The young man wanted to live a holy life.  The key, he knew, was prayer.   So he approached a wise elder in the monastery and asked for instruction.  The old man said not a word but looked intently into his eyes.  Then, still silent, he walked him down to the river, and they waded in.  The elder put his old gnarled hand on the young seeker’s head, and pushed him into the water.  Caught by surprise, the young man hadn’t taken a breath, and in no time, was in trouble.  Finally, the monk released his hold, and the young man drew in the air he so needed.  But again, he was thrust under the water.  This time the young man was indignant.  What kind of exercise was this?  He had asked for instruction on prayer, not some kind of dangerous baptism.  As he was starting to flail, the elder allowed him to surface and gulp in air.  

The third time he was submerged, the young man was desperate.  At this point, all he wanted was to breathe.  When he was finally set free, he looked reproachfully at the old man who then uttered his first words, “When you want to pray as much as you wanted that breath, you will pray”.  

True prayer cannot be trifled with.  Ultimately it is a matter of life and death.  Intellectual curiosity, mild interest, good intentions do not suffice.  There is truth to the adage, there are no atheists in foxholes.  When we know that our life, whether spiritual or natural is at stake, we pray.  

I’m reminded of the rich young man in the Gospels who also wanted “more.”  He had kept all the commandments, but he could feel something was missing.  So great was his desire, he ran to Jesus, threw himself at his feet, and pleaded for the missing key.  Jesus looked intently at him, loved him, and offered him the greatest treasure:  a life of intimacy with the Savior as a beloved disciple.  First he would have to divest himself of his riches, as Jesus, an itinerant,  lived with nothing.  But then he could live the fullness he sought.  Tragically, as much as he wanted this “more,” the young man didn’t want it enough.  He turned away sad.

Lent is a season for us to journey into our hearts and confront the deepest questions:  do we desire holiness, prayer, life in God?  How deep does that desire go?  Enough to fast, receive the sacraments more often, tithe?  Enough to confront our essential interior poverty and absolute need for God?  To feel the gnawing ache of loneliness, the fear and restless unease when we confront our naked hearts?  Enough to ask the Lord, “What do I lack?  What do I need to relinquish in order to truly open to You?”

We tend to avoid this question because we fear it may lead to a serious illness or losing a loved one, or having to give away all our money or go to a foreign land as a missionary.  But the Lenten journey leads us to deeper renunciations:  if we allow the prayers and readings to penetrate our hearts, they chip away at our illusion of self-sufficiency.  We come to acknowledge that all we have comes from God, that all our efforts to control and manipulate life will not bring peace and the outcome we think we want.  We are afraid of facing the Lord because of our fear of being judged a sinful mess, a failure or disappointment to him, so we try to make ourselves acceptable first.  All along, Jesus stands before us, offering our heart’s desire – it is ours if we can stand still in our utter need, tasting the ache of it, and knowing that we will die without plunging into His Heart, if we can face Him and ask our question.

Times of suffering lead us on this same journey.  When life suddenly spirals out of control and we can’t “fix it,” then we pray. When a creeping dissatisfaction taints our comfort and accomplishments, when we are desperate, we pray.

The young monk, the Rich Young Man and most of us want to lead a Godly life.  We want God in our life.  But the Lord has a passionate desire for much more.  He longs for us to be one with Him in the depths of our heart.  He wants to be our life. 

Cheryl-Ann Smith is director of Madonna House in Toronto.