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Morning Reflection
September 29, 2026
Vocativity
What makes [prayer] different from simply trying to think clearly about one’s situation on one’s own and for oneself?
Perhaps it is that the words spoken in prayer have the quality… called “vocativity,” that one speaks them “to” or “as if” to “someone.” Not “I wonder what I should think or do about x” but “What am I to think or do about x?” And note: In this latter case, it is not just that the words are addressed (as if) to another but that the “I” is itself involved and committed in a quite different way. It is not pondering the alternatives in semidetachment but is implicitly declaring itself ready for whatever claim the answer might hold. And perhaps, whether or not God is named, it is this quality of “vocativity,” crying out for a self-understanding that the self cannot give itself that makes what is going on here prayer and not simply an act of reflection.
And whether it is to God or to “the cosmos” or just “life,” the cry of the praying self expresses its desire to be in accord with that power greater than itself: that is, to know itself as acceptable to God and accepted by God.
George Pattison: A Philosophy of Prayer: Nothingness, Language, and Hope
Reflection by Peter Vanderveen
I had a friend years ago who could speak about anything. She was eloquent and learned and interesting – a raconteur of the first order. But slowly, over time, I began to realize that while she could outdo almost everyone in spinning stories, she found it almost impossible to speak directly to someone. She preferred the distance of an objective reflection, as if merely observing. She was stuck in the about mode.
This was most evident when she talked about religion or faith or even God. She could be insightful and compelling, drawing distinctions and making comparisons and offering opinions. But she never took the linguistic leap of including herself in the mix. She spoke of God, but it was obvious that she had great difficulty imagining herself speaking to God, personally, intimately, about herself in such a way that she might be surprised either by what she said or by what might have come back (in any mysterious way) as a response.
There’s something essential about speaking out loud in the first person. Sometimes it reveals something about ourselves that we never really knew or fully took account of before. Saying “I” grounds us and sets perspective. And, similarly, there’s something essential about waiting for whatever reply another may make, particularly in addressing us in a manner we could never have predicted, disclosing something clear to them but hidden to us. It’s an interaction that forms our “selves.” What if you always spoke only about your children and never to them? Would they still be your children in a meaningful way, or would they, by default, be just persons of a younger generation?
I often think that the root of secularism now can be found in our inability to pray in the first person. There is still much talk about religion. We can easily be awash in it. But it’s all speaking from afar and not from within, where making a case or proving a point makes no sense. We may think or ponder or wonder or discuss or debate or investigate or kick around ideas, but this is fundamentally different from deciding to speak to God as if face to face. And this is really the only way that God can then speak to us, as if whispering in our ear, making himself present.
Prayer
God in heaven, let me really feel my nothingness, not in order to despair over it, but in order to feel more powerfully the greatness of your goodness.
Kierkegaard
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