If I find my position, my consciousness, that of one from home–nay, that of one in some sort of prison; if I find that I can neither rule the world in which I live nor my own thoughts or desires; that I cannot quiet my passions, order my likings, determine my ends, will my growth, forget when I would, or recall what I forget; that I cannot love where I would, or hate where I would; that I am no king over myself; that I cannot supply my own needs, do not even always know which of my seeming needs are to be supplied, and which treated as impostors; if, in a word, my own being is everyway too much for me; if I can neither understand it, be satisfied with it, nor better it–may it not well give me pause?–the pause that ends in prayer?
When my own scale seems too large for my management; when I reflect that I cannot account for my existence, have had no poorest hand in it, neither, should I not like it, can do anything towards causing it to cease; when I think that I can do nothing to make up to those I love, any more than to those I hate, for evils I have done them and sorrows I have caused them; that in my worst moments I disbelieve in my best, in my best loathe my worst; that there is in me no wholeness, no unity; that life is not a good to me, for I scorn myself–when I think all or any such things, can it be strange if I think also that surely there ought to be somewhere a Being to account for me, one to account for Himself, and make the round of my existence just?–one Whose very being accounts and is necessary to account for mine?–Whose presence in my being is imperative, not merely to supplement it, but to make to myself, my existence, a good?
For if not rounded in itself, but dependent on that which it knows not and cannot know, my existence cannot be to itself a good known as a good–a thing of reason and well-being. It will be, at best, a life longing for a logos to be the interpretative soul of its cosmos–a logos it cannot have.
To know God present, to have the consciousness of God where He is the essential life, must be absolutely necessary to that life! He that is made in the image of God must know hHim or be desolate: the child must have the Father! Witness the dissatisfaction, yea desolation of my soul: wretched, alone, unfinished, without Him! It cannot act from itself, save in God; acting from what seems itself without God, is no action at all, it is a mere yielding to impulse. All within is disorder and spasm. There is a cry behind me, and a voice before; instincts of betterment tell me I must rise above my present self–perhaps even above all my possible self: I see not how to obey, how to carry them out! I am shut up in a world of consciousness, an unknown ‘I’ in an unknown world: surely this world of my unwilled, unchosen, compelled existence, cannot be shut out from Him, cannot be unknown to Him, cannot be impenetrable, impermeable, unpresent to Him from whom I am! Nay, is it not His thinking in which I think? Is it not by His consciousness that I am conscious?
Whatever passes in me must be as naturally known to Him as to me, and more thoroughly, even to infinite degrees. My thought must lie open to Him: if He makes me think, how can I elude Him in thinking? “If I should spread my wings toward the dawn, and sojourn at the last of the sea, even there Thy hand would lead me, and Thy right hand would hold me!”
If He has determined the being, how shall any mode of that being be hidden from Him? If I speak to Him, if I utter words ever so low; if I but think words to Him; nay, if I only think to Him; surely He, my original, in Whose life and will and no otherwise I now think concerning Him, hears, and knows, and acknowledges! Then shall I not think to Him? Shall I not tell Him my troubles–how He, even He, has troubled me by making me?–how unfit I am to be that which I am?–that my being is not to me a good thing yet?–that I need a law that shall account to me for it in righteousness; reveal to me how I am to make it a good; how I am to be a good, and not an evil? Shall I not tell Him that I need Him to comfort me?–His breath to move upon the face of the waters of the Chaos He has made? Shall I not cry to Him to be in me rest and strength?–to quiet this uneasy motion called life, and make me live indeed?–to deliver me from my sins, and make me clean and glad?
Such a cry is of the child to the Father: if there be a Father, verily He will hear, and let the child know that He hears! Every need of God, lifting up the heart, is a seeking of God, is a begging for Himself, is profoundest prayer, and the root and inspirer of all other prayer.
If it be reasonable for me to cry thus, if I cannot but cry, it is reasonable that God should hear: He cannot but hear. A being that could not hear, or would not answer prayer, could not be God.