"Who Is This God?"

Who is Christ? And who is the God working and speaking in him? What is this God, who can be at once fully present in Jesus, present in those who respond to the divinity in Christ, and who at the same time is known to be beyond all understanding? What is the divine mystery unfolding around us and within us at every moment? Why do some find God in Christ, and others find only a fraud, or a “mere man”? Questions such as these are provoked by nearly every passage in the New Testament, as well as by our daily life experiences. One must be spiritually quite dull not to have such questions stirred up as one hears the Gospel read at Mass, sits down to read the Scriptures, or wonders about the Stranger who is always breaking into consciousness: “Who are you, LORD?” In the words of the Apostle, “If you think you know, you do not know as you ought to know.” 

To those who were spiritually dull, resisting or simply inattentive to the actions of God in and around them, St. Luke presents Jesus telling three parables of the lost. Taken literally, the stories are sufficiently absurd as to provoke wonder in those who are still able to be curious and ask questions. Why would a shepherd leave ninety-nine sheep in the desert to go in search of one stray? It would be foolish to do such things—to risk the safety of so many sheep for one lost stray. Is it possible that Jesus is not actually talking about human shepherds, or about a woman searching for a lost coin, or about a father with two spiritually dull boys? What is he talking about? Jesus is allowing the unknown God he calls “my Father” to work on the minds of his hearers through seemingly absurd stories. And the first divine action is to break through dullness by provoking wonder and questioning. The third story, known as the “prodigal son,” demonstrates the refusal of Jesus’ own contemporaries to recognize divine presence in him. Those who “believe in God,” who are the Chosen People, are blind to the reality of God in their midst. Jesus does not fit into their religious categories—nor into ours. The older son in the story represents those who resent God’s mercy and grace given to others. Jesus is verbally confronting his self-important hearers, who are disgusted at seeing Jesus forgive known sinners, and show favor to the “unwashed masses.” They are refusing to renounce their own thoughts and feelings and enter into the joy of God’s inexplicable action in Christ. 

Many of us Christians are as spiritually insensitive and dull as were the Jewish scholars and righteous folks to whom Jesus spoke these parables. Thinking ourselves Christians, or instructed in the gospel through the Church, all too often we become fools—human beings who have lost our openness to the divine mystery. Told too many answers, we forgot our role to be seekers, questioners. At times we may realize that we have received God’s mercy and forgiveness, but we do not realize how we resist the actions of God, and refuse to “enter into the joy of the LORD.” We do not see how we Christians are the like the older son in Christ’s parable, who resent it when someone else receives divine mercy, treated as a returned child. We show ourselves to have the hardened and resentful attitude of the older son by failing to appreciate God’s mercy on the Chosen People, on unbelievers, on every being in this mysterious cosmos. To us Jesus says, “Refusing to enter in God’s presence yourselves, you prevented others from entering.” 

Jesus taught us no doctrine of God or of Christ.The New Testament documents, beginning with the letters of the Apostle Paul and the Gospels, present the truth of God through actions, images, stories, and puzzling words. To one longing for God, still seeking “the face of God,” the account of the merciful father in Jesus’ parable brings joy and hope. As you may have noticed, the father in the story of the prodigal son has a remarkable resemblance to Jesus himself. He cannot be confined by religious practices or doctrinal formulations. He is alive, waiting for our response, even running out to meet those who seek to turn back to him. Christ himself is “the exact image of the unseen God,” because “in him dwells all the fullness of God.” The spiritually dull and blind did not only fail to respond to God in Christ; they had the brutal Romans crucify him.

"Son Of Man, Can These Bones Live?"

Recently at a week-day Mass we were privileged to hear the living word of God spoken through the priest-prophet Ezekiel. With the Chosen People in captivity in Babylon (c 580 BC), in present-day Iraq,many were dispirited, feeling abandoned by Yahweh-God. When the captivity began, the Jews believed that their God dwelled far away in Jerusalem, “on the holy mountain.” Ezekiel is moved by God, present in the depths of his soul in Babylon, to revive the spirits of his people through the power of the Spirit and the creative word of God. Gifted with a vivid imagination, Ezekiel accomplished his task.

In the justly famous vision of the valley of dry bones (Ezekiel ch 37), God brings to the mind of his prophet Ezekiel the complaint of his people experiencing the absence of God: “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.” In his spirit-moved imagination, Ezekiel sees the valley filled with bones. But by his faith, he knows well that the listless, depressed spirits of his people, symbolized by the dry bones, present no real obstacle to the all-creative, all-curative God. In vision Ezekiel sees the bones coming to life, bone joining bone; and prompted by the divine Spirit, Ezekiel calls on the wind to in-spirit or in-breathe the dry bones, bringing them back to life. Such is the word of God for his Chosen People, even in captivity in a foreign land: “Prophesy, Son of man, prophesy, and say, `I will cause breath [ruach] to enter you, and you shall live…I will put my Spirit [ruach] in you, and I will place you on your own soil; then you shall know that I, the LORD [YHWH], have spoken and I will act,’ says the LORD” (Ezekiel 37). Yahweh-God does not abandon his people; even in captivity, the God of all the earth is present and reviving spirits, and he will return His people to Judah and Jerusalem. 

Such is the creative power of the living God. In symbolism and in meaning, Ezekiel’s vision of dry bones is remarkably similar to the masterful creation story of Genesis 1, which scholars claim one or several priests composed probably shortly after the preaching of the prophet Ezekiel, about 500 years before Christ. In both Ezekiel and in Genesis 1, God creates order and life by two powers at work: his word and his Spirit; where there had been disorder and waste, God creates or restores order and life. In the great creation story of Genesis 1, we see an image, not of dry bones, but of the earth itself being “waste and void.” And God again takes life-giving mastery over the emptiness. God’s Spirit (ruach) is pictured as brooding over the face of the deep, over the stormy sea. And by His word and Spirit, God creates, forms, and orders the world, filling it with life and goodness. Literally from the Hebrew: “And God said, `Light! Be!’ and light became.” (Gen 1). 

“Son of man, can these bones live?” His prophet responds: “You know, LORD.” Our task is to receive into the depths of our hearts and minds the all-good, creative Word of God, spoken here and now, bringing order out of our internal chaos, peace into troubled hearts, wisdom into those who are small enough to allow God to enter in. Without responding to the creative Word with trusting faith, our spirits, too, become listless, lifeless, confused, sorrowing. But as we listen, and open up, the creative, restorative divine Spirit flows in, penetrating even the depths of our souls, however waste and void they had been. Dry bones or a hardened, closed heart are no obstacle to God. Indeed, as “mere flesh and blood,” we all carry that “waste and void” within ourselves, in our egos, in our essential nothingness. But God acts for us through his Word: “I will cause Spirit to enter you, and you shall live,” says the LORD, the Creator. One hears God’s word with faith, considers the word in his mind, and shares in the Spirit, that is, the enlivening Presence of God. 

From another prophet speaking God’s word shortly after Ezekiel—from Zechariah—we hear this moving claim: “Not by power or by the sword, but by my Spirit, says the LORD.” Apart from God’s Spirit in man, God’s creative and restorative Presence, all is waste and void—in us, power-driven ego. But all that is human can be enlivened, energized, renewed in the man or woman who hears the word, and humbly receives with joy the in-breathing Spirit of God. And then, indeed, “these bones can live.”

On Having Multiple Vocations Or Callings

One of the reasons given to me for not retiring next summer came from a parishioner who said to me:  “You cannot retire.  You are a priest.  That is your vocation.  You keep doing it until the end, until you drop.”  

 

Well, in fact, I have a number of vocations, and in retiring from active duty as a parish priest, I will have more time to dedicate to other vocations, and especially to the search for God.

Some of my vocations or callings:

—As a being-thing (Parmenides)

—As a living being (Genesis 2)

—As a creature of the Creator (Genesis 1)

—As a human being, or being in a human way (Socrates-Plato-Aristotle)

—As a male of the species (Nature)

—As a Christian (Christ Jesus and the Apostle Paul)

—As a Catholic (Christ in the community of the faithful)

—As a student of political philosophy (Plato, Aristotle, … Voegelin)

—As one drawn to seek God (Prophets of Israel, Jesus, St. Augustine, St. Anselm…)

—As a Benedictine monk of St. Anselm’s (St. Benedict and his Rule)

—As a Catholic priest in and for the Church (ordained to serve the faithful)

—As an American citizen (from birth in the U.S.A)

—As a citizen of the State of Montana (since 1966)

—As a member of the human community (from birth on planet earth)

I intend to retire in the near future from full-time service as a Catholic priest, and if permitted, will do some part-time priestly duties; if not permitted, then that vocation is shelved.  At the same time I let go of one demanding vocation, I plan to give myself to my callings in several others, coming together as one:  as a human being drawn to seek God through the study of philosophy.  By no means am I “abandoning my vocation.”  On the contrary, I am submitting myself to my calling anew:  “Seek the LORD while He may be found.”…”Seek and you will find.”…”Whom do you seek?”…”Say to my heart: It is your face, O LORD, that I seek.”… “Who are you, LORD?”

 

I need more time to dedicate myself to my more compelling vocation, the one truest to my heart:  seeking God, and especially through the philosophical life articulated by St. Anselm as fides quaerens intellectum, “faith seeking understanding.”  It is my life’s work.

 

Socrates:  “Now it is time to go—I to die, you to live.  Whoever of us has the better fate is unknown to anyone, except to God.”

Modification On My Meditation Of IT

This little meditation is a work in progress, and is likely to be modified again. Such is life, dear friend.

What is It? It has always fascinated me, or has fascinated me for as long as I have been conscious. I never knew its name, and still do not. Divine names speak to certain aspects of It, but It is more than the gods or God; It includes trees, sky, wind, fire, water, many kinds of animal-beings. It lives, moves, and is always here—or there. It is All, and, if it were possible to say so, It is still more than all. As far as I know, It is unbounded in time and space, without an experienced Beginning or End. No one I know of has ever experienced Its Beginning or End. Every being simply and directly experiences that it is, for it is ever-present and all-encompassing. 

To be conscious and being fascinated by It are nearly synonymous. I have no recollection of being conscious without some awareness of It. Can one be conscious and not be conscious of It? How would that be possible? How could one see a rock and not be aware that there is more to what exists than that rock, and that the rock manifests It in the rock’s unique way of being in time and space? One see and names a part, and in doing so, has an abiding awareness that whatever is named does not exhaust It, but participates in It and presents It here and now. For It is ever present, all-encompassing, yet also felt or known to be beyond anything and all that one can experience in any way. It is more than the sum of all the parts. It seems to be alive, at least speaking analogously to what we experience in living beings, and It may give life to each and to all—I do not know. All life is in It. 

Sometimes I name it “You,” and do so when I focus on the divine mind or wisdom at work in It, perhaps ordering or structuring It. To every thing It bestows a nature or a particular way of being, and an inexhaustible, unsurpassable uniqueness. Perhaps what we call “God” is the Mind of It, or It under certain aspects, such as the eternal—that question will need to be explored. In speaking about It or even to It (when in a playful or poetic mood), I am ever aware that It far transcends my understanding, or any name, or any conception. It is, and everything is within It. To think of there being multiple Its, and that It is just one of them, is a childish game. It is all-encompassing. There is no experienced basis for multiple Its, for It is present in everything that one experiences, even in one’s fanciful imaginings. Nothing can escape from It.

Again, to be conscious is virtually synonymous with being conscious of It, the ever-present background to every act of knowing. One can know or feel nothing in which It is not present. When I first awake in the morning, and open my eyes, I may realize that I am beholding It in everything I see, and that It is simultaneously present in my gazing. It is present in the knower, the known, and in knowing. It is present in everything, presenting Itself in everything, including one’s feelings, sensings, knowings. There is nothing that exists or is in any way that is not sufficed with It. Not as far as I know, based on direct experience. I find no reason to think that even God as I AM is excluded from It. Perhaps I AM is It under the aspect of the eternal, the uncaused, the everlasting. That will be explored. Does It change? I do not know, but experienced parts of It are changing constantly. Perhaps to be in It is to change. This too must be explored. 

Some seeings more fully stir the awareness of It. When I behold the starry sky on a winter night, so light and wondrous, I am intensely aware of seeing within It, of gazing with wonder and joy at Its cosmic presence. Seeing the stars reminds me afresh of Its sheer vastness in time and space, and this is achieved by becoming conscious not only of beauty and magnitude, but simultaneously, of my own ignorance of It, and before It. And I, too, am a part of It, just as the stars and ice-cold air, and Moses, walking along beside me in the dark illuminated by stars. The entire cosmos presents It to one who looks. It is presenting Itself through the whole mysterious Cosmos and through every part of It. From moment to moment, It is manifesting Itself, revealing Itself. Trying to grasp Its nature, or comprehend It, is like trying to pick a piece of eggshell out of egg. As you touch It, It withdraws. Ever mysterious, It transcends and informs all understanding. 

While gazing in wonder of It, then praying in words to God or to a god, or to a saint or remembered loved one, is a kind of downward movement, a kind of unnecessary addition or even distraction, although words may spontaneously erupt from the mouth. In anything named or imagined, there remains in the mind an awareness that the words and names do not exhaust It, or even do It justice. And yet sometimes, words seem to just jump out, as in a spontaneous cry of the heart. That cannot be helped. One word I find myself spontaneously uttering is “Wow!” But on such occasions, consciously to compose words and to speak them seems less appreciative, less receptive, less alive than simply looking, gazing, delighting in the wonder of Its cosmic display. There is a time for words, and a time for silence. It presents Itself most intensely in silent wonder. To gaze at It lovingly is a silent prayer, the heart of being alive. 

In words I read in youth, “I do not know Its name.” Indeed, and the “Tao that can be expressed is not the Tao.” And the It that is named is less than It. And yet, if It were not here, now, I would not be writing, nor thinking about It, and my heart would not be beating, breath not moving in and out.

IT

It has always fascinated me, or has fascinated me for as long as I have been conscious. I never knew its name, and still do not. Divine names speak to certain aspects of It, but It is more than God or gods; It includes trees, sky, wind, water, many kinds of animal-beings. It lives, moves, and is always here.  It is All, and, if it wear possible to say, still more.

To be conscious and being fascinated by It are nearly synonymous. Ever present, all-encompassing, yet also felt or known to be beyond anything and all that one can experience in any way. It is more than the sum of all the parts. It seems to be alive, at least speaking analogously, and may give life to each and to all. 
 

Sometimes I name it “You,” and do so when I focus on the divinity at work in it. In speaking of It and to It, I am ever aware that It far transcends my understanding, or any name, or any conception. It is, and everything is within It. 

To be conscious is virtually synonymous with being conscious of It. One can know or feel nothing in which It is not present. When I first awake in the morning, and open my eyes, I know that I am beholding It in everything I see. It simply is present in everything, and in the consciousness of everything. There is nothing that exists or is that is not sufficed with It.
 

Some seeings more fully stir the awareness of It. When I behold the starry sky on a winter night, so light and wondrous, I am intensely aware of seeing within It, of gazing with wonder and joy at Its cosmic presence. Seeing the stars reminds me afresh of Its sheer vastness in time and space, and this is achieved by becoming conscious not only of beauty and magnitude, but simultaneously, of my own ignorance of It, and before It. And I, too, am a part of It, just as the stars and ice-cold air, and Moses, walking along beside me in the dark illuminated by stars. 

In gazing, praying in words to God or to a god or saint is a movement downward, a kind of unnecessary addition or distraction, although words may spontaneously erupt from my mouth. That cannot be helped. "Wow!” But consciously to compose words and to speak them seems less appreciative, less receptive, less alive than simply looking, gazing, delighting in the wonder of Its cosmic display. To gaze at It is the heart of prayer.

“I do not know its name.” Indeed, and the “Tao that can be expressed is not the Tao,” and the It that is named is less than It.  And yet, if It were not here, now, I would not be writing, nor thinking about It, my heart would not be beating, breath not moving in and out. 

On Faith

As we heard from the author of the Letter to the Hebrews at Mass recently, “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen (Hebrews 11:1). The object of faith, the living God, is received only into the one who has faith, who truly and lovingly believes. And with the awareness of the presence of God, one shares in God’s Life, a spiritual experience known since Plato as “eternal life.” 

 
Distinctly Christian faith usually begins by hearing the word of God, such as the good news about Jesus, and responding. Many must hear the story of God in Christ a number of times before they do not only hear words, but open up to their truth, and allow the God of Christ to break in. Or rather, one opens up his heart and mind, and recognizes the One who was present from the Beginning, even before the soul tasted life, or sensed that it was alive. “You are here, and always were.” Cosmic faith, which Christian faith presupposes, and which undergirds a person’s spiritual life, begins as one gazes with loving wonder at the awesome beauty of creation, and one becomes aware of the Mind that moves all of reality from nothingness towards perfection in Himself. Christian faith and cosmic faith merge in the soul of the man or woman who responds to the reality of the God of the cosmos, the creator, fully present in the man Jesus, and partially present in and with the one who lovingly believes.    

Faith in the soul is essentially a loving trust, an inward surrender, to that which we call “God.” The divine Presence flows in, and is experienced as present, in the soul, in the consciousness, of the one open to God. The response to God’s presence begins with faith, and grows into love, as one realizes how utterly good, true, and beautiful God is. The fruit of faith growing into love is the union of the divine Lover with the loving soul, so that Lover and Beloved become one in the act of spiritual love. It is a sweet union, a “most delightful union,” a union often taking place in the darkness of the night of the intellect, when one does not see, or consciously know, the Lover, but is quietly and trustingly aware that “I AM with you.” Words cannot suffice, nor can they tell, what transpires between God and the soul of the man or woman of faith, but the experience speaks for itself: love, joy, peace.

When one lovingly trusts God, a balance of consciousness is restored. In more familiar words, one is grounded, sane, sober-minded, dependable, in peace. Forces of evil, the quicksand of the soul, are kept in healthy check: overwhelming fear, restless anxiety, depression, hatred, lust, greed, self-absorption, acedia. One becomes able to think more clearly, to examine the world, others, oneself, and the divine Presence in a calm, meditative light. Without faith as the grounding in the Ground of reality, one is prey to wild and nonsensical flights of imagination, to the domination of powerful passions, to the grip of fear that chokes one’s ability to rest in peace.

  

Perhaps nothing happens, or one is inchoately, hiddenly moved. Then suddenly, as if one hears a gentle knocking on the door, one becomes aware of the Presence of the divine partner, not seen or grasped, nor comprehended, but recognized in the stillness. One knows Who it is, as one has become familiar with his visitations. A light touch, very light; a soundless inner voice; a most gentle nudging. One turns around, and sees but does not see anything, anyone. But by faith, one understands: You are here. That is all, and more than suffices.  

Brief Thoughts On Prayer: Levels of Mental-Spiritual Development

This weekend at our four Masses I delivered a homily on prayer, responding to the first reading from Genesis and to the passage from St. Luke’s Gospel on prayer. I did not attempt to interpret either Abraham’s wrestling with God or a collection of sayings from Jesus on prayer. Rather, I briefly addressed these questions: What is prayer? What are the main types of prayer? And how can types of prayer be arranged on a scale of mental-spiritual development? My concern, alluded to in the homily, is that many Christians learn to “pray” as a child, and often do not make much advancement beyond a child’s or even childish prayer. However fitting in a child, for an adult to remain fixed at an early stage of prayer in general displays the underlying spiritual problem of entrapment in oneself, in one’s own ego. In order to be an exercise in self-transcendence into divine presence, one must learn different modes of prayer. Either one grows in ways of prayer, or one stagnates mentally and spiritually.

To classify kinds of prayer, and to allow me to make general points on the nature ofprayer, I sketched out a typology of seven stages of prayer, using the image of stages of education. The three most elementary types of prayer are a kind of K-12 education. Then there are three forms of prayer which could be likened to being in spiritual college.  The seventh type of prayer I likened to “graduate school.”  Finally, I mentioned in a sentence the perfection of prayer beyond death. 

    A. Public school of prayer (3 distinct levels). The first level of prayer, most elementary, is rooted in the literal meaning of “pray” as “ask.”  One asks “God” for something, or for some benefit for oneself or for someone else.  This form of prayer is a an expression of the self’s desires, and to a degree, remains self-centered. 

The second level of prayer, rising a little higher, is not asking God for things or benefits, but thanking God for blessings received, either for oneself, or for others. A thankful heart is gradually transcending the confines of the contracted self, the primary spiritual problem of our age. One could take as a model some of the Psalms of thanksgiving:  “I thank you, God, with all my heart. You have heard the words of my mouth.”  

The third level of prayer is, in effect, spiritual-mental high school:  Without thinking about oneself, one praises and worships God for Who He Is, or for what God has done in creating us and saving us. The prayer of praise is a salutary form of self-transcendence, and makes one more like God in simple goodness. Opening words of St. Augustine’s Confessions come readily to mind—and he borrows from the Psalms:  “You are great, O LORD, and highly to be praised….” 

    B. The next three types of prayer I would not arrange on a ladder of ascent, because they not only interact, but one can advance towards union with God through any of these three types of prayer. All are beneficial, and represent genuine self-transcendence.  This is “college level praying,” so to speak, because mindfulness of self is being left behind.  Loving union is growing.

One of these types of prayer is simple, ongoing awareness of the presence of God.When one is engaged in his or her daily activities, one may be ever aware of being in God, and working with God in one’s tasks at hand. Whether or not one pauses explicitly to offer prayers in words to God (asking, thanking, praising), one is aware of the One here and now. Last week we considered the story of Martha and Mary. Had Martha been content to prepare a meal and serve it, happy and at peace to be in the presence of the LORD, she would have been engaged in this kind of prayer. Instead, she was on level one, telling God what to do for her: “Lord, tell my sister to help me serve.” Martha was self-absorbed; Mary’s attention was lovingly absorbed in Christ’s presence.  And of this Mary, sitting at the Lord’s feet and listening to his Word, Jesus said, “Mary has chosen the better portion, and it will not be taken from her.” 

In a second type of “college level prayer,” one actively seeks God, responding to the Lord’s command, “Seek, and you will find.” One questions God, as Abraham did in the reading from Genesis: “Lord, should not the God of all the world act with justice?” The biblical tradition may raise a question, but does not actively pursue it, until Jewish-Christian spiritual experience merges with Greek philosophy, the life of the mind. The Church has produced a number of men and women through the centuries who devoted much study and effort to seeking God with questioning consciousness. And these questioners drew directly or indirectly on the well-spring of philosophy, on Plato and Aristotle. A favorite example of mine of a mind seeking God is the great St. Anselm (c 1050):  “Lord, if you are here, why do I not see you?  If you are absent, how can I seek you? Surely you `dwell in inapproachable light.’ Who will lead me into this light?… I do not understand in order to believe, but I believe in order to understand (credo ut intelligam). His habit of questioning God, of actively seeking God in prayer makes St. Anselm a great model of genuine prayer. I highly recommend to those interested the Prayers and Meditations of St. Anselm, and especially his masterful Proslogion. 

The third “college level” type of prayer is most simple and direct. Rather than being active and also mindful of God, and rather than using discursive reasoning in the search for God, one sits still in the presence of the One who is present. Without words, images, thoughts, the one praying simply and lovingly attends to the present of the Lover-Beloved, the God beyond all words and images.This kind of prayer uses the highest faculty of the human soul, the divine-human intellect, which works by simply gazing. The classic text of this kind of prayer is the masterful Cloud of Unknowing. This kind of prayer deserve to be called “contemplative prayer.” The one who is doing the work is not the self, but the divine Spirit—the divine partner in the human-divine process we call “the soul.” Indeed, in all genuine prayer, to be true and salutary, it is the Spirit who gives life, who works; and the human partner lovingly cooperates.  

    C. Graduate school of prayer: mystical union with God. A number of Christian mystics have left accounts of their experiences of being taken up into divine union. Outside of the New Testament and early Church fathers (such as Origen and Clement of Alexandria), nearly all of the mystical traditions in Christianity have drawn from the works of the Egyptian-Roman philosopher, Plotinus (d. 270 AD). I referred to Plotinus in the homily, for he elaborated astoundingly beautiful experiences of mystical union with the One in his voluminous writings. Plotinus writes about the experience of ekstasis, of being lifted out of himself and absorbed in awareness of divine presence. In one such visionary state, he wrote of seeing the All present in each, and each creatures in All. They were not dissolved, but fully penetrated by the One who is “all in all.” Written of a present experience, it is the most moving description of what Christians call “heaven”I have ever found. Mystical union is not someone’s fancy or imagination, or a human achievement, or a futuristic dream, but the fruit of years of cooperation with the Good, or with that which Christians usually call “God.” 

Two summary points:  First, we heard in the Gospel today Whom to ask to “teach us to pray.”  It is the LORD, Christ, who is the divine Master and Teacher, first and foremost. Secondly, Jesus tells us what to ask for, and what to receive:  not this or that, but “the Holy Spirit who will be given to you.” All genuine prayer is the work and fruit of the Holy Spirit, the divine presence at work in the hearts of the faithful.  It is the Spirit alone who opens up the self into the realm of God.