:

1) God is Love, and as such his omnipotence is limited (only) by the nature of Love itself, that cannot suspend freedom.

2) God does not micromanage nature. He has left Nature to us, to our care and our intelligence.

 

C. Now, how does one answer a 21C Vaguist? The Vaguist will say “I believe in a Higher Being [perhaps even God]; I am a very spiritual person; but my contact with the Higher Being happens in surroundings of natural beauty. Do NOT ask me to go to, still less to join, a church – they are full of DOGMAS [which, it is understood, are things that bark, bite and – as the Psalmist says -- grin and run about the city].” Again, very difficult.

 

I might start by saying that I too find surroundings of natural beauty congenial to contact with God: after all, He provided them, so addressing Him when in them seems natural, if only to give thanks. 

 

But then one does have to tackle the topic of the church. I might point out that while Creeds are in the singular, all the ancient Christian prayers, beginning with the one taught us by Yeshua, are couched in the first person plural. The early Christians lived their faith most strongly in a community. “Where two or three are gathered together, I will be in the midst of them.”

 

Yes, but what about those horrid DOGMAS? 

1.     Try to imagine what the first centuries of the Christian community were like. Not only were they persecuted, hunted down and killed, but they were trying to work out just what it all meant. What did the Resurrection mean? What is the God we worship like? Father? What kind of a father? And if Yeshua was the Son of God, what does that mean? And if he said, I will send you the Holy Spirit, who is that? They were totally absorbed in a terrible problem of definition: terrible, because their – eternal – lives depended on it. 

2.     So every time they managed to reach some sort of agreement on one bit of the enormous subject, they would file it with a sigh of relief, saying, OK, this one we can now see as settled, let’s go on to the next one. And so the settled one was filed as “something we are sure enough of to teach it”, the Greek word for which is dogma.

 

Of course the real trouble, for a Vaguist, is not with dogmas as such but with the idea of the Church as a spiritual authority. Which means, supposedly, that it can tell – order – you what to believe. No effing way!

 

This is of course nonsense. Only you know what you believe and whom you trust, unless you tell someone. And the Church – the community of the faithful – cannot tell you what to believe. However, it has (after many centuries and a very great deal of debate) set down the core of its faith, in the Creed – from credo, I believe. The Apostles’ Creed is the simplest: it says

 

I believe in God, the Father almighty, 
    maker of heaven and earth; 
And in Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord; 
    who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, 
    born of the Virgin Mary, 
    suffered under Pontius Pilate, 
    was crucified, dead, and buried. 
    He descended into hell. 
    The third day he rose again from the dead.
    He ascended into heaven, 
    and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father almighty. 
    From thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead. 
I believe in the Holy Ghost, 
    the holy catholic Church, 
    the communion of saints, 
    the forgiveness of sins, 
    the resurrection of the body, 
    and the life everlasting. Amen.

 

This, of course, may need some explanation to those who are new to the material, which is why the various churches created catechisms. But simply speaking these are the essentials:

 

1) God exists. God is the Maker of everything and the Father of everyone. He is all-powerful. Jesus of Nazareth is His (only) Son. Together with the Holy Spirit (the old word was Ghost from Germanic Geist, spirit) they form the Trinity: three Persons, one God. (That one is notoriously difficult to get one’s mind around. But never mind.)

2) Jesus was conceived by the Spirit, he was born of (as the child of) Mary, who was virgin at the time. He was a real man, a real human being (not a disguised god): he suffered at a specific time and place in history: in Jerusalem, under the government of Marcus Pontius Pilatus (d. ca. 38AD). He was a real man, and so he died a real death: he was buried, and he went down (according to Jewish belief) to the “hell”, Sheol, the place of the dead. 

But on the third day after his burial, he was resurrected. After a brief return to earth and to his disciples, he went to heaven, where he recovered his place as God’s Son “at the right hand” of the Father. 

At the end of time, he will return, and there will be a final judgement of those then alive and the dead. 

3) The Holy Spirit exists – he is the third Person of the Trinity. He is the one who is always with us to defend us. 

·      The universal (“cath-holica”) ecclesia, church, community of believers, exists for all who believe. It has been entrusted with a communal (not individual) and historic (grown over the ages) knowledge of God, which gives it a certain authority, a certain claim to respect and attention.

·      All those who trust in God are part of one organism, and share their strengths: the living and the dead. (The “communion of saints”.) This means that we can benefit not only from each other’s spiritual experience and wisdom but also from that of those who have gone before and who are now close to God: I, now, can learn from St Theresa of Avila (1515-82), from St John of the Cross (1542-91), and from the late Michael Lonsdale (1931-2020).

·      Sins – offences against love, against God’s love – are grave but can and will be forgiven if that is sincerely asked for. 

·      We shall all die, but that death is not definitive. We too shall be resurrected, and with some sort of “body”, though we do not know where or with what kind of “body”.

·      And finally, if we truly want it, we will live in God’s presence (“Heaven”) where there is no such thing as time (“the life everlasting”).

 

This is not what the Church tells you to believe, but a complex of astounding truths it invites you to discover, to ponder, the pray about (on your mountain top, for instance), and eventually to take on board, with the extraordinary joy of knowing that you are loved: “Ransomed, Healed, Restored, Forgiven”. Every single day.

 

VERY, VERY DIFFICULT

 

I have written before about intercessory prayer. I have also upon occasion mentioned that in no church have I ever heard prayers for acknowledged enemies. These two issues are now coming to a head with the CoViD-19 hospitalisation of U.S. president Donald Trump, and the reactions to it reported in the news media. 

 

            For most people in the U.S.A. and in the Western world, Trump is an acknowledged enemy: someone who lies, cheats, bullies, and has done more than any previous holder of the presidency to degrade that office and to undermine the institutions of American democracy. Moreover, the position of his country in the world increases exponentially the effects of the damage he has inflicted on it. 

 

            So now that he is in hospital with an as yet unknown degree of the virus, the understandable reactions vary from a sense of almost Biblical tragedy – condign punishment specific to one of his many sins – via outright Schadenfreude to heartfelt and furiously-expressed wishes that he may not recover. Any good wishes or even prayers for his recovery seem to be limited strictly to his thick-and-thin supporters.

 

            So what should the reaction be for those of us who hate what he has done to the country, to politics generally, and to the world, but who are also reasonably devout if uncertain Christians (or, indeed, Jews)? He is our acknowledged enemy: can we bring ourselves to pray for him? This is a considerable test of our faith.  

 

            Reading the book by his niece, the psychiatrist Mary Trump, may help us to a greater understanding. The father of Donald and his brother was, by all accounts, a monster who taught his sons that the world was divided into killers and losers. Donald has clearly tried to be a killer, but as he isn’t a real killer (such as, for example, Erdogan in Turkey) he does his damage by flailing. His brother became an alcoholic and died at 42; Donald obviously has compensated for weakness and lack of self-confidence with sociopathic narcissism. There is in this a profound sadness: it shows us a damaged child lashing out at the world. 

 

            Naturally, such a child should not be let near an important function. That he was, through the ill-will of many professional politicians, the violence of their voters, and a seriously dysfunctional electoral system, is a tragedy. But beneath all that, we can perhaps still hear the cries of the damaged child. And we can, and should, perhaps remember that nothing is impossible to God except to deny Love.

 

            We should, then, perhaps pray earnestly for the damaged child Donald Trump, and beg the Lord to use this illness to bring about a change in his way of seeing the world and of living in it. Roger Cohen, the journalist, wrote that his experience with fairly serious CoViD-19 had made a deep impression on him. A loving Father might possibly use the same means to transform a damaged and dysfunctional President. 

MOVING AND PROFOUND

 The French author Daniel-Rops published, in 1952, a little book called "Missa Est" with very fine B&W photographs by Laure Albin-Guillot and a series of brief texts explaining parts of the Mass followed by short meditations on each part. Here is his meditation on the Offering of the bread and wine (my translation):

If you have nothing else to offer the Lord, lay before Him only your works and your travails:

this piece of bread resting there on the paten cost many men many efforts.

If your hand is empty and your mouth painfully dry, offer your wounded heart, all you have suffered:

for the wine to be poured into the chalice, did the grapes not have to be trampled and their skin opened?

If all you have inside you is sin and bitterness, the pain of living and all humanity’s anguish:

let your hands lift up those sad things, for Mercy has received them in advance in His Supper.

And if you do not even have the strength to offer and implore, if all inside you is absence and abandonment:

only accept in silence that Another take care of you on your behalf and accept you, so that the Offering and the Offerer may be one gift. 

"LOVE FULFILS THE LAW" (ROMANS 13:10)

This is the tightest condensation of Yeshua’s teaching yet. Remember, he said “I come not to abolish the Law but to fulfil it”? Well, now we know what that means. In Romans, it is linked to the love of neighbour – which, of course, is what we always gravitate to. But we ought to remember more often that that is the second Great Commandment: the First is that we must love the Lord our God with all our heart, all our soul, all our mind, and all our strength. 

 

            I have written about this before, wondering how we can be commanded to love, when the essence of love is precisely that it cannot be commanded, that it must be free. That, after all, is the reason that however appalling Man gets, he must still be allowed free will, because the God he offends is Love, and Love can do no other than accord freedom. How, then, can we be commanded to love God (or, indeed, our neighbour)?

 

            It occurred to me that perhaps the word “commandment” is, for our understanding, inaccurate. I remember my late father saying that to him the Ten Commandments were not so much laws in the juridical sense as natural laws, such as the Second Law of Thermodynamics, so memorably resumed by Flanders and Swann: “Heat can’t pass from a cooler to a hotter:/You can try if you like but you’d far better notta”. Or another image might be the points made in the User Manual of a complex machine. Is it a “commandment” to say “Do not attempt a gear change without depressing the clutch pedal”? What it means is “If you do X, something will go seriously wrong” (in this case in the harmony of your condition as a created and loved being).

 

            So if we are commanded to love God as described above, what does that mean? First of all, that “love” here probably does not mean a great wave of serotonin, a tsunami of emotion. Still, it does involve all our heart. It helps, perhaps, to remember that we are encouraged to be childlike. A small child does not reason its love for its parent: it jumps into a waiting lap and snuggles. Even a brief counting of blessings will produce a similar effect in us. Hearts do not reason. 

 

            What about all your soul? At first sight, that seems more abstract; and yet, my soul is, almost by definition, nearer to God than my heart is. Here, I think, we go to the core of the Meshiach’s teaching and action. “For God so loved the world/us/me, that he gave his only-begotten son” etc. “Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven.” If we can really take this on board, how can we not love the Father who has given us such a gift?

 

            Now for all your mind. For many people, the mind is the seat of unbelief: how can you go on believing if you use your adult, aware, reasoning mind? Look at the Universe (on the one hand); look at Auschwitz (on the other): believe? you must be joking. And yet we are told to love God with all our mind. I think that this is where the User Manual comes in. If you love God with everything but your mind, either your faith is weak and vulnerable or you have abdicated your adult human judgement. The world, the universe, life, will be wholly without meaning. Yet, as Joseph Ratzinger has so often pointed out, if you love God with all your mind, everything falls into place, and even reason becomes both more rational and more reasonable. 

 

            Finally, all your strength. What strength? we sometimes ask. We feel puny, and weak, and tired, and worn out. Daily living is bad enough, and takes almost all of our strength: do we have any left for loving God? Well, again the User Manual chips in. If you put all your strength into loving God (in all the ways mentioned above), to your absolute surprise you find that you have more strength; that loving God produces an excess, an overplus of strength that allows you to fulfil all the other things that await you as well, and quite possibly better. 

 

           And as a consequence, fulfilling this first commandment itself helps you, gives you the discernment and the strength, needed for the second one. Which is why it’s the First. Q.E.D. 

Image: restored Torah scroll guaranteed kosher by a modern scribe, for sale on Amazon at $28,000

NOT A PARABLE

The present pandemic has taught us some things about viruses, and about infection, that are perhaps not without pertinence to the life of the soul. It gives us, not so much a parable as a controlling metaphor of great power. 

            Let us imagine (this is how great metaphors begin) that humanity suffers from a slow but certain viral pandemic. We nowadays but rarely believe that it began with one man; and yet we have learnt that a whole planet can be halted in its activities because one man ate an undercooked and dubious pangolin. The pandemic of our metaphor we will call SIN. And if we think we know all about it, we are as wrong as we were with the coronavirus. Its varieties; its mutations; its rate and direction of spread; the pattern of its victims; about all these, if we consider it in this new manner and context, we will have learnt a vast new humility. But since this pandemic has been with us for a very long time and is currently in its nth wave, there are things we know about its behaviour and about ways to combat it.

            Of its earliest attacks we know very little, because few notes were kept, and it is possible that a kind of rough herd immunity was attained. There was as yet no treatment, and of course no vaccine; but by trial and error a sort of method was produced that made it possible to avoid or to contain infection. If you acted in certain ways, by yourself or toward others; if you more or less avoided certain types of behaviour; if your group or clan or tribe abstained from some doings; you, or most of you, would probably escape infection.

            Gradually, though, the virus became both more virulent and more specific, and concentrated its spread on one dozen tribes, who formed one people, Israel. But as the crisis increased, research also became more focused, and at one point a treatment was discovered. The treatment was called TRH (LAW in English) and was quickly made available throughout the infection area. As often happens, those making it available considered it to have complete efficacy – as long as it was made mandatory. And so it was. 

            Like all such treatments, it was not perfect. Its main failing was that it was complex and demanding: its efficacy depended on an intricate pattern of actions and avoidances that took little notice of human fallibility and even, on occasion, produced a problematic side-effect known as Pride. But it was a treatment; nobody had a better one; and it was on the whole seen to work. How much at its best it was appreciated can be seen from a famous text that was written in its honour, which is still extant under the title Psalm 119. 

            For a long time, then, that was the situation. The virus continued to circulate; the treatment was applied with varying degrees of strictness and success. The various bodies of Doctors did what they could to refine and popularise the treatment. However, there were always those who were unsatisfied, who thought the authorities were too lax and who argued stridently for stricter application and even for modification of the theoretical base (usually in the direction of something simpler but more profoundly invasive). These last were known as Prophets and, as usual, got most of the publicity while often unsuccessful in achieving their specific aims. 

            And then came the huge breakthrough. At an unlooked-for moment, from an absolutely unexpected corner, a provincial backwater, there appeared a vaccine. Not a treatment: a vaccine. Its coming had been predicted, but with no certainty whatever as to its nature, time or place; people knew what its name was – Meshiach – but nobody knew for sure if, or how, it would work. And when it arrived it surprised everybody. Most – not all – of the treatment specialists didn’t like it: it seemed too simple. The public, however, went for it in a big way. In part, this was because its basics were so simple. Unlike TRH, it involved just one complete immersion and a simple series of formulas and concentrations. (The complete theory and practice was not fully understood till later, but essentially consisted of an absolute love on one side that depended for its efficacy on an absolute transfer of trust and power on the other. The synthesis, the union, of those two elements created a vaccine that at its best blocked the virus completely.) Once one had gone through that, the vaccine began working and could be stimulated and perfected with relative simplicity by the patients themselves. 

            Meshiach was extraordinary. Not only did it attract crowds from the start, it began to spread beyond the borders and was seen, surprisingly, to block similar viruses in other places as well. Mind you, the Establishment of treatment specialists felt threatened by it and opposed it tooth and nail; and a number of people who felt either blithely unthreatened or too sophisticated and/or too suspicious for the necessary transfer of trust formed, then as since, a hard core of incurable anti-vaccinators. And when the Establishment managed to get the original and sole deployer (the son of the creator) of the vaccine assassinated, it seemed that the virus was henceforth and forever out of control. 

            However, it soon appeared that both the vaccine and its originator were indestructible. Both came back, and now in a form that could no longer be suppressed. Moreover, a Standing Meshiach Committee for virus control had been created that had been given the originator’s licence to dispense and apply it everywhere. 

            And since then? you may ask. Since then the virus has not, alas, been suppressed entirely, and in recent centuries the anti-vaccinators have, like many of their anti-reasonable kind, been in the ascendant. But they have not been able to suppress the vaccine, and it remains available just about everywhere, though not, in some hideous and war-torn lands, always as easily as it should be. Like the coronavirus, the SIN-virus is spread by the deniers, the self-righteous, the irresponsible, and the morally foolish. But the Standing Meshiach Committee is still active worldwide, and neither the Xi nor the Trump has been able to stop it. 

P.S. The image is of course not a virus, but a praying mantis looking unusually diabolic. Added as a reminder that the SIN virus, we are told, did not happen by accident. 

 

HOPE AND STRENGTH?

“God is our hope and strength : a very present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46)

If one has faith, this is stirring; and instinctively one feels it’s true. But it it? And if so, how? 

First of all, the Psalm says that God is our, not my, hope and strength. As always, the original referent is the people of Israel; as always, for a Christian, the Psalms’ people of Israel is now the Church. 

As members of the Church, then, we can say that God is our hope. Between faith and charity; between our belief in the Resurrection and our active love for our neighbour, there is hope. Hope is symbolised by an anchor: it is what prevents us from drifting on to a lee shore. Hope is what permits us not to give up. Hope is what sustains us when we see the decline of Christendom, when we are depressed by the oceans of complete indifference to religion around our battered fleet. And our hope is – God. Is it our hope that He will, magically, act? that he will come flying into history on the wings of a divine wind and take over? We may daydream of such a dénouement, but we are pretty sure it will not happen. If our hope is God, it is perhaps rather that He will give us the strength and the stamina to carry on regardless; that He will continue to be the well of life, where we can go to draw the living water of renewed faith and energy.

As members of the Church, again, we can say that God is our strength. He is our strength, the strength of the Church: and the Church, in turn, is the strength of its members. There are times when our belief in this is sorely tested: when the Church, through its leaders, singularly fails to cope with the travails of modern life; when the Church, through some its visible groups or individuals, shows itself foolish or sinful or both. And yet – anyone who has tried to maintain an active and lively faith for a long time on his own knows how much the strength needed for that surpasses his little private store of resources. Within the Church, through the liturgy, through the Eucharist, but also through the sharing of thought and feeling in both theology and devotion – within the Church there is strength in abundance, available to all. 

A help in trouble. That is where it comes to the nub. Trouble is always with us, and may emerge from any shadow at any moment: for the community and/or for the individual. In what way is God our help in trouble? First, as hope: it is our hope in God that gives us strength and stamina. That hope is what is expressed in prayer. When we beg and beseech, we do so hoping. Because we know that, if we do not ask for fishhooks but for the force that will allow us to do His will whatever befalls, He will not let us down. 

Second, as strength. In trouble, God is our strength. Our strength. If we face trouble as a body, as members of the Church, as the Church, we will have the strength needed to survive and overcome trouble. This means unity. This means solidarity: not (only) in the now usual sense of helping the poor, but of knowing how to bury our differences and metaphorically link arms, watch each other’s back, and deal with it, whatever it is. And if God is our strength, that means that we receive it through prayer.

Finally, God is a very present help. Present, here; present, now. Not absent, not future. I often find it hard to remember, to realise, that God is with me here and now. As air is. As radio waves are. As light is. So, in trouble, prayer does not have to be elaborately organised and anticipated. It can be hurried, panted, cried, whispered; and if there are more of us, physically, it can be remembered and recited, or improvised, together. 

If I am in trouble, let me remember that I am not alone, but that I am a member of a body, the Church, the new people of Israel. And let me remember that as such, I have at all times the ear of our heavenly Father, Almighty and everlasting God. Through – per, by means of, by way of, through the mediation of -- Jesus Christ our Lord.