Being a Christian, and specifically an Episcopalian, is something I grew up doing. It was part of the weekly rhythm of our family…we went to church Sunday mornings, Mom had choir practice on Wednesdays, we had choristers on Thursdays, and there were various committee meetings throughout the week that both of my parents participated in. We were “involved.” With parents like these as role models, it is perhaps no surprise that my faith is important to me. And, by no means do I consider my faith something that I simply adopted out of habit - I thoroughly love the Episcopal Church and have taken great pride in being an Episcopalian. Now that I am in my mid-30s, I even sometimes volunteer the fact that my faith is important to me without concern that someone is going to judge me, or if they do, I can live with those consequences (and probably be all the better for it).

However, I also am aware of a dark, shadowy corner to my faith: I know I can be a better Christian. I guess maybe most people feel this way, but there is still a part of me that feels insincere when I associate myself with people who I feel are much more faithful than I. I know I don’t take the time I should to read the lessons, to pray, to meditate, to be as involved as I could be here at St. Thomas, to give as much money as maybe I could. (This is where the catholic part of being an Episcopalian and their skill in guilt sometimes weighs me down.)

In particular, I know I should be better at praying. After all, one of the things I love most about our Church is our effusive language. I get a rush hearing phrases like, “…we may perfectly love you,” “delight in your will,” and “we thy unworthy servants do give thee most humble and hearty thanks...”

I, in fact, do enjoy prayer. When I was a little girl I remember telling my mom I was going to write a book of prayers (though I don’t think I ever did). One of the things I did as part of my youth group in high school was to serve on the Prayer Team for our bi-annual Happening retreats, which involved praying in 4-hour blocks off-and-on for a weekend. And, I can get completely lost in The Book of Common Prayer, reading collects and obscure liturgies.

At various points I have bought books on prayer in the hopes that reading about praying would make me more likely to do it. Merton and Lewis are on my shelves, but in pristine condition.

I also firmly believe in the power of prayer. I am fortunate enough to have heard God talk to me, and to have physically felt his presence.

Nevertheless, I have thus far been unable to develop the discipline to pray on a regular basis. In other aspects of my life, I feel I am a pretty disciplined person – I am a vegetarian, a runner, and even before the recession, a saver; all things that take some forethought, planning, and dedication. So, I know I am able to develop the discipline, which I suppose by default may mean I am not yet actually willing to do so.

However, in the absence of discipline, I have developed a collection of “cues” that prompt me to pray. A breeze on a lake or through the woods, looking up at a star-filled sky, and reaching the top of a hill are good ones, but the strongest of these is when I fly. I do fly fairly frequently for work (enough to know that having “status” is not really a privilege).

This is what happens: Regardless of what I’m doing, when the plane turns onto the runway and I hear the engines surge, I involuntarily stop whatever I am doing and pray. This isn’t an “OMG please deliver me safely to the end of this flight” kind of prayer. I am not afraid of flying (I will admit to not really understanding how planes stay in the air, but obviously they do). My dialogue is a more casual, “Hey, God, this is our time to talk.” Despite the cramped seating, the sweaty fat guy next to me, or the crying baby, this time always feels very personal, focused, and sincere, if too brief.

And, each and every time, I wonder why with all of our beautiful language, hallowed churches, seductive music, and established rituals that my cue to pray is barreling down the runway.

“Cue,” by the way, is defined as “anything that excites to action.” I like that definition…that it “excites” a response. They don’t demand or force, they excite a response. And, that is exactly what my prayer cues do for me: they make me excited about talking with God.

Perhaps it is a worthy lesson that my cues aren’t particularly spiritual in nature. It is perhaps “easy” to feel connected to God walking into a glorious church or smelling incense. The realization that I can be prompted to pray in less-than-spiritual settings suggests there is hope for the future of my prayers.

So, my goal, one that this writing this homily has helped me put a finer point on and one that I hope you will also consider adopting, is to develop more cues that excite me to talk with God, ones that lend themselves to quiet times and spaces, and hence deeper reflection and concentration, and ultimately a deeper spiritual discipline.

Amen.