Matthew
joespencer
Robert C.
robf
BrianJ
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Karl D.
KarenWending our way as well as winding up with the wounded Word: prayer in the classroom
Posted by joespencer on January 30, 2007
You’ll all forgive the fun I had writing that title, but it does serve a purpose: the ideas I’d like to discuss in this thread are heavily influenced by an article by Jean-Louis Chretien, “The Wounded Word: The Phenomenology of Prayer” in Phenomenology and the “Theological Turn”. In fact, let me begin with his last paragraph:
“This act of a word wounded by the radical alterity of him to whom it speaks is pure address. It does not speak in order to teach something to someone, even if it always says something about ourselves and the world. It confides to the other what the other knows, and asks of him what he knows we need. Not even for a single moment is the word separate from the ordeal; it is undergone by and through itself, both by what it says and by what it does not succeed in saying and by him to whom it speaks. It itself learns from this ordeal, and this is why this wound makes it stronger, all the stronger as it will not have sought to heal it.”
I think Chretien beautifully articulates here a couple of major insights into the nature of prayer. The sentence here that most strikes me: “Not even for a single moment is the word [prayer, but with all the scriptural/theological weight of the "Word"] separate from the ordeal; it is undergone by and through itself, both by what it says and by what it does not succeed in saying and by him to whom it speaks.” In simpler language perhaps: prayer is always an experience, an event, something to be “gone through,” a saying rather than a sayed (a said). Chretien calls this event an “ordeal,” literally an event aimed at proving the guilt or innocence of an accused (he might have said judgment, or even temptation): the event of prayer is a bodily self-presentation before God (unless we somehow don’t really mean to address Him directly in prayer, whatever prayer would thus mean) that anticipates the coming judgment, the coming Judgment. I assume that this is what Hebrews 4:16 is suggesting: “Let us therefore come boldy unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.” We seek mercy and grace at that throne precisely because we find ourselves “in time of need,” more specifically, because we have been accused. In the grace of this “great high priest, that is passed into the heavens, Jesus the Son of God” (verse 14), we hope to survive this ordeal of judgment before “the throne.”
If Chretien is right, every prayer is, by nature, typological: every prayer is spoken as a shadow or a type of our pleading (in the name of the Son) before the throne of Judgment (whereon sits the Father). In fact, it has to be typological: we become types of the antitypical Son (we are sons and daughters of the Father through His Only Begotten Son), because, if we don’t, then we are “bastards, and not sons” (Hebrews 12:8) and so without promise of the Father. In short, we ourselves must–according to the existential reality of the event of prayer–become types of Christ, the Son, must become typologically bound up within the Son (isn’t this ultimately the thrust of Isaiah 22, and its echo of Ex 21?) and so typologically bound to the Father.
But what of the classroom? Why do we begin and end class with an ordeal? with a judgment event? with the existential reality of facing the Father in the name of the Son? And what does it mean that a lesson (ostensibly aimed at teaching “something to someone”) is bounded about–even delimited–by two events that do not, even for an instant, pretend “to teach something to someone”? How does this alter the nature of a lesson? Does it in any way suggest that a lesson itself is not (or should not be) ultimately aimed at teaching “something to someone”? In greater detail: how does the “opening” ordeal alter the lesson that follows? and how does the “closing” ordeal retroactively affect the lesson that precedes it? How ought we to pray before or after a lesson? And how ought we to teach after and before a prayer?
If the “application” of Chretien’s insights to the classroom is shifted to another level, though, it might well articulate a response to some of the difficult questions raised in the “application” discussion (the “can of worms” thread). For example, how might the classroom experience (as a kind of prayer) be an ordeal? If the lesson might be a kind of prayer in itself, then would it not be, in itself, a type? And what would a lesson that is itself a type be like? In a lesson, who stands before the Father, and who is the Son? Does the lesson-as-prayer suggest that “reality” is actually the classroom and not the six days and twenty-three hours between one Sunday School lesson and the next? And on and on.
brianj said
Joe: you’ve called attention to a flaw of mine. I pay close attention to the opening prayer—in fact, I almost always comment on something the person said in the prayer as I begin my lesson. But I don’t really pay attention to the closing prayer. I think I sort of tune out once I’m “offstage.” I’ll have to work on that, and my first thought is to focus on what you imply with your question: “And how ought we to teach…before a prayer?” Thanks!
And thanks for the thoughts on Hebrews.
Robert C. said
(This comment at the wiki should help explain Joe’s otherwise cryptic reference to Isa 22 and Ex 21….)
The week as a lesson between two Sabbath prayers–intresting idea.
I have a hard time grasping what prayer as an ordeal really entails. I remember on my mission thinking of prayer as analogous to reporting to, say, a district leader. That’s one way to think about judgment isn’t it? We give an account of who we are, what we’ve done, who we’ve become etc. Is this a good way to think about prayer? (In some ways I think yes, but in many ways no though I can’t quite put my finger on the reasons for no….)
Applied to the classroom, are the scriptures themselves typologically the Father and everyone in the class sons? Is the one speaking (usually the teacher) the Father? Is the teacher the Father even when the students are speaking? I’m not sure how to think about this productively.
Building on the idea of the week as a class between two Sabbaths, I think this has interesting parallels to the High Priest entering and then exiting the temple recurrently. In fact, I think this may be a way to read the puzzling verse in John 3:13 for this week’s SS lesson: “No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man.” Is this playing on the reversal of the ascending/descending pattern that we go through in visiting the temple? The pattern for us, as set for us by, say, Moses or Isaiah, is to ascend from earth to the temple mount, and then descend again to the earth spiritually anew. But Christ, to save us, descends from heaven to earth and then ascends again in the resurrection (and on the cross per v. 14)?
John said
Yikes. In many cases, at least in my experience, the lesson itself is the ordeal and the prayer a welcome respite. In fact, prayer as ordeal should be avoided, IMHO.
I use this definition with tongue firmly in cheek, BTW. Is this how you envision your “judgment event?”
When was the last time a personal prayer turned into an ordeal? Believe me when I say I’ve had my share of prayerful ordeals! When I approach the Lord and He chastens me, I know it. When He asks me to do something that I have been avoiding, I know it. I know when I need to repent and humble myself; I have spent hours on my knees seeking for forgiveness and guidance. The distinction is obvious, the ordeal unavoidable, and the prayer always intense and very personal.
Prayer in the classroom doesn’t even come close.
I’ve only heard one person actually ask the Lord to “forgive us our sins” during an opening prayer at church–the stake patriarch. I took note; he knew who it was to whom he spoke. When speaking to God on behalf of a room full of people, follow your heart. Do not wrestle with God unnecessarily in that moment, but offer him the full respect he deserves. Thank him profusely, and ask him for appropriate blessings.
By all means, follow the promptings of the Spirit as much as possible when you pray in meetings! What a great opportunity to experience that “faint and tiny leading” that fills your mouth with words as you open it to pray, and brings to your mind thoughts of profound understanding and deep thanksgiving.
Praying openly in a meeting of like-minded people is such a great blessing. Just think how different the experience would be if you were doing it on a public street corner, or in a crowded room of mocking non-believers. That would be a very different kind of ordeal, indeed!
Joe Spencer said
I’m beginning to realize how cryptic this post might have been.
Brian #1: I’ve found myself doing much the same thing. I pay very close attention to opening prayers but far less to closing prayers. At least when I teach adults. When I teach youth, there tends to be so much more of the Spirit present that I listen carefully to how they respond to that Spirit when they pray at the end of class (besides the fact that we don’t have our own opening prayer in priests quorum after “priesthood opening exercises.” Perhaps I ought to suggest that we change that.
Robert #2: I’ll respond about ordeal below in my response to John. The text might become typologically the Father (it is certainly what we bow to in class), but I don’t know that I want to be so strict about drawing equivalences. I think the point is that the classroom is transformed in the typological moment: rather than so many doctors, lawyers, and the rest of us talking about whether or not one should trust McConkie’s Mormon Doctrine, the classroom becomes the Son (or so many sons and daughters) pleading before the Father as the Spirit binds them together (though we remain, all the while, so many doctors, lawyers, and the rest of us talking about whether or not one should trust McConkie’s Mormon Doctrine). As to your other paragraph, I like what you say, but I think you misread me (I didn’t mean to suggest that the week was a lesson, but that the week was the unreality that stretches between the reality of the lessons.
John #3: Your comments seem to alternate between agreeing on my ordeal terminology and disagreeing with it. I’m not sure I know what you were trying to say exactly. But I do mean ordeal in the literal sense, though I’m thinking of it more existentially perhaps. My point is ultimately to say that if prayer generally is an ordeal (an anticipation of the judgment), then it ought to be so in class. The meaning of that ordeal is complex, as your comments make quite clear: when you pray in class, you don’t pray about your struggling kid, but about the situation there. But I don’t think the prayer anticipates the judgment any less for its collective nature there: rather, it anticipates the judgment of the community, of the classroom, of the moment where the whole class will be called upon to answer for the time they had to improve there (perhaps…). Ordeal and judgment: praising, pleading, even petitioning, and so being proven.
John said
I’m saying prayer in a classroom setting should *not* be a foretaste of judgment, for the Judgment will be a private and *not* a public event. Unless I was speaking for the class as a whole, I should really focus on the blessings of the Gospel and the Spirit in that moment, and not get too wrapped up into thinking that the prayer is an ordeal, lest I alienate those that have to sit through the throes of agony and pleading to which I would otherwise subject them.
Don’t get me wrong. It is most certainly a fearful thing to fall into the hands of a living God, and I would not recommend taking any prayer lightly. However, lighten UP. Please.
I think you are juxtaposing two ideas for the sake of discussion. I feel to disagree with you.
If everyone in that classroom ever has the good fortune to meet around the throne of God, the prayers we would collectively offer would be overflowing with tears of heart-felt gratitude. If the prayer in the classroom foreshadows anything, please let it be a shadow of that moment.
Joe Spencer said
Ah, okay. Now I’m following you better. And I think I’m coming across far too negatively. The problem is probably a private understanding of the word “judgment.” I don’t understand “judgment” to be a bad, horrible, awful event. I think of the righteous gathered around the throne offering songs and praise to be in the crisis of judgment just as the rebellious soul that demands before the throne to be subjected only to his/her own law is in the crisis of judgment. Even as the angels praise, there will be accusers (that is what “satan” means), but they will be proven in their praise of the grace that has saved them, and I believe that will be their judgment. The ordeal proves the innocent innocent, even as it proves the guilty guilty.
So to pray in the classroom ought to be done exactly as you describe, in my opinion: it ought to be the prayer of the angels gathered about the throne above (a prayer raised by, interestingly enough, the sons of God according to the Lord speaking to Job). The devil, encircled with his satanic angels, will still accuse, but we can weather that storm of accusation in the grace of Christ.
I hope that clarifies my own position, and that I’m not suggesting that we ought to be seeking suffering in that prayer. We seek, rather, a name at the hand of God.