Praying to the God Who Overcomes the Gap

any years ago in geometry class, I was taught about the concept of the asymptote. For many who have worked exceedingly hard to erase high school math from their mind, the asymptote is a straight line which a curve approaches but never quite meets. As the curve and line extend together infinitely, they never—no, never—intersect. 

Now, allow me to borrow from my geometry class and consider a concept regarding a Catholic missionary’s efforts and God’s perfect plan. God’s perfect plan is the asymptote and the Catholic missionary’s efforts are the ever-approaching but never-arriving curve. Notwithstanding a missionary’s heavenly aims, his or her efforts are decidedly earthbound. Between the missionary’s efforts and God’s perfection, there is always a gap. 

Always. 

That gap between what is and what ought to be is vexing. As missionaries evangelizing the culture, we want a world of believers existing peacefully, living virtuously, and glorifying God. Yet even though our efforts are noble and our achievements are noteworthy, the gap between our earthly efforts and our heavenly aims remains. It is a gap that reveals our lack of control and our propensity for mistakes. It is a gap that exposes our insufficiency and parades our vulnerability. The gap is awash with the human condition of uncertainty and imperfection. 

And how do we cope with that gap? 

Not well. 

We try to convince ourselves otherwise, but we are simply incapable of overcoming the gap. Instead, we clamor to hide the gap, blame others for the gap, or pretend there is no gap. But the gap is there all the same. Famed physicist Richard Feynman once said, “The first principle is that you must not fool yourself—and you are the easiest person to fool.”

The God whom we engage in prayer—the God who overcomes the gap—is amazing, fearsome, wondrous. If only we will talk with him.

So what are we to do? 

We must pray to the God who overcomes the gap. 

One of the greatest epiphanies I have ever had is recognizing that there is a God on the other side of my prayers. Opposite my words is not a good feeling, a contemplative moment, or a poetic silence, but the Originator of the Universe, the Author of Life, the Sponsor of the True, the Good, and the Beautiful who knows and loves me better than I know and love myself. There is a loving Father who desires to overcome the distance between my fallen efforts and his heavenly rewards. And woe betide those who underestimate the investments and intervention of God. C.S. Lewis illustrates the shock of God’s activity in his vivid metaphor of God rebuilding our lives as he would rebuild our house. “At first,” Lewis writes, “perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised.” But before long, Lewis continues, he is “throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.” This is extraordinary, but unsettling. Bishop Robert Barron emphasizes the oft-overlooked passage from the Gospel of Mark, “They were on the way, going up to Jerusalem, and Jesus went ahead of them. They were amazed and those who followed were afraid” (Mark 10:32). The God whom we engage in prayer—the God who overcomes the gap—is amazing, fearsome, wondrous. If only we will talk with him.

If we are to begin being effective Catholic missionaries, shouldn’t we pray and, as St. Paul insists, “pray without ceasing”? (1 Thes 5:17) If we are a Missionary Faith, shouldn’t we seek, listen, and follow the Founder of our Mission? Then we must pray. If we are to be Agents of Grace—conduits of Christ’s love and mercy to the world—shouldn’t we have an unimpeded connection to the Source of Grace? Then we must pray. God is the parent marveling at his dignified children in their freedom, but he is hungry to help. And he offers the constant father’s refrain: “Don’t worry. I can help.” 

So why don’t we pray? 

We worry. Letting go of control and surrendering to someone else’s plan is exceedingly threatening to an assertive, “can-do” people. And yet we can’t do everything. To be sure, Jesus turned the disciples loose to feed the five thousand after they first complained to be powerless. But when they returned with their meager five loaves and two fish, he looked at them lovingly and said, “Give them to me.” God partners with us and augments our insufficient efforts. Hans Urs von Balthasar in his work, The Christian and Anxiety, opened with these words: “When one surveys even from a distance how often and how openly Sacred Scripture speaks of fear and anxiety, an initial conclusion presents itself: the Word of God is not afraid of fear or anxiety.” If we pray more, we will worry less.

We doubt. Yes, Christ performed miracles and offered extraordinary truths. Surely, the saints demonstrated a superabundance of sanctity and exquisite courage. But how does that apply to us here and now? We miss God with our worldblind eyes. This happened to St. Thomas before he thrust his shaking hands into the wounds of Christ and declared, “My Lord and my God!” Thomas Merton reminds, “We too often forget that faith is a matter of questioning and struggle before it becomes one of certitude and peace.” If we pray more, we will doubt less.

We grow impatient. An old joke portrays a man dreaming about meeting God. Striving to have things happen on his terms and in his time frame, the man asks, “God, for you, are a billion years like a second? And a billion dollars like a penny?” “Yes,” God answers. The man then cleverly queries, “God would you give me a penny?” And God smiles, “In a second.” God’s timing is perfect, and “faith,” as Philip Yancey said, “means believing in advance what only makes sense in reverse.” As German poet Rainer Maria Rilke counseled a young poet in a hurry, “Everything must be carried to term before it is born.” If we pray more, we will be more patient. 

If we have been paying attention, we cannot fail to see that Scripture is awash in the power and indispensability of prayer. When Jesus taught the disciples and the masses about prayer, he told them to pray earnestly and inwardly: “But when you pray, go to your inner room, close the door, and pray to your Father in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will repay you. . . . Your Father knows what you need before you ask him” (Matt 6:6-8). He implores them to approach God eagerly and often: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you” (Matt 7:7). Jesus reminds us that prayer is vital for the big things: When the disciples could not cast a demon out of a tormented boy, they asked Jesus why. Christ answered, “This kind can only come out through prayer.” (Mark 9:29) And when the disciples went on their daily mission to win souls, Jesus asked them to prayerfully trust: “Take nothing for the journey, neither walking stick, nor sack, nor food, nor money, and let no one take a second tunic” (Luke 9:3), and “When they lead you away and hand you over, do not worry beforehand about what you are to say. But say whatever will be given to you at that hour. For it will not be you who are speaking but the Holy Spirit” (Mark 13:11). And at times, when we feel daunted, dismayed, or devoid of the capacity to pray, we must remember what French Catholic novelist Georges Bernanos insisted, “The wish to pray is a prayer in itself. God can ask no more than that of us.” 

Prayer matters. 

St. John Paul II exclaimed, “We are an Easter people and Alleluia is our song!” and the beloved Pope Benedict XVI assured, “The one who has hope lives differently.” These are entreaties to joy, encouragements to hope. To be sure, between our Catholic missionary efforts and God’s perfect plan, there is a gap. We simply cannot do it alone. May prayer help us trust, hope, and love the God who overcomes the gap and the many souls he is entrusting to our passionate evangelization.