Hold Her In The Light

In Prince Caspian, the third book of the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, upon seeing Aslan again, Lucy remarks, 

“Aslan, you are bigger!” 

“That is because you are older, little one,” answered he.

“Not because you are?”

“I am not. But every year you grow, you will find me bigger.”

Leave it Lewis to deliver a piercing and profound truth so effortlessly in a children’s book.

I, for one, find this to be exactly true. The older I get, the bigger God gets. I used to think I had a pretty solid grasp on theology and God, but that no longer feels accurate - in the best and most honest way. God is much bigger and vaster and “muchier” than I could ever have imagined when I was younger. 

For me, part of embracing the bigness of God has been learning about other denominations and faith traditions and how they view and relate to the God of the universe. I refuse to believe that modern, American, evangelical Christianity is the only right way of thinking and believing. Christians have been worshiping and praying across millennia and continents, and there is so much we can learn about God and ourselves by peeking around the corner of our little theological tent. 

One of the specific areas I’ve been exploring has been prayer. Growing up under the evangelical umbrella, I was first taught the ACTS prayer method - Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, and Supplication. I was told that my prayers should follow that formula - praise God, confess my sins, offer my thanks, then ask for my needs to be met. Then, of course, there was also intercessory prayer where we pray for the needs of others.

And meaningful intercessory prayer has always seemed to elude me. I pride myself on my precise use of language. Rarely do words fail me. But when faced with the reality of mass shooting after mass shooting, pregnant mothers diagnosed with stage 4 cancer, domestic violence, and the death of children, “God be with them; heal her; deliver them,” doesn’t feel adequate. Offering my thoughts and prayers feels trite and impotent. Praying God’s will over a given situation feels like a shortcut. And none of it has ever been the balm and connection with God that I believe it’s meant to be.

Until recently, when I discovered the Quaker phrase “Holding in the Light.” 

Emily P. Freeman sums it up as meaning,

I will face you.

I will not forget you. 

I will keep in my heart in the presence of God, who is Light.

In Exodus 24, when Moses returns from meeting with God on Mount Sinai, his face is radiant from basking in God’s presence. Then later in Numbers 6:24-25, the Lord himself instructs Aaron how to bless the Israelites. “Say to them: “The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face shine upon you. The Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.”

John 1:9 calls Jesus, “the true light that gives light to everyone.” Later in John chapter 9, Jesus calls himself the Light of the world. 

When we consider what (or who) the Light is, the imagery of holding someone in the light is stunning. 

When my son Max was sick in utero, the people who loved me tried so earnestly to offer prayers and words of hope and healing. Then after he died, everyone wanted to offer prayers and words of comfort and peace. But most words rang hollow and most sentiments fell short. But to imagine someone holding my broken heart up before the Light of the world, letting his goodness and mercy shine upon my pain, and warm my aching bones and empty arms would have meant the world. 

Imagine with me. I have a precious friend who will be battling stage 4 cancer for the rest of her life. Every few months she gets a new update from her oncologist or cardiologist. Sometimes these updates are encouraging, often they are not. With these less hopeful updates, I could and often have said “I’m praying for you, friend.” Then when I pray with words I may ask for healing, for acceptance, for wisdom, for peace, for God’s will to be done. 

Or I could hold her in the light. I can imagine this beautiful friend being enveloped by the healing light of Christ. I can hold her up before the Light of the world, the light that created and sustains her from the inside out. I can picture that light surrounding her body and her soul both here in her fragile body and in the fully healed body she will one day possess. 

Or take my brother. I haven’t seen or spoken with him in about eight years, on his request. I don’t know who he is anymore or what he needs. I wouldn’t know what words to put with my prayers for him - and some of the ones I would choose aren’t particularly charitable towards him or his wife. But I can hold him in the light. I can remember and cherish him and entrust his care and flourishing to “the true light that gives light to everyone.”

Perhaps this falls flat for you. That’s fine. There’s no right or best way to pray. But for someone like me who loves words and the crafting of a meaningful and eloquent sentence, to release that control and rely upon a thought or intention instead of words has been so freeing. 

So if you share your pain or hopes or struggles with me, you likely won’t hear “I’m praying for you,” anymore. You’ll hear “I’m holding in the light,” and I just might offer to hold your hand too.