Where do prayers come from?

Where do prayers come from?

Prayers come from anywhere: inside yourself, outside yourself, and usually both. There’s no “right” or “wrong” about prayers or praying. There are, however, different prayer types and, in as much as prayers reflect the pray-er (the person praying), pray-er temperaments.

I tend to live a pretty structured existence, so it works well for me to let prayers simply bubble up or happen along; I’ll jot down notes as ideas appear or when I hear snippets of things. Then when I sit down to plan worship I fashion prayers using the scripture and theme for each Sunday as the pattern and my collection of notes as the fabric.

O Christ, thank you for making us a queer church!

Thank you for giving us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change,

including the beautiful rainbow spectrum of sexuality.

Thank you for encouraging us to change the things we can,

like how we view ourselves in the mirror,

or the way we see ourselves in the eyes of others.

We give you great thanks, O Creator Divine,

for those of us who are transgender,

for those of us who are lesbian,

for those of us who are straight,

for those of us who are bisexual,

for those of us who are gay,

and for those of us who don’t like categories.

We thank you, Ruach, for calling each of us not to be perfect,

but to be perfectly who you formed us to be:

females who act like boys—or like girls—or are just being ourselves,

males who appear feminine—or masculine—or are simply comfortable in our own skin.

Let it be.

Short is better than long, and variety keeps things interesting. I tend to be long-winded, so my challenge is to stay focused and write what I mean and, when speaking, mean what I say. There are key themes that I repeat in my prayers, but I try to re-word them so they don’t become dull; even familiar phrases from scripture I might re-phrase in hopes of hearing them afresh.

My father offered this ABC prayer at my high school baccalaureate service:

Dear God, help me

accept myself,

better myself,

commit myself.

Amen.

Bodies of Water

Bodies of Water

When I was going through divorce—the first time—and feeling down in the dumps, I decided to read a Psalm every day and let it work whatever magic it could for me.

I’ve never been one to pray every day or read scripture on a regular basis other than for work. I’ve heard of people reading the Bible cover to cover, and I’ve seen guides for getting through all of scripture in a single year. But that kind of regimen has never appealed to me; even when I used to keep a daily diary I would eventually lose interest, usually in the late summer or autumn.  Something about having to do it erased my wanting to do it.

Why I opted at my lowest ebb to take up an exhausting exercise I’ll never know. I could’ve just as easily gone bar-hopping or clubbing or signed up for Spanish lessons. Perhaps being an introvert had something to do with my choice of discipline; it didn’t require leaving the house and spending money and pretending I was on the lookout for adventure. Instead it was like rummaging around in the medicine cabinet for some Vick’s vapor rub; the Psalms were right there where they’ve always been, deeply comforting, reminiscent of my childhood, and a tried-and-true balm.

So I started in on Psalm 1: “Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked, or take the path that sinners tread, or sit in the seat of scoffers; but their delight is in the law of the LORD, and on God’s law they mediate day and night. They are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither. In all that they do, they prosper” (from the New Revised Standard Version).

I’m afraid to say, or rather, I’m happy to say I read no further. Here are my jottings, dated March 25, 1996, just before I signed my divorce papers:

Bodies of Water

            I grew up in a desert, a void of my true self that offered me instead—or rather forced –a world made of sand castles with just enough water (and salt water at that) to keep them intact—

            a sand castle called the church in which my dad worked hard to keep it from blowing away; in which old beliefs drew lines in the sand separating the orthodox from the heretics; in which we buried bodies—any body—out of shame, embarrassment, confusion over why God made us with bodies and what they are to be used for

            a sand castle called the Old South in which my folks were advised to send me to dance lessons so that I could grow up to be a Mardi Gras Queen (and as a result—even though they neither sent me to dance nor put me in pageants—I grew to despise my body and movement); in which the only choices were to ignore or to exploit, to deny or to abuse, to tee-total or to practice addition, to live on land made of shifting sand and pretend we were safe and stable or to live in the water which we feared and knew we would be caught by the undertow and drowned; so we lived on the dry sand devoid of getting wet and would only occasionally romp in the baby waves at low tide under parents’ watchful eyes in modest swimsuits; never out in the wide ocean engulfed by wave after wave, surfing, feeling the pulse of the ocean, riding the wave of imagination or invention; never diving deep for fear of never surfacing and of losing oneself only to be found true, whole, lovely

            Psalm 1 begins, “Happy are those who are like trees planted by streams of water which yield their fruit in its season.” That’s the human condition, and we can pretend to be deadwood, driftwood alone in the desert, pieces of petrified forest (petrified, scared of whatever)

            or we can dig our roots down past the arid sand to the rich, lush, moist soil that feeds us; down to the living waters that connect us, that transform the earth into food for the body.

            We are not ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

            We are tears to tears and sweat to sweat.

            We are bodies of water, born in a water bed, passed through a birth canal, washed in love, sprayed with affection.

            Our maker breathes the moist breath of life into each one of us, “You are my beloved in whom I give great pleasure. I made you very good.”

How Band Saved My Life

How Band Saved My Life

I was 13 years old going on 14 when my family moved to a suburb of Nashville, Tennessee, and I had to change schools. Only many years later would I realize that everybody experiences a difficult adolescence. But in my new school I felt like an outsider—everyone else seemed to know each other. Plus I was tall but too klutzy to play basketball, and I had a bad overbite and braces on my teeth and was too self-conscious to make friends easily.

Then I joined the Band. They needed French horn players, and I and another 8th grader began practicing under the tutelage of a 9th grade trumpet player. Every day in the closet of a practice room we developed our embouchure, learned the fingering, and I applied wads of wax on my braces so as not to cut the inside of my mouth.

Little did I know it then, but Band would save my life. It provided me with a ready-made group of friends. It gave us all a collective challenge, to play together musically. And it led us to strive for excellence, individually and as an ensemble.

Then came Band Camp. I've heard tales about boot camp from soldiers and I can appreciate their experience because I remember surviving hot, humid summer days at Tennessee Tech University, learning the marching drill in the mornings and then perfecting our memorized music in the afternoons.

I can still smell the musty old uniforms we started out wearing in Marching Band, to be replaced by brand new red-white-blue uniforms that rivaled those worn by the guards at Buckingham Palace. The structure, the precision, the team effort to exact a stunning show and a fantastic sound—I gave my heart and soul to Band and reaped the benefits. (The fact that it got me out of gym class in high school was an added bonus.)

We worked together over many weeks to put together a great half-time performance at football games. We piled on to buses to travel to games and competitions and came back in the company of true friends. We learned to take orders, and to take punishment, from our Band Director and from our student officers. We worked off demerits and occasionally ate humble pie. Suffering our Band Director’s glares of disappointment—and ducking pieces of chalk he would fling in exasperation—were all worth it when he beamed with pride at our accomplishments. And he went above and beyond by expecting us not to gloat in front of other bands we had bested at contests; we had to wait until we were on the bus before we could yell and cheer and bask in our triumph.

Lugging that French horn home on the back of my bicycle, and later on the bus, did not make me popular or attractive. But I survived. I learned to be a leader in the Band. A squad leader, Assistant Signal Major, and—off and on—first chair French horn player.

Nowadays I am a Presbyterian minister serving churches on a temporary basis, usually for a couple years or so. Whenever I start a new position, the first person I always introduce myself to is the church organist, who I treat as a colleague. Together we lead worship—which for me means leading music.

Recently I planned worship for the coming Fall, chose songs from a variety of hymnals, hummed unfamiliar tunes to myself, found familiar melodies that work better, worked up some gospel verses for prayers, recalled a little ditty to teach the books of the Bible, made notes to explain special music, and other details. Because of Band I am confident in my role as music leader. Sure, there are other aspects to my job, but music is what connects the hearts and souls of all those present in worship.

People over here think I'm this way because I come from Music City USA. Little do they know it's because I'm a Dupont High School Marching Bulldog.

Band really did save my life, back when I thought I was the only misfit. But now I can honestly say Band made my life worth living, starting in the 8th grade.