So, how do you pray? he’d asked her once.
She’d thought about it a long moment. She always listened, always took his questions seriously. Say what you believe, she said. Say what you’re thankful for. Say what you love.
—Julia Spencer-Fleming, I Shall Not Want
I don’t find myself doing a lot of praying these days.
For a person raised, as I was, in the Southern Baptist church, where we toss around phrases like a little talk with Jesus and you can ask God anything and prayer is a conversation, this is (nearly) tantamount to heresy.
I don’t know when it began to slow down, exactly: maybe somewhere between the heart-cracking headlines (which are still getting worse all the time) and the many smaller, quieter griefs of the last few years. I’d never really understood about prayer, anyway, never quite been sure what it did, what it was supposed to do. I was tired of asking and pleading, hearing only silence.
So I slowed down, until I almost stopped altogether.
It’s not that I have stopped believing, exactly. I can’t quite seem to quit God, even when I think life might be easier or at least make a little more sense if I could.
I have, however, stopped believing in many of the platitudes I used to hear about prayer, because who really knows how it works, anyway? Like most conversations, it does not have a guaranteed outcome. Like most things we do, it is not formulaic. Like most of our attempts to be honest and faithful, it does not always make a lot of sense.
I have (mostly) stopped saying I’m praying for you to people, because sometimes it is a lie anyway, and I also (see above) have lots of questions about what that means. I have (mostly) stopped asking my friends and family to pray for me, though I know and appreciate that some of them do. I have more faith in their prayers, sometimes, than my own.
The irony here is that I still, most Sundays, lead the public prayer at our tiny church, taking requests from the handful of souls in the pews and offering them up to God or whoever is listening. I am perhaps not the best person to do this, at the moment, but it is my job and I love this community, so I get up, pen and bulletin in hand, and stand in front of these faces, familiar and unknown.
I usually begin with a line borrowed from my friend Amy, who can often be found in the front pew with her husband and twelve-year-old twins: we are so grateful for all that we have been given. I continue with a paraphrase of an old song I sang as a child: we know that you see and love the whole world.
And then, usually when my voice starts to crack under the strain of it all, I invite everyone to join me in the Lord’s Prayer. I don’t have to think of the words for this part, and the community’s voices often help carry mine. Depending on the week, certain lines can make me break into tears: on earth as it is in heaven. Forgive us our trespasses. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory.
Such as I pray, then, it can look like that: coming together with my community to follow Clare Fergusson’s advice in the Spencer-Fleming quote above. We say what we believe, what we’re thankful for, what we love. And I suspect I have not stopped believing in prayer altogether, or those lines – from the Lord’s Prayer and elsewhere – would not move me the way they sometimes do.
Such as I pray outside of church, though, it looks different.
It can look like texting a friend who lost a loved one recently, or checking in on another friend who’s going through a lot. It can look like sharing joys with loved ones, via text or in person, because prayer isn’t only sadness and asking; it is praise, too, or at least it can be.
It can look like the tasks I do around the house that ground me: folding piles of laundry, standing at the kitchen sink washing stacks of dishes. Sometimes, as I stand there scrubbing and rinsing, I end up humming one of the hymns that have lived in my bones since I was a little girl.
Sometimes I pray one of Anne Lamott’s few essential prayers: help or thanks or simply wow. Often I run right out of words altogether. I don’t know when they will come back. But then I remember Clare’s simple, solid advice, and I think: I can usually find something I love.
I don’t know if prayer moves the world, or even tilts it forward. I don’t know much about it at all, these days. But maybe it, too, is a form of love.
Maybe that’s all it needs to be.
Amen. What a lovely and honest post. You have toggled memory of a verse, “–and the greatest of these is love.” Indeed. It also helped, rather than harmed, to know that poor little Mother Teresa of Calcutta had not felt His presence for over 50 years. Not one bit, and she asked that it never be revealed, lest it become a stumbling block. It was released and was no such thing.. We could clearly see, now, that she had remained loyal to the last memory of Him, and focused on love-ing, and made the world a better place for all.
Yes. This is just lovely.
Thank you for your honest reflections. Are you familiar with Jonathan Merritt? He has a new book coming out called *Learning to Speak God from Scratch* (release date 8/11/18). He, too, is a recovering Southern Baptist. He lives in New York rather than Boston and grew up in Atlanta, rather than West Texas, but he shares many of your concerns. I read an advance copy of his book and if you’re interested I’d be happy to send it your way.
I’ve heard of him but haven’t read him. That book sounds fascinating!
Thank you for this. I hugely admire your honesty and am grateful for it.
Thanks, Betsy.
I just finished I Shall Not Want last week, and the same quote struck me when I read it. Some days lately, Anne Lamott’s three are all I can muster as well.
Yes, some days that’s all there is.
Your honesty is appreciated and refreshing (I, too, find myself in these moments). Another prayer/breath/sentiment you might add to your list is from the Mitford books, “The prayer that never fails – Thy will be done.”
Ah, yes. The prayer that never fails. That’s good to remember.