Prayer

My streak dies at two weeks in a row.

I didn't mean to miss a week of church, and truth to tell, I could have seriously used some quiet contemplation on Sunday. But my mind and body were sapped. It was as if I had so many reasons to look for help that I couldn't move. The work week had been hellish, Kr. and I were in the middle of a huge and cold fight, and the regimen of healthy living I'd maintained for more than two weeks completely collapsed. As much as I needed to just drag my ass out of bed and hit the restart button in my mind, I could not do it.

But of course, spirituality needs to be more than a once-a-week deal or it's nothing better than what I used to practice as a child. Back at St. Patrick's School, every gesture, every utterance of prayer and attendance at church was an act of streamlining. We did it mostly because if we didn't, we'd get in trouble and what did it hurt? Even becoming an altar boy was more about acceptance than anything, and the mechanical perfection of ritual even more important because I was doing it in public. To be honest, the goal as an altar boy was more funerals and more weddings, because that's where the money was.

In the second grade, reconciliation and pennance were the doors to first communion, where you got the party and the presents. In the eighth grade, confirmation was another opportunity for cash, but it would have been more apt if they'd just called it conformation instead. Once again we memorized the prayers and the creeds -- and I'd even go so far as to say I understood what they meant -- but a profession of faith didn't necessarily grow from an examination of faith.

Introspection was never encouraged back in those days. And though we all knew lying was wrong, the penalties for nonconformity were immediate and real, while the penalties for lying to ourselves and hollow systems of faith were distant and uncertain. Even now, when I know that nebulous price much better, I still would not go back and lift the veil from my my 10- or 13-year-old eyes. In a bass-ackwards way, I'm grateful to the structure of Catholicism for the educational path it put me on and for the focus it continues to lend me as an adult. After all, we all need something to rebel from, to leave behind.

For all the Hail Marys and Our Fathers and Apostles Creeds I said on my way to a brief Catholic adulthood, I never really learned to pray. That I learned from life, and those lonely, vital moments when the worries, stresses and even opportunities get to be too much to bear. At those times, I always found it useful to unload things on the universe, or God, or whatever. I'd just say to myself, "You know, this puzzle is way complicated. Some of the pieces are going to have to find their way on their own."

Now, if Kr. is reading, she's probably thinking, "That's where I come in and do the dirty work." And to some extent, that's true. If we're facing a financial crisis that threatens vacation plans or something, she'll say, "How the hell are we going to be able to afford this?" To which I reply, "I don't know. Let's go on vacation and find out." Then she throws up her hands and gets miffed at me. She goes on worrying, and a few days or a few weeks later, she gets a free-lancing gig that solves the whole thing. To say that the reason things turned out well was that I gave my troubles to God would certainly take for granted my wife's hard work in figuring things out, but I can say with all honesty that I'm glad I didn't twist myself out of shape over it.

So, that's what I think prayer is. Whether you're happy or sad, desperate or determined, it's the act of consciously sharing that feeling with the collective soul, in search of greater well being. As recently as the moment I started writing this post, I assumed prayer required faith in an intelligent God-force, which might theoretically be able to answer, but I've changed my mind because I'm not certain I have such faith.

I do know that I have enough troubles, crises, hopes and worries that seem unsolvable. I'm going to start laying them down as they surface, sending them out into the world to find their own solutions. If anyone reads them, there's that much better chance of good things happening.

For my part, I'm going to do my best to empathize with those I read or hear about, to hear the prayers that go out in stories and in life every day. I may not be able to answer a single one of them, but I know I'd feel better if I merely knew someone heard.

Service No. 2 -- Jan. 22 @ Philly UU

There's something very strong in me that is wary, even fearful, of crowds. I much prefer to be somewhere few others want to be. Maybe the more people are around the less I feel I'm going to be able to offer. Those others are bound to be more outgoing, more attractive, more perfect for the group's hopes and needs than me. And practically everyone I've ever met makes friends more easily than I do, so it's hard not to imagine becoming that strange guy in the back who keeps showing up but never talks to anybody.

The Universal Unitarian service this past Sunday was extremely crowded. Again they asked newcomers and visitors to stand and introduce themselves, and again I was too intimidated. So another dozen bright-eyed, confident candidates for inclusion stepped ahead of me, into the warmth of wantedness, pehaps even neededness. And I felt like shit again.

But at least I wasn't alone; my family was there with me. The more I think of it, though, the more I realize we probably weren't good for each other in that situation. We share many of the same traits, socially, and so we all -- myself, my mom, my dad, my sister and even my little month-old-niece Miriam -- just stood there, cloaked in a self-defensive diffidence that will never, ever get us what we want, no matter what that might be. Even my father, whose natural inclination is to be friendly and outgoing, gets sucked into the vortex of our collective fear. My dad is the kind of guy who will step onto most any common ground, however unstable, when meeting a new person, whereas the rest of us -- especially my mom and I -- tend to dwell on differences in that same situation. It gets cold and lonely on that solid ground, but I was not surprised when my dad did not stand up and set the outgoing example. He's just not in that kind of place right now.

Perhaps fittingly, the sermon was about Emerson's ideal of self-reliance, and its modern UU interpretation into a call to interdependence. The worship associate read a poem that contained the line, "Forever I forgo the yoke of man's opinion." Now, I could interpret that as a confirmation of my nature, that I should not seek the approval of others by wishing to join or be wanted or needed, that my diffidence is perfectly just. I should not care to be accepted or welcomed, but carry my life on my own shoulders. Who cares if I arrive alone and leave alone and never speak to anyone in the interim. I am my own man, reliant on no one.

But the message of the sermon, delivered by the visiting minister from the Germantown UU church, offered that the self-reliance that Emerson advocated is no longer an ideal way to go through life, and that its virtues have grown stale. "I feel that, dog," said something inside me. In the wisdom of far too much loneliness, I choose to see it another way. That self-reliance ought to grant me freedom to offer myself to interdependent relationships regardless of others' opinions, or -- more to the point -- of fear of others' opinions.

Of course, it's all pie in the sky until the moment I actually reach out to be reached out to. Thanks to my sister for insisting we stay for the coffee/tea gathering after the service on Sunday, but we made precious little use of it, huddled in the newcomer's corner talking to each other, despite the fact it was the third or fourth time we'd all been there. In fact, the church president came over to make small talk and wondered why we were still considering ourselves visitors. My thought was, "Because that's what we feel like," but I didn't say anything. I just sipped my tea, smiled politely. I'm in some kind of limbo between first contact and meaningful relationship, and I never wished so hard for the hard sell. It would make things so much easier if someone just came up and said, "So what's it going to take to get you to drive home in this beautiful church today?"

The service was gorgeous, if not quite as overwhelmingly so as the Christmas Eve and Martin Luther King, Jr., services. The highlight was the choir's haunting rendition of the song "You Are the New Day," which I've heard before but never in person. Even days later, I can still hear the notes being sung and remember the tingle at the back of my neck. It's not often that you have an experience that you consciously try to hold onto, but by the end of that song there wasn't another single thought in my mind.

Next week, I think I might try to go alone, wherever I go. I have not been to a service alone yet, and i wonder if the leaps of faith might not be easier to make my myself. I don't know. The Philadelphia UU is scheduled to talk about its future, near and far, this coming Sunday. This would be an important, can't-miss kind of thing if I were sold on joining up. Because I'm not, it's almost like sitting in on the family meeting of a new friend. I'd feel superflouous at best, and at worst uncomfortable.

Service No. 1 -- MLK Jr. Sunday at Philly UU

"We shall hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope."

There could hardly be a better sentiment with which to start this spiritual search. As someone spoke those words -- Dr. King's words -- during the Universal Unitarian service yesterday, that stone got its start deep in my throat.

I feel more than a little silly. Nothing in my life is desperate. My wife is a loving and caring partner, my job is one that can be fulfilling if I let it, my iPod has plenty of space left, my family is a living miracle and relatively healthy, I'm not hungry, poor, trapped or afraid, and I don't think the government is watching me as closely as some others. To think that I can leave my suburban home, ride the train past the unspeakable poverties of Camden for which we are all responsible, cross the bridge, buy breakfast, walk into church and grow teary-eyed at the idea of my own mountain of despair... it's kind of shameful.

And yet, there I was.

I was thinking about my dad, who could look around and despair if he chose to. I was thinking about the thin ice my marriage is walking on, about the stagnation I feel every single day, about the helplessness I feel at the sight of all the ignorance and injustice around me, and about how just getting up out of bed is sometimes the biggest act of faith I have in me.

When I thought about Dr. King, the obstacles he faced, the courage he showed and the message he delivered, I realized that I am not a great man, and never could be. The mountain of my despair is not a great man's mountain, and the stone of my hope is a small, soft, porous one. But I added my mountain to the pile in that sanctuary, joined it with the ones already there, and I found that my stone grew too.

That's what I'm looking for, I know now.

That room was made for the conception of great things, I know it. The service was beautiful, touching, genuine. The children's section of the program, what they called "the Story for All Ages," was an exquisite little piece called Martin's Big Words, by Doreen Rappaport. It was a two-part script, with the worship associate -- I think her name was Elizabeth, but I could be wrong -- reading one part and the congregation responding with the other. To stand there with a diverse group of people all searching and hoping for faith and strength and speak the words, "I have a dream..."

Chills. I didn't want it to end, and it's been a long, long time since I've felt that way about a church service. Maybe never. I didn't even feel that way about my own wedding, but that was more because I had to stand for the whole thing, and the incense they used was making me light-headed... but I digress.

So this was a good start to the work I have to do. It wouldn't be fair for me to expect every experience to affect me in the way that Sunday's did, but I'm going to try and remember those feelings -- the shared despair, the strengthened hope, the exhilaration -- and get back to them when I can. It would be easy for me to simply say, "That was great, where do I sign up?" but I owe this process more care than that. The need for community is strong, but like the lonely and heartbroken, I am vulnerable.

Still, I'm planning to return this coming Sunday. We'll see.

The Resolution

Last January, I resolved (among other things) to find my faith, and possibly even join a church. The one I had in mind was the Quaker congregation in Haddonfield, the next town over. I called up and found out that services were held at 10 a.m. every Sunday, and that everyone and anyone was welcome. The idea was a fine one -- nice brisk 20-30 minute walk every week, perhaps getting to know the folks along the route so I could exchange a wave and a friendly greeting, and a grounded, contemplative experience with which to begin and end every week.

Well, I'm a sports reporter at the Courier-Post newspaper, and my hours get a little crazy. Add to that my tendency for procrastination and a slate of big-ish projects and I'm pulling all-nighters maybe once a month. That just wrecks your sleep patterns, and suddenly 10 a.m. on Sunday morning feels like 3 a.m. on a Tuesday, only the latter is now kind of doable.

So I wrote my resolution down on a piece of paper with a bunch of others. I posted that paper on the board above my desk at home, and gradually covered it with other things until I'd forgotten all about it. I never forgot about the need for more spirituality in my life, or for community, but that promise I'd made to myself went the way of hundred, even thousands, of promises I'd made to myself and others over the years.

I didn't exactly break it. Let's just say it drowned.

But this new year came around, and I'm a year older and a year closer to the crises that will define my life. The urge surfaced once again with the holidays, and once again I resolve: I will work on my spiritual life.

But this time I set myself a numeric goal. I find that this always helps me, by the way, especially if I can make some kind of chart to fill up. I can sit there for hours and just look at a chart if it's full of little scribblings that have come from adherence to some kind of personal regimen. It's an odd compulsion given all the left-brained stuff that rules so much of my life, but if I can't explain it, I'm not going to apologize.

Anyway, the magic number is 30. Thirty services this calendar year, and everything counts. Weddings count. The obligatory Christmas Eve at my wife's Lutheran church in Northeast Philly counts. God forbid I have to attend a funeral, but it counts too. A really great piece of pie, often likened to a religious experience, does not count however. Nor would a 300 game in bowling, a Phillies playoff appearance, the return of the West Wing for a seventh season or any other such miracle.

I thought about the number a lot, and I feel good about it because it demands discipline but allows for circumstances. My first impulse was 40, but I realized that would mean I'd have to go three times every single month, and four times in a few months. So if I miss the first week because I'm working, or even because I oversleep, there's no wiggle room. I thought about 20 or 25 as well, but both of those numbers represent less than half the weeks in the calendar, and that idea would defeat my feeble mind. It would have been too hard to overcome the inevitable "I'll go next Sunday" conversation in my head.

I need to feel like I have to plan to go every week, knowing that at least one quarter to one third of the time, some unforseen thing is going to intercede at the last moment.

Sometimes I wonder if everyone is this fucked up. I'm doing all this shadowboxing with my own mind just to get myself to do something that I've been wanting to do for a long time. Now I understand why people wander into the wilderness, or go live on a farm where they have to wake up before dawn just to scratch out a living and go to bed exhausted every day. I bet they come back to civilization and just do stuff when they want to do it, without having to set up an elaborate system of neurotic rewards to continually convince themselves of what they already know it right. A little trail of little carrots for our bored little minds to follow all year. When your entire life depends on whether it rains this week, boredom never sets in so easily again, I'll bet.

Anyway, I'm hoping that after a while, I won't even need that number out there, that I can forget about it and attend services because I look forward to them and get a lot from them. But to tell you the truth, this blog is even part of that cat's cradle of neuroses: the shame of the neglected site is bitter, indeed.