Ask Until Only God Remains

The poverty of prayer and the gift of the Holy Spirit

“Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.”

— Luke 11:9

Ask.

Seek.

Knock.

The Lord gives us three words.

They are enough for a lifetime.

He does not say: understand.

He does not say: arrange your life so that nothing remains uncertain.

He does not say: discover what God intends to do with you.

Ask.

Seek.

Knock.

These are the words of a poor man.

The one who asks does not possess.

The one who seeks does not see.

The one who knocks stands outside.

This is prayer.

We come before God without possession, without sight, without entrance.

And we remain there.

Much of our suffering in prayer comes from wanting to be somewhere else. We want the door opened now. We want the darkness explained. We want God to tell us what He is doing.

We call this discernment.

Sometimes it is only fear.

We want to know because we are afraid to remain poor.

But the desert does not explain itself.

It strips.

It empties.

It leaves a man standing before God with nothing in his hands.

The Fathers went there for this.

Not because sand was holy.

Not because solitude was beautiful.

But because there are places where nothing remains to protect us from God.

No role.

No reputation.

No usefulness.

No audience.

No future we can arrange.

Only God.

And the heart.

This is why the desert is frightening.

It takes away the things by which we know ourselves.

We say:

I am this.

I have done this.

I am needed here.

This is my calling.

This is the work God has given me.

Perhaps.

But beneath all these things there is a more terrible question:

If all of this were taken away, would God be enough?

The spiritual life eventually brings us there.

Not always through a monastery.

Not always through physical solitude.

Sometimes the desert comes to us.

A door closes.

A work ends.

A future disappears.

Strength diminishes.

Plans become impossible.

The life we thought we were meant to live recedes beyond our reach.

And there, in the place we did not choose, God waits.

Ask.

Seek.

Knock.

Do not flee.

Do not manufacture another life.

Do not force the door.

Knock.

Then remain before it.

There is a violence in us that wants to make even the spiritual life happen. We want to become holy. We want to know our vocation. We want to find the right place, the right form, the right obedience.

We can pursue the will of God so anxiously that we cease to wait upon God.

The Fathers knew better.

Stay in your cell.

Remember God.

Guard the heart.

Say the Name.

Repent.

Do not concern yourself with tomorrow.

The cell becomes a judgment because there is nowhere to go.

Eventually the man inside it must meet himself.

And beneath himself, God.

Perhaps this is why the Lord does not promise what we expect.

He says:

“If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

The Holy Spirit.

This is the answer.

Not necessarily an explanation.

Not a map.

Not the restoration of what was lost.

Not certainty about tomorrow.

God gives God.

We ask for a way forward.

He gives the Spirit.

We ask what we are supposed to become.

He gives the Spirit.

We ask where we belong.

He gives the Spirit.

We ask for the door to open.

And sometimes He leaves us before the door until we discover that He is there with us.

Then something changes.

We stop bargaining with the future.

The heart becomes quieter.

It no longer needs every question answered.

It begins to understand that certainty is not the same thing as faith.

The soul learns another language.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.

Nothing more may be necessary.

The Name contains the asking.

The Name contains the seeking.

The Name is the hand knocking against the door.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Not to force God to appear.

But because He is already near.

There comes a time when prayer becomes very small.

Words fall away.

Ambitions fall away.

Even spiritual ambitions fall away.

One no longer asks to become remarkable.

Or useful.

Or remembered.

Perhaps one no longer asks even to understand.

Only:

Do not let me lose You.

Do not let my heart become divided.

Do not let the fire go out.

This is enough.

The desert teaches us that God can be loved without being used.

He does not have to give us a mission.

He does not have to make our suffering intelligible.

He does not have to turn our hiddenness into something fruitful that others can see.

He may simply ask us to remain before Him.

And perhaps this is the deepest poverty:

to allow God to be enough.

The door may open.

It may not.

The road may become clear.

It may disappear.

We may be led somewhere we never imagined.

None of this is ours to control.

We are not Providence.

Ask.

Seek.

Knock.

Then leave the door to God.

The Father knows what is good.

And when everything else has been stripped away, the promise remains:

He will give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him.

Not something to possess.

Not something to accomplish.

God Himself.

What else does the heart need?