I would not claim I pray a lot. In fact, I find prayer rather difficult. Not that I don’t pray – it’s more that I wrestle with prayer, and wrestle in my prayers.
I wrestle with myself. And with God. I don’t wrestle with the ‘why’ question very much (as in ‘why did that happen?’), but on occasion I do. I do wrestle with the ‘how’ question (as in: ‘how should I be?’). And I wrestle with what I can and should pray – and what I can’t or shouldn’t pray…
I take prayer seriously. I don’t say that to sound spiritual, it’s just that I realize that I do. The premier way we humans connect to God is through prayer. In prayer, we bring ourselves and our lives before him. We ask for his intervention. That’s quite something: to ask the creator of the universe to intervene in our lives and world.
So prayer fascinates me. I have seen all kind of prayer-styles in my life: from silent to loud, from simple to complex, from approaching God as awesome distant deity to approaching God as lover. Some prayers have made me cry, while others have made me laugh. Some prayers totally express my heart, while other prayers make me utterly uncomfortable. I remember joining a prayer meeting in one of the Serve The City projects in an Antillean church. The lady who led prayed for 10 minutes. She started quietly and became increasingly louder, her pitch getting higher and higher, while she got more and more wrapped up in her prayer. her pitch increased until it was somewhere between a scream and a squeek. And then, all of a sudden it was over and she quieted down. My friends and I looked at each other and could barely keep ourselves from laughing. “It was like she achieved an orgasm through prayer,” said one of them, which of course was a very disrespectful thing to say – but I had already had the same thought. Prayer, it would seem, is also culturally defined.
One thing that has been interesting me a lot lately is how artists pray through their art. A writer can write his prayer. Obviously songwriters and singers can sing their prayers. Poets can write their prayers. I have seen dancers dance a prayer. I wrote a poem about photography that was a prayer on this blog back in December.
But how does a photographer photograph his prayer? Not that I fancy myself much of an artist, but I aspire to be one. Can one make a photograph that expresses a prayer - perhaps more meaningful, and more whole, than words ever could?
Last Saturday I set out with that question in mind. We are presently on holiday in Aix-en-Provence, which is a beautiful area – and certainly very picturesque. What is a photographer to photograph as his prayer? Another church on a hill? A sunset? A cross in some landscape?
I spent the afternoon in the centre of Aix photographing people. Aix has such an amazing variety of people and of course the French are an amazing bunch of people: beautiful women, tired men, old people, tourists, shoppers, homeless folk… (Click here for some of the images I shot). I had a great time ...
... but I did not find the image that expressed my prayer. If anything, being there in the centre of Aix made me feel more depressed and more uncertain. I love these European people: their joys, sorrow, happiness, emptiness and beauty gets to me – and it gets me that God seems to be the last thing on their mind.
I left Aix after fours hours of photography and drove to the home where we are staying. I had a little time left before Sophie expected me home, so I drove on to the next village (our new car drives really nice!). And that’s when I saw the image that expresses my prayer. I was almost going too fast and missed it, but I caught it from the corner of my eye. I knew immediately: that's the image I am looking for.
It is the image at the top of this article. It's a photo of a simple water-fountain, like you have them all over France. My prayer is that I become like that water fountain, bubbling up living water, that spills over all its sides, that flows into the world around.
Not that I am that fountain. At least, I don’t feel like it. Jesus’ promise to the woman at the well in John 4 was that ‘streams of living water would flow from within you.’ I have wrestled with that promise over and over and over. Why does it often seem like that is not happening? What does one need to do to make that a reality? It’s the ‘how’ question I mentioned before: how do I need to ‘be’ for that living water to flow out?
I don’t know. But if art helps me to make my request known to heaven more vehemently and emphatically, as well as more beautifully and more expressive, than let the above image be my prayer.
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