pastor prayers

Delivered at the opening of the UU Musicians’ Network Conference in Boston, August 5, 2008.

Spirit of life, visit us with your power.

Come to those who are still reeling from the trauma of violence in Knoxville, come to those who are feeling desperate and fearful, come to those of us who are newly aware of the fragility of life and the vulnerability of our beings.

We lift up in our midst the names of our brother and sister whose lives were lost to violence born of anger and alienation:  Greg McKendry and Linda Kraeger.  May their memories be a blessing to all who knew them, and may their nearest and dearest family and friends be held in the wide open embrace of love as they encounter the depths of their loss.

We send prayers of comfort and healing to those recovering physically from injuries sustained in the attack: Jack Barnhart, Linda Chavez, Tammy Sommers, Joe Barnhart, John Worth, Linda Barnhart and Allison Lee.  May their loved ones and caregivers be held in care and sustained by the power of hope.

Spirit of life, spirit of creative possibility, spirit of unending love,
come to those who are living in fear and uncertainty, who have been directly shaken by the desperate acts of a man possessed by anger and despair.  Let them feel the power of our love surrounding them, the strength of their own community upholding them, and the power of the living god moving in and among them.  Lift them up, embrace them, infuse them with the breath of life that heals and endures.

Let our hands, connected in this room, our arms aching to hold and comfort our family of faith in Knoxville, feel the source of life moving through them.

As we feel our own vulnerability, let us feel strengthened in community.  May these roots indeed hold us close to the source of all, so that we might feel nourished by the compassion and the passion for life and for justice that are the source of our growth.

Let our wings set us free to soar and see the ways this tragedy among our own family of faith connects us with those around the world experiencing the violence born of desperation, a world where too many are forgotten.  As we pray for our beloved kin in Knoxville, and let us also send our prayers to all those who feel lost or abandoned, whose lives have turned them toward violence as the only solution.   Let Jim Adkisson be held in the midst of his pain, and on the path toward justice let there be healing.   May love free us from the bonds of fear and help us honor the sacred spirit in each and all.

Let that great love that lifts us up, moves us forward, and gives us courage help us to find strength and solace in one another.

Amen.

In a growing congregation full to the gills with young families, it’s a challenge to convey the sacred thread of tradition and history that connects us in a small New England town. We’re surrounded by city, and our lives are wrapped up in a cosmopolitan and economically anxious pace that keeps us moving from activity to activity without any real time for reflection. My people land at church on Sunday morning and want that moment to rest, to connect, and then to get back “on track” with the list that will continue the day. I am no different.

Last week, a beloved member of our congregation died. She lived a long life, and it was her time. But what goes with her is more than just the single, remarkable life she led. She connected us with a lineage that went back over a century, and in the stories she told and the people she encountered she covered the major events of the 20th century. There is nothing that feels like enough to mark such a passage, nothing that can convey the loss, or the memory, or the importance of that link. We offered a lovely funeral for her. The choir was spectacular. People shared stories, eloquently told on the spot. We enjoyed an elegant luncheon befitting our dear departed’s own generosity as a hostess. Now, it is for us to continue to tell the stories, to live the legacy she passed along to us in a million ways. And hope we were paying attention.

Gentle god, god who spans time and space and memory, touch our hearts with the significance of each life we encounter. Grant us the curiosity to ask the stories of those near to us and dear, and to sit humbly at their feet, be they old or young, and learn the wisdom of their lives. Bless us with the time to enjoy the gifts we offer one another in our simple presence. Help us remember again and again the stories of those who have gone before, who have made us who we are, and who gave us this rich heritage. Equip us with an ever growing understanding of yesterday, so that we might build tomorrow with compassion, with dignity, and with humility. In your holy names, o god, we pray. Amen.

Thank you, Jesus

One of my favorite art purchases ever is this ex voto from Guatemala. I found it at my favorite gallery about 9 years ago. It’s a thank you note to God (or in this case Christ the King of the Mountain) for having survived a school bus accident, hand stitched by the person giving thanks. As soon as I saw it, I was touched by it. At the time it was because it made me think about how often when we make it through something scary we move straight through the “thank goodness I’m alive” and on to: “whose fault was this?” and “How can I make sure I’m never so scared again?” or, in many cases, “Where can I get some financial recompense for being so threatened?” Taking the time and trouble to mark the sheer fact of survival when things could have turned out otherwise, to actually make a beautiful tribute to the fact of being saved… well, it just hadn’t ever occurred to me.

When I bought it, I had just graduated with my M.Div., been through a divorce, and had a brush with death in the form of a pulmonary embolism. I had plenty of reason to be thankful just to be walking around somewhat intact. And so I carried it home on the plane as a reminder of the constant need to offer thanks and praise. I don’t usually think of prayer as having magical powers or as something one does to stave off bad events in life. I certainly don’t tend to attribute miraculous survival to the person of Jesus. But whatever the direction of prayer, I am ever more convinced that it is important as an acknowledgement of the struggle and the joy of our lives. We sanctify them by offering them up, just as they are, to some great and ultimately unnamable force. And when we say them out loud, make them into art, preserve the significant moments of our lives, we come to understand them in a new way, to offer them a bigger context and sometimes a greater purpose.

As I have held onto this particular prayer from the journal of Zenaida, I’ve also come to realize the power of holding and honoring anothers’ prayer — one that belongs to someone I may never meet, with a life I probably can’t imagine. Most of us are familiar with prayer chains and different ways of sharing prayer as a way to magnify its efficacy or just to feel held in community. From Catholic altars and shrines to puja offered at Hindu shrines and temples, there seems to be a universal human need to offer prayers publicly, to share them and believe they can be heard — if not by the gods or goddesses, then by our fellow humans. Who knows, they could be one in the same.

One of my favorite parts of the liturgy we do at my church is the Morning Prayer. Before worship begins, anyone in the congregation is invited to write down a prayer and light a candle on a table at the front of the sanctuary. They can indicate whether they wish for it to remain private or want it to be shared, and then as I speak the rest of the prayer I read the words of prayer of the folks in the congregation. On the days when I think about its meaning too deeply, I end up choking back tears. There is something astoundingly powerful to me about having the honor of speaking the prayers of others. I consider it the centerpiece and most religiously important part of our worship.

I don’t know how many people are reading this blog (my stats just say how many hits there were, but I don’t know about duplicates or from where), but I’d like to offer this as a place where folks might also offer prayers to be shared. Not in a creepy chain-letter way, but as a way to offer up genuine thanks, or concern, or sorrow, and let it be held by a larger community that will offer some tender care. I can hear many of my beloved rationalist atheist UU’s rolling their eyes at how cheeseball it may seem. But I’d be willing to bet that even you folks have some deep yearnings that you’d love to get off your chests and have a little bit of help holding.

Give it up, dear readers. Do you have a thank you note to God? A lament? A tirade? A full-on angst directed at the universe? Let’s hear ‘em.

PS: Later update — I will have intermittent email access at best for the next week, so if you don’t see a comment right away, know that it will be posted as soon as I can get to it.