A river of trees along a narrow road stood astride a winding stream of pebbles. On a cold and blustery night in December, the Man walked up that path which led to the steps of the Church of St. John. The Gothic structure of wood and stone was shrouded in mystery.

The Church rested atop a solitary hill that commanded a view of an old village below. Its humble size, arching buttresses, and menacing black doorway echoed a sense of abandonment. Bronze bells at its tower, corroded and cracked, had not rung for many a season.

The Man had gone to see the Bishop, who, according to the local lore and the gossip that grew on the grapevines of the European continent, was very wise; and many travelers from the furthest reaches of the world would trek thousands of miles to come and see him.

But those were only rumors. There was no one in sight wherever he had gazed; even the village looked desolate from the hilltop. He slowly pushed open the heavy doors and stepped within the small hall of the Church. Curiously, the Man peered to his left and right to find that no one had occupied the pews, nor sat amongst the paintings, nor knelt within the confessional booths.

The only person there besides him was a thin and ancient man, draped in green garments and holding a spiral staff of brown timber. He sat on a black wooden chair to the side of the altar. The Man steadily approached and turned toward the mitered prelate. The Bishop remained silently sitting on the chair.

“Are you the wise man?” the Man asked.

Silence followed.

“Are you he that they say is the wisest of all in Europe?”

Once again, the Bishop remained motionless and quiet.

“Are you the Bishop?” the Man insisted.

Finally, the Bishop spoke. “Yes, I am a Bishop.”

“I hear that you are the one to whom men go when they seek answers.”

The Bishop then turned his head toward the Man. “Many of my flock come before me seeking answers. Those answers can often be found with a little effort. What is it that you seek?”

“I have read the Good Book, listened to the preachers pray, and ventured to all the holy places by pilgrimage. I speak the prayers, yet they do not help me. I utter the words, but all their sounds are empty. I voice my intentions, but I hear no voice in return. So, Father, you who are given by God the mantle of Bishop, I ask you only one question. Can you teach me how to pray?”

The Bishop breathed and softly said, “Show me how you pray.”

The Man’s eyes glanced from side to side, frustrated by the Bishop’s response. “All right,” he finally said as he held his hands together and bowed his head. “Our Father who art in heaven…”

When he finished the first prayer, he looked up and waited for the Bishop to respond. Moments passed. “Come back to this Church tomorrow, and show me how you pray,” said the Bishop.

The Man became incensed at the Bishop, saying “I have traveled thousands of miles to see you; can you just teach me how to pray?”

“Come back tomorrow.”

The Man stormed out of the Church.

But he was curious and desperate to find the answer. On the following day he returned to the Church, walked up the altar steps, and faced the Bishop once more.

Without even a question from the Man, the Bishop said, “I see you have returned. Let us hear what you have learned. Show me how you pray.”

The Man made the sign of the cross with his hands and began, “Our Father who art in heaven…” When he finished, he lifted his head again.

“Come back tomorrow,” said the Bishop.

“Tomorrow!” The Man grew enraged and he berated the Bishop, “You are no wise man! You are just a silly, delusional old priest who doesn’t deserve the title of ‘wise’!”

But the Bishop seemed recalcitrant to the Man’s comments. And once more, like the thunder of a violent sky the Man bolted from the Church, determined never to return.

However, as the night descended the Man grew desperate once more. Drinking himself to death was not the answer. He needed to know. “What did I do wrong?” he questioned himself. “Maybe I am not saying the right prayer.” The Man succumbed to his thirst for an answer and decided to return to the Church once again.

The next day, he sauntered right up to the altar and said to the Bishop, “I know I said I was not going to come back, but something in me says that I am failing in some way. So here I go…” And the Man lowered himself to his knees in front of the altar, clutched his hands together and aggressively began praying the Rosary, blurting out prayers by rote.

After he was finished, the Bishop said, “Tomorrow.”

The man scoffed. “You are giving me no instruction. How am I supposed to know how to pray if you will not tell me? Am I not saying the right words? Am I not speaking at the right pace? Please, teach me. What am I doing so wrong?”

“It’s not what you are doing wrong,” said the Bishop. “It’s what you are not doing right.”

“Is there even a God for whom I can do this right?” muttered the Man.

“Did I not tell you that this was going to take a little effort?” said the Bishop.

“I’m willing to put in the effort,” said the Man. “But you have not shown me the way.”

“Come back tomorrow and the way might be made clear.”

The Man left flustered once more, but this time he was determined to find the trick to prayer.

On the day after the Man reluctantly dragged himself to the Church. He marched up the aisle to where the Bishop sat. “This is the last time I will try this,” said the Man.

The Bishop nodded for the man to begin.

The Man knelt. He started, “You expired Jesus and the source of life gushed forth for souls…”

The Bishop interrupted his Chaplet and said coldly, “Come back tomorrow.”

The Man stood. “Three times I have returned to you!” he said. “Three times! And for what? There is nothing wrong with what I am doing! Is there no way to pray? Is that what it is? Is that the trick? Why don’t you show me!? I traveled day and night, through storm and snow to see you, and all you have done is sit there and say, ‘come back tomorrow.’ I cannot stand for it any longer!”

The Bishop turned to him and calmly said once more, “You still have not shown me how you pray.”

“Is that all you can say!?” The Man was ready to leave and headed toward the door. Before he could pass halfway down the nave, he turned to the altar once more and eyed the Cross that dangled above the marble slab, wanting to direct his anger towards God. With his fist clenched, he moved closer to the altar. It would do him better, he thought, than to direct his wrath at a confused, old priest.

His heart bled within him. He collapsed to his knees and closed his eyes. His lip then began to rapidly twitch like the shiver of a limb on a cold day.

Tears began pouring from the depressions of his eyes and he screamed to the heavens, “Why God? Why did you take my son away from me!? He was only a boy! He had never loved, had never seen the world like I have. Why? Why did your cold fingers pluck him from this planet!?”

Like the rain of a mountain storm, his cry formed rivers down his cheeks, his moan echoed like thunderous claps, and mud seemed to cling to his throat. “And her, why did she leave me after his death? Why did she have to run? Why couldn’t she live through the suffering with me?! And where were my friends? Why did they all abandon me in my hour of darkness? Why am I so alone in this world?” He buried his face in a fissure in the floor as the waters from his eyes coated the cold surrounding stones. “Please…please help me, I just want to be at peace.”

The Bishop then rose from his seat, gently lifted the Man and softly said, “That, that is how you pray.”