Jeannette Cooperman at The Common Reader:
I used to love to pray. Making myself small, I felt a calm expanse, a largeness, surrounding me. Kneeling was a letting go, giving in to gravity so there was no longer any distance to fall. I echoed the novenas my grandmother made, trusting their magic numbers and incantations. The saints were lined up waiting to ease our particular hardships—St. Francis called in for our puppy’s bout with distemper; St. Anthony for all the stuff I lost; St. Jude for the impossible. Nothing was impossible with God. And God was always there, just waiting to be asked, implored, begged, bargained with, praised, adored, or thanked.
Now a friend receives a terrifying diagnosis and says, “Pray for me,” and I freeze. Saying, “You’ll be in my thoughts” feels lame. Saying, “I don’t believe in petitionary prayer” feels cold and rude; my ideological struggle is not the point here. If I can do something practical—bring a casserole, drive a friend to the hospital, watch the kids—I focus on that. But often there is nothing to do but pray.
I do try. The words come—old words, learned in childhood—and then stammer to a halt, because it feels dishonest to repeat these easy words when I am so far from the place where I learned them.
William James said that without prayer, there can be no religion. But if you have moved away from organized religion, can there still be prayer?
More here.
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