Present Over Perfect

Mary, and we meet on the second floor of a Jesuit retreat
center bordered by horse farms. I slide my hand up the
heavy banister, feel the creaking wood stairs beneath me.
We sit in a small room with a window, a radiator, two small
chairs.
On a recent visit, Mary asked me about my prayer life.
She asked me specifically to whom I pray, and if, when I
pray, I sense a physical, embodied presence. I’m surprised
at how hard it was to put into words how exactly I pray,
especially because Mary and I are from different traditions,
and along the way we’ve sometimes found that we don’t
understand one another’s terms.
And so I fumbled around, telling her essentially that I
pray to God, some version between Father and Spirit,
definitely not Jesus. More like the idea of God,
philosophically—to the sovereign, divine reality. She looked
confused, understandably. Could you pray to Jesus? she
asked. Would that be uncomfortable for you? Could you
pray to him as though he is right here in this room, a man,
alive, with a body?
I could do that, I told her. I couldn’t figure out exactly
why I didn’t pray that way, and I kept thinking about it for
several days.
I talked about it with a wise friend, and as we talked, I
understood a little more.
I love being a Christian, but I think sometimes I err on
the side of believing in the ideals, or, on the other side,
connecting with God through his creation, through the face