Pray-er's/Runner's/Writer's Block

National Cathedral, Washington DC

"... are you asleep? Could you not keep watch for one hour? Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak."

– Mark 14: 37-38

This line from the Passion narrative in Mark's Gospel– chanted in parts at the Palm Sunday liturgy I attended– resonated deeply in my hearing. Gently holding a palm frond, listening to a tenor's voice intone these words of Jesus, I heard them expressing many emotions on his part: surprise, disappointment, perhaps even sympathy. So often this Lent, I've felt quite close to the disciples in the garden, visiting this scene often in my contemplative prayer. Professing eagerness to follow and accompany Jesus, the rapid withering of their resolve seems attributable to more than mere physical fatigue. Undoubtedly, their faith was gravely shaken as their miracle-working, wisdom-proclaiming, love-embodying teacher and friend asserted his imminent death, surrendered to violent captivity, and perished with little if any explicitly visible trace of his divine power. If I am like them, I too would be deeply troubled by the unprecedented predictions they heard, disillusioned by the events that they witnessed. If they were like me, the energy drawn into all the attendant anxiety and worry– whether consciously or unconsciously– exacts a heavy toll on physical vigor, mental crispness, and spiritual stability.

As I move into my final two weeks of training for the 2012 Boston Marathon, I'm in the heart of my tapering period, during which I deliberately reduce my mileage and slow my pace to allow my body to recover from the stresses of an arduous running schedule that covers nearly 500 miles in 15 weeks. Tapering has been described as gently and firmly coiling a spring, in advance of releasing it in a well-crafted surge of strength and energy on race day. As I settle into this year's taper, I feel with delight the increasing accumulation of some extra energy, liberated from the demands of miles and seconds that I'm temporarily relinquishing. I've learned to count on that energy around mile 23 of the Boston course– surrounded by cheering crowds on Beacon Street yet plunged deeply into the grueling weariness of legs nearly spent from almost three hours of running– to break through the metaphorical wall often encountered in a marathon's closing miles. If that reserve is lacking, or if I fail to draw upon it, collapse and agony are almost inevitable.

If the disciples weren't so worried, if their faith were greater, perhaps they would have stayed awake with Jesus during his fitful prayer in Gethsemane. I can say the same about my own discipline of prayer, which has been plagued throughout this Lent by fatigue-inducing anxiety, and a certain lack of focus attributable to a faith that's less grounded than I would like. If their confidence were firmer, perhaps they would have spoken with greater honesty about their own weakness, rather than being humbled by the emptiness of their proud assertions of fidelity and perseverance earlier in the course of events that bring each Gospel to its climax. I can say the same about my own efforts at reflection and writing, whether for broad expression or personal examination– too many good ideas have recently gone unexplored, kept from dialogue, ink, and page by a reticence masked by misguided assumptions about their lack of appeal or ability to make a contribution to any exchange.

This isn't how I expected, or desired, to approach Holy Week... feeling blocked in areas of my life where I genuinely desire greater vitality yet shrink from the humbling, vulnerable, and graced route to achieving such fruitfulness. In my training, paradoxically, the present moment calls for the very kind of holding back that has become so disillusioning in my prayer, my writing, and my friendships. I eagerly anticipate opening a biomechanical floodgate on Patriots' Day; I longingly await the day (or the hour) when the obstacles in my inner life are cleared away.