It’s Not You, Hallow, It’s Me

Catholics who harvest clicks on the internet for a living LOVE to complain about Hallow.  The Great Liam Neeson Advent Kerfluffle of 2023, which some took so seriously that I almost believe I’ll be asked ten years from now, “where were you when you heard Hallow hired Liam Neeson?,” brought out all the criticisms.  There were complaints about Neeson’s abortion stance (true, his position stinks); paying to pray (oddly, I saw that complaint raised by someone who had his own Advent prayer and meditation book available on Amazon); celebrity Catholics (eh, I like it when people with renown are actually courageous enough to speak out as Catholics, I just wish that there were a few more females doing it, as right now it feels like Patricia Heaton stands alone); Hallow’s financiers (Peter Thiel, who according to some should not be financing Hallow because he’s gay).  The list goes on…and on. 

But among all the finger-pointing that made me roll my eyes so hard that contacts were lost, one of the concerns voiced stuck with me all the way from the Advent Neeson Kerfluffle to the 2024 Let’s Complain about Wahlberg Lenten Festival of Catholic Twitter Whinging.  Of course, since this complaint actually made sense, it didn’t get much traction.

It went like this:  Hallow lets people feel like they are praying when what they are really doing is letting Hallow pray for them.

Me:  Well, that hits a little bit too close to the mark. 

I was a very early adopter of Hallow – back when the content was pretty sparse and the only voices on the app were, I believe, Abby and Francis.  I do think that I have prayed more – legitimately prayed, not just offloading prayer to a voice on my phone – since Hallow became part of my daily routine.  I’m also pretty sure that listening to Catholic lofi or one of the Gospels or Bible in a Year, even with halfhearted attention during work hours, is a better moral option than watching Bill Maher spark up and yammer on Club Random.  

But yes, I’m guilty of hitting play, going for a walk, and letting the ever-growing Hallow gang say the prayers while I mentally shout SQUIRREL and chase all the other thoughts running through my head.

It’s not only Hallow, though.  I’ve considered whether I should buy concert tickets during the chanted Divine Mercy on the Our Lady of the Angels app; thought about how much I like Stockbridge and wondered if it was worth a leaf-peeping trip up there during the same prayer on the Marians’ app; tried to figure out how to fix the storyline of the last Indiana Jones movie during many a Calm meditation session (more on that soon as it really does relate to Catholicism).  So yes, the apps make it easier to feel like you’ve just done something good and virtuous – or really done anything at all – when a prayer that you haven’t even heard comes to an end.

I’ve caught myself patting myself on the back at the end of a walk with Hallow, thinking “I just prayed the Divine Mercy Chaplet AND the Surrender Novena AND I listened to a Fr. Mike Homily AND Bible-in-a-Year for today.”

Then the angel on my shoulder taps in with a question: “What was Fr. Mike’s homily about?”

“Ummmmm….”

So, the real problem here isn’t the prayer apps, which can be a crutch or a tool, and which, to me, are good options for prayer in imperfect circumstances (behind the wheel, on a walk, commuting), but focus.

Maybe the question “are you praying, or are you letting someone else pray for you?” is such a good one and maybe it stuck with me because it’s not a complaint, but a wake-up call to remind us to interrogate our supposed prayer life and acknowledge that if we’re not focusing on prayer, we’re not praying, whether or not someone else is praying in our earbuds or in the pulpit.