Prayer—A Mysterious & Cantankerous Subject

October 30th, 2010  |   

Pay Attention, Then Patch A Few Words Together

It doesn’t have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

 

a few words together and don’t try

to make them elaborate, this isn’t

a contest but the doorway

 

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

                                            Praying—Mary Oliver

 On the Today Show, host Matt Lauer closes out an interview with a family whose daughter has mysteriously disappeared by saying “our prayers are with you.”  

 Someone stops me on the street and asks me to pray for their husband who has just been told he has cancer.

 ESPN, the sports network, is carrying a Saturday afternoon college football game. The camera is allowed in the dressing room of the visiting team as they prepare to go out on the field. The last thing the team does is huddle for  prayer.

 A car dealership here in Kanawha Valley gathers management and sales personnel each morning for prayers.  

 People pray for rain during a drought and for a cessation of rain during a period of flooding. 

Dining at Appleby’s with Judy, I observe a young couple with bowed heads, holding hands, and saying grace over a plate full of ribs and French Fries.

 Popular critic and author, Christopher Hitchens, is the subject of public discussion. He is an atheist, militant in his scathing attacks on religion and what he considers to be people’s ridiculous belief in God. The debate now centers on whether he is welcoming to people who want to pray for him now that he has been diagnosed with a terminal illness.

 And, of course, there are the ritual prayers said at worship services, public vigils for peace, and at the opening of legislative sessions.

 And, of course, there is the endless debate about the legality of prayer in a nation committed to the separation of church and state.

 Back in April, a federal district court ruled that the National Day of Prayer, a tradition that dates back to 1952, is unconstitutional.  But that decision did not prohibit President Obama from issuing a National Day of Prayer proclamation as the nation awaits the final adjudication of the court’s decision.

“Throughout our history, whether in times of great joy and thanksgiving, or in times of great challenge and uncertainty, Americans have turned to prayer,” said Mr. Obama. “In prayer, we have expressed gratitude and humility,  sought guidance and forgiveness, and received inspiration and assistance, both in good times and in bad.”

 Just as President Washington, back in 1789, declared Thanksgiving Day as a national holiday,  “a day of public thanksgiving and prayer,” you can be sure that President Obama will both pardon a turkey and call for prayers of thanksgiving.

 Someone steeped in Franciscan spirituality might argue that the prayers of the turkey were surely answered by Mr. Obama’s gracious reprieve.

 For many people, doubts hover over the subject of prayer. Is there a mystical power out there in the universe listening? And, if so, is there some celestial roll-of-the-dice that grants healing to one person in prayer, but denies it to another person equally prayerful? Is prayer a reasonable activity as well as an emotional and faith-based activity?

 Since the subject of prayer is so mysterious, so cantankerous, I’d like to engage it, hopeful that I can look at the subject with some fresh observations born out of my own experience and my frequent puzzlement with this illusive subject.

Prayer As 24/7 Activity

 I have justly recently revisited the poems of Mary Oliver. It was like seeing an old friend after an extended absence.  Born on September 10, 1935, just 20 days prior to my own birth, her work served as a lovely gift on my seventy-fifth birthday.

 Oliver began writing poetry at the age of 14 and became influenced by the work of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Oliver’s poetry is marked by a keen awareness of nature. It is inspired by her daily walks in the woods, and her imagery is quickened by the sight of plants, animals, foliage, and the water that is omnipresent in so many of her poems.

 On those frequent nature walks, Oliver carries with her a writing tablet and a pen so that she can stop and translate into poetry what she experiences. It is said that having caught herself without a pen on one occasion, she decided to hide pencils in trees along the path so that she would always have writing material available.

 The love of Oliver’s life was Molly Malone Cook. They lived together in Provincetown, Massachusetts for 40 years. Following her partner’s death in 2005, Mary Oliver wandered into a church and was grasped by a gracious spirit.  Mystical in its intensity, she experienced a profound understanding of faith, prayer and eternal life.

 As my readers are probably aware, I love many of the poems of W.H. Auden. I also prize his definition of prayer. Prayer for Auden was defined as focus of attention. I love that understanding of prayer.  Show me where a person’s attention is focused and I will then know where that person’s prayer life is centered.  Understanding prayer as woven into my 24 hour journey, seven days a week, with an occasional trip to church, appeals to me.

 I don’t deny that prayer takes many forms, particularly for religious people who find ecclesiastical patterns and formulas through their temple worship. In the Episcopal Church, one can use the Book of Common Prayer to center on time-tested prayers and rituals that can be exercised in corporate and private worship. I carry within me the language of those formal prayers I learned as a child and have repeated countless times throughout my life.

 I know, also, that there are varieties of disciplines utilized to organize and harness prayer. The spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius, Benedictine and Franciscan exercises, and the use of the rosary, as well as a variety of Zen Buddhist practices of prayer.  Standing, kneeling and assuming a yoga position all serve the needs of people in search of a comfortable posture for prayer. Some folks recite the Jesus Prayer while driving a car.

 I must confess that I long for the skeleton of prayer to take on even more substantial flesh and blood. Instead of merely being an occasional activity on one’s knees with head bowed and eyes closed, I search for of a round-the–clock understanding of prayer.

 Mary Oliver rescues me from the confines of ecclesiastical, ritual prayer. When my soul longs for a more inclusive, more passionate and comprehensive understanding, her advice to pay attention to whatever is at hand and then patch words together in order for silence to work its wonder, is like water for my parched soul. 

 Perhaps what I am doing right now is prayer, even though, as T.S. Eliot puts it:

Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still.

Going To The Polls With A Clothespin

 George Orwell is credited with having said,  “Advertising is the rattling inside a swill bucket.” I would add only one further word to his observation.  When it comes to political advertisements, I would add that they smell like the inside of a pigsty.

 I don’t recall any election in my lifetime that stinks like this one. Millions of dollars have been spent on political advertising. The advertising trough is full of lies, obscenities, and angry nastiness. The language displays a despicable crudeness on the part of the candidates. The words hide more than they reveal insofar as any visionary plans for change so desperately needed. The intent? To get people to vote against their own interests and the well being of their country.

 In Delaware, Christine O’Donnell, the Tea Party candidate for Senate, says she trusts the affirming voice of God to deliver her the votes she needs for her trip to Washington. My advice, Christine, even though you’re not asking for it, is simply this. Perhaps that voice is merely Karl Rove’s or the cacophony of lobbying interests who want to use you. Please don’t attribute to God every deep, resonate voice you hear.

 What is so crazy and unexplainable to me is how so many of us are vulnerably susceptible to advertising.  Every election, particularly this one when the ads are so ridiculous, I ask myself this question: Why does anyone pay any attention to any of these ads? They hide more than they reveal about a candidate, trash talk their opponents, and try to scare voters into pulling the lever for them rather than the opponent who they say will lead us all straight to hell.

 Let me be on record by saying I pay no attention to any political ads, even though I know they usually succeed in determining the outcome of an election. Political ads are, in my mind, totally irredeemable.

 I think I learned that lesson when I voted for Lyndon Johnson back in 1964. Remember how Johnson depicted his opponent, Barry Goldwater, in a frightening ad? A little girl pulled a daisy apart until the last piece of the flower erupted into an atomic explosion. It was meant to depict Goldwater as a warmonger and Johnson as a peacemaker. Yes, I voted for Johnson and then saw the folly of that ad as he dug us deeper into war in Vietnam.

 The race to fill Senator Byrd’s vacant seat in the Senate is a depressing sight. Get this picture. Governor Joe Manchin is the Democrat running against the Republican John Raese. It’s a toss-up. That’s right, I said a toss-up. John Raese, who could never get more than 2% of the vote when he ran against Byrd, may indeed win that seat. Shades of Scott Brown’s win in Massachusetts to fill Ted Kennedy’s spot.

 I’ll drag myself to the polls on Tuesday and look for a clothespin to snap on my nose.  And I will tell you why. Neither man will represent my values or what I perceive to be the best interests of West Virginia or the United States.  Both men are in the pocket of big coal and neither one of them will offer a progressive stance when it comes to making good decisions about the economy, the war or health and welfare issues.

 I thought I had suffered a nightmare when I imagined the AFL-CIO joining hands with the Chamber of Commerce in support of Joe Manchin. Then I read the Charleston Gazette and lo-and-behold it was really true.  This is no match made in heaven—no answer to a prayer.

 You talk about strange bedfellows.  John Raese is advertising the fact that Manchin will be a rubber stamp for Obama should he become our senator. I laugh. Joe Manchin, who can always rely on a better than 60% of West Virginians voting for him for governor, couldn’t convince the people of West Virginia to pull the lever for Obama and deliver the state to him.

 And the same proves true in regard to Organized Labor. Once a stronghold for the power of Organized Labor, West Virginia union members stayed away in droves when it came time to voting for both Gore and Obama. I grieve over the state of Labor in our state and nation.  Labor’s demise spells a threat to democracy, a serious calamity.

The Autumn Leaves

 I have just returned from a trip to New Hampshire where Judy and I attended daughter Debby’s wedding. While there, we ventured up into Maine to visit friends. Needless to say, we were treated to a palette full of colors. The autumn leaves were radiant.

 If Mary Oliver is right, and I believe she is, the ordinary sights of my everyday world should offer all I need as I struggle with my prayer life. “Pay attention, then patch a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate, this isn’t a contest but the doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak.”

 Since I have spent so much time over the years with people who are dying, I have learned that whatever I bring to their last moments pales in comparison with what they teach me about how to die. Another voice speaks to me in those moments—no deep resonate voice—but a sacred muteness, a silence that transcends sound. 

 Once again, in the spirit of Ms. Oliver, I need only patch together a few words born out of an autumn already being chased by winter.  I need only say that leaves know how to die, and so should I, with passionate color capable of drifting to earth for a rebirth in the soil which sprouted the limbs which once gave them birth.

Water As An Antidote For Baptism Under Fire

 I don’t take candy from a baby, but I do pour water on children’s heads. I can say that, because while I was in Maine I baptized three children—children of a couple whose wedding I performed, and whose father I baptized as a child years ago.

 Baptism is a subject much misunderstood by most of us. Some believe that baptism is a vehicle for saving human beings from either eternal damnation, or a limbo in which an un-baptized person swims while awaiting deliverance from a God who poses as a lifeguard.  For centuries, some Christians have prayed to a God and paid indulgences to a church that promises rescue to un-baptized souls. This is blasphemous religious in my mind’s eye.

  The Cornish and West Country Litany, 1926, records this prayer: “From goulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us!” That prayer most likely copies a prayer  written long ago and I like it. You might say that I am caught up in the Halloween spirit but I want to assure you that I am not talking about a sugar-crazed, candy industry inducing trick or treat supernaturalism. No way. I am talking about goulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties that have us under fire. It addresses the baptism of fire that each one of us faces.

 The term “baptism under fire” has its origins in the practice of warfare. Battle ready troops are tested under fire when they meet combat face-to-face—live ammunition, not blank rounds in their weapons—real blood, not some lie-down-and-play-dead war game.

 Our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan are facing baptism under fire. But you don’t have to be in a military uniform, stationed halfway around the word in order to be baptized under fire. All of us, in one way or another are under fire. There is no way to live in this world without being baptized by fire. It goes with the territory we occupy after having been forced out of our mother’s womb.

 All of us swim in a sea of swill—forces that attempt to shape us into less than what human beings were meant to be. Cultural pressures that prize violence, hatred, materialism, and a bevy of bullying tendencies that promise self-justification are omnipresent from the time we are born until the time we die.  I don’t need to go to Kabul to see chaos. All I need to do is pay attention to the chaos in my own neighborhood to know that an antidote for such poison is crucial for survival and renewal.

 And so I pour water on children’s head, adults as well, out of the simple belief that there is a wellspring of grace available to people—a source of grace and hope and love and justice that is capable of inspiring us to greater possibilities than we can hope for or imagine. This is a belief that nothing can separate us from the love and justice of God, not even things that go bump not only in the night, but all the day long.

Entry Filed under: Fig Tree Notes Archives