Dear ones,
I was reflecting on the poem I shared with you last week. In the poem, the speaker’s grandmother asks if she believes in the power of prayer & she says, “By now & knowing this many angels/ I don’t.” Revisiting these lines I wrote a few years ago got my wheels turning. What did I mean when I wrote that? Especially when I do pray.
So today, as the tops of the Sugar Maples are aflame against a clear blue October sky, I am pondering this question: Why do we pray?
Maybe you pray & maybe you don’t, dear reader, & I am not judging you for any of it. We all have our own methods of belief.
I pray in many different ways. I was raised Catholic & I had to memorize prayers, which I still turn to in ritual comfort on the rare occurrence I go to church or when I need a prayer to slip into like a cotton dress, something to reach for with ease & comfort. As a little girl, my mom told me when I couldn’t sleep, I could say Hail Marys & they would go into the Hail Mary Bank. In the rhythm of recitation, asking for the intercession of the Divine Mother, between “the fruit of thy womb Jesus” & “Holy Mary Mother of God,” I’d eventually fall asleep, in an old world kind of counting sheep. I still do this sometimes.
I say, “Thank you Jesus & angels” when I make a mistake while driving or someone else does & we have a close call. Then I feel guilty if I haven’t prayed outside of duress for a while, because I was raised Catholic.
I think the pray-ers among us often pray because we feel out of control. We cannot predict or safeguard an outcome. We are pulling on the tether that binds us to an omniscient & merciful God partly because there is an outcome we are hoping for, but also, we are pulling on the tether because this act itself helps us feel slightly less out of control. No matter what happens, we’d like to believe there is an order in the universe, which is why some people, who are most likely far from fresh grief & trauma, say, “Everything happens for a reason.” This stokes the rage of the invisible fire burning in the hearts of we who are watching our loved ones suffer, deep in incurable cancer diagnosis.
I believe that the tether, the prayer itself, is comforting, because to me, the presence of God suggests that despite fear & anxiety, pain & anguish, we are not alone. Despite the chaos & disarray that comes with the mortal coil, we are held in deep & abiding love that never, no matter how dire the situation, leaves us.
A writer friend once told me he believes every poem is a prayer. I myself have thought I feel closest to God when singing. Perhaps there is a magic that happens in those synapses firing, the corpus callosum lit up, that bridge between the two hemispheres of our brains, which helps us to elevate beyond the corporeal. Think of whirling dervishes, spinning & spinning, in an attempt at religious ecstasy, & consider the etymology of ecstasy from the Greek, meaning to stand outside of, presumably, the self. Maybe in prayer, we can elevate from our egos, especially when we pray for someone other than ourselves.
I don’t believe prayer has the power to cure illness. I have known too many people with legions praying for them who have died. If the power of prayer lies in its means-to-an-end, why would we continue to pray for the dying? When I pray for someone who is dying or their family, I don’t pray for a miracle at the seventh hour. I pray for their comfort. I pray that God remains close to them & eases their pain.
I think suggesting that nothing is impossible through prayer also distracts from very real, tangible resources we can build as a society. Like accommodations, healthcare that doesn’t bankrupt, & food security: policy & legislation that protects people.
I don’t believe in a prosperity gospel of health & wealth that insists God shows favor on certain people because they are doing it right. Read: they’re privileged, white, able-bodied, upper-middle class. Rather, I believe the beauty, the mercy, the grace of God is a miracle because it belongs to everyone. I am not disabled because God does not favor me, & I will not become un-disabled because I pray hard enough.
I’m going to leave you with another poem this week, not by me, but by the Sufi mystic poet Jalaal al-Din Rumi. I love this poem & what Rumi says about prayer. Maybe it will resonate with you, too. This version was translated by Coleman Barks.
Until next week,
Annie
* * * * *
Love Dogs
One night a man was crying Allah! Allah!
His lips grew sweet with praising,
until a cynic said, “So!
I’ve heard you calling out, but have you ever
gotten any response?”
The man had no answer to that.
He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.
He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,
in a thick, green foliage.
“Why did you stop praising?” “Because
I’ve never heard anything back.”
“This longing you express
is the return message.”
The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.
Your pure sadness
that wants help
is the secret cup.
Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.
There are love dogs
no one knows the names of.
Give your life
to be one of them.
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