One of the most awkward things about me has always been my tendency towards religiosity. Even when I was an atheist, I had a pretty religious sensibility about it. When I was a yoga teacher I opened the sessions with a Sanskrit mantra. It made people think I knew exactly what I was doing, even if the yoga class was terrible. In the end I found a home for my faith in the U.S. Episcopal Church. It happened for a variety of reasons we can get into over a non-alcoholic beer sometime, but not now. That’s not the point of my writing. This is…
When they hear that I go to church some people flinch a bit. Having a religious conscience scares the bejesus (sorry) out of most people. They assume I’ll try to convert them, that I assume I know better what’s good for them. Or they assume I must be a little bit nuts and that they can’t quite trust me. Or they think I must hate LGBTQ people or that I’m a Christian Nationalist. If they’re of another religion, they think I won’t want to know. That’s the spectrum of reactions I’ve felt. All are reasonable and none are true. Or they couldn’t care less. I like that one the best because it usually means we can move along to other subjects of mutual interest fast. I hate to think of being religious as a stumbling block to engaging with people. It can be an awkward moment, particularly if the person I’m talking to is, let’s say, a little lost for a response.
Sometimes I’ll get into a conversation about my faith, and I do enjoy those. Like I enjoy conversations about death, the universe, or how to make the perfect cup of coffee. People ask how I can believe any number of things in the Nicene Creed. (It can be a challenge!)
Or they’ll want to compete with me. My friend Anthony recently went to a baptism for some of his in-laws. He relished the opportunity to show off his mastery of the Creed for their benefit. Not that he believes in any of it, but you know. #Winning
In an age of AI slop and too much machine writing, I do think there’s huge value in prayer. It centers us at a time where our center got lost. Some of my best conversations recently have been with my atheist father in law.
Now, I lead communications at an Episcopal church in the American South. Our rector always begins our Tuesday staff meetings with a prayer. The most inspiring part of the prayer is often the muscular silence he’ll open with. Imagine sitting with your colleagues in total silence for 30 seconds (I’ve counted…) before your boss says something. It runs so counter to the majority of staff meetings where people exchange words but say nothing. I can tell you, I like saying nothing but exchanging something meaningful, far better.
Recently we had a book club about a memoir by a cancer survivor and recovering opioid addict. The addict included a poem in the book by Etheridge Knight called “ A Wasp Woman Visits a Black Junkie in Prison.” It’s a splendid poem about the awkwardness of meeting someone across a divide for the first time. If you stop reading this column now and go read the poem I’d have won.
The point, though, is this. The addict asked in the memoir, “what would it mean to say a real prayer?” And for so many of us, that’s a question that leads us into a worthwhile place. Instead of asking ChatGPT to churn out some slop or run our lives for us, what do we want? Never mind who we’re talking to or who’s going to help. If we are praying, what do we talk about? What do we ask?
That’s where I like to start when I’m writing. How about you?
