The task of prayer is daunting. You sit down, wait for your mind to still . . . and nothing. Alright, you guess God wants you to make the first move. You search desperately for an opening line, for something that will set just the right tone and—please God—hold the attention of your divine audience. Few want their prayer to come across as “shallow,” as if raising one’s mind and heart to God might be measured on its literary merit or rarefied vocabulary. But the value of prayer is not in its depth. Consider the power of a little water. Better yet, watch this video of the Okavango Delta, in which just a little bit of rain a thousand miles away transforms a barren wasteland into a source of life.
Averaging just three feet deep, these shallows appear superficial. A lifeless stretch of desert becomes the gathering point for hundreds of thousands of animals. Rain drives up insects that then feed birds and catfish. Buffalo, wildebeest, and elephants travel thousands of miles in search of something to drink. Predators in turn gather in vast numbers, drawn by this movable feast. In a few days, a once lifeless stretch of desert supports an entire ecosystem (just add water).
Nature makes a great metaphor but a lousy argument. The Okavango shows us how shallow waters can sustain deep life, but what of the human soul?
We tend to assume that changes in life, like changes in the landscape, require a great deluge.
It takes a desert dweller to appreciate the power of a little rain. In Saint John Cassian’s tenth conference, two monks seek the secret of life-giving prayer, and the desert father Abba Isaac offers them some underwhelming advice, founding prayer upon a single line:
O God, come to my assistance. O Lord, make haste to help me (Ps 70).
The Abba claims that these few words are enough to reshape your soul. By his estimation, the deceptively simple prayer contains the water of the spiritual life—everything you need for a flourishing oasis.
But what is the logic here? How can one line—so shallow, so simple, so prosaic—bring new life to a barren soul? The life of the soul is much like the desert: streams will only pool up at the lowest point. Your mind goes to the point of focus. Put differently, where your attention is, there shall your heart be. A thousand words on the grandeur of God are fruitful for as long as you and I can think of them. Yet a few shallow words on his simple abiding presence, those can capture our attention every moment of every day.
Now, focus on the meaning of the words. This shallow desert prayer, with words borrowed from the Psalms, redirects the soul to the very source of the spiritual life. The goal here isn’t to heap up new images and insights to keep us engaged (or entertained). The purpose of prayer is union with God. To rest in a simple awareness of his presence. Our God is simple, so simple that we can miss him. Our God, everywhere present but nowhere seen, is already speaking in the very desire to pray. Prayer begins and ends in him.
“What poverty can be greater,” asks Abba Isaac, “than that of one who, knowing that he has no defense and no strength of his own, asks for daily help from another’s bounty?” The earth does not water itself; it need only be open to the rain. The Okavango becomes a wellspring of life precisely because it is flat and low, allowing seasonal rains to flow and pool from a thousand miles away. If you want to begin to pray, let your soul be shallow—flat and wide and simple.
When the mind wanders elsewhere—O God, come to my assistance. A sudden glint of self-assurance or self-doubt—O Lord, make haste to help me. For the shallow soul, God’s power and presence become enough. Simple words transform your heart as all of your attention flocks to its source—like birds and buffalo to pure water.
But we have one final problem to address. The Okavango’s streams are seasonal, while we long for God’s presence to be constant. But we can pull one more thread on our metaphor. Long after the surface rain recedes, the water of the Delta remains deep in the roots of lush trees, becoming food and shade for desert creatures. As you repeat the Psalmist’s words day after day, moment after moment, you too dig deep roots. Prayer becomes constant, even in the barren desert or beside shallow streams.
✠
Image: Aerial view of the Okavango Delta by Wynand Uys on Unsplash
