“Betwixt and between.” This is what Dr. Stephen Ray, the new president at my theological alma mater, the Chicago Theological Seminary, titled his first sermon delivered in community chapel there. The sermon was preached in the midst of the odd confluence we just had on February 14th—the co-occurrence of Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday.[1] I’ll confess that I haven’t had a chance to listen to Dr. Ray’s sermon yet, but I can’t help but imagine, with a title like this one, that it arose from that juxtaposition of love and brokenness that the February 14th observances signified this year.
Of course, February 14th was marked this year with an even more concrete and tragic embodiment of human brokenness in the mass shooting that took place at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. I suspect we all know the basic facts of that day by now: 17 killed, a troubled but criminal-record-free assailant, an AR-15 assault rifle used as the weapon. We know, too, the reactions and responses that have poured out in the wake of this tragedy—they have, shamefully, become so familiar to us that they form something akin to a civic liturgy. The voices are known and the roles they play predictable: the media outlets profiling every aspect of the assailant’s history and associations, the voices crying out for real action on gun control and the ones making accusations that such would be “politicizing” a tragedy, the people saying they offer their “thoughts and prayers” and the ones decrying such as insufficient platitude. This civic liturgy does not seem to be a transformative one, though, since we know all too well that it has played out dozens (even hundreds) of times in recent years and yet no one seems to be changed by it.
“Betwixt and between” aptly captures where my own mind and soul sit at the moment. I’m caught betwixt and between the feeling that I should say something in the wake of an incident like this, that I should have some sort of pastoral wisdom or comfort or theological framing to offer… and the feeling that we’ve been here so many times already that I don’t know what else I have to say. I’m caught betwixt and between my sympathy with those who are calling for real action on gun control and my cynicism and skepticism that anything will actually happen on this front. I’m caught betwixt and between my agreement with those who say empty platitudes about “thoughts and prayers” aren’t enough—or even that they are offensive in the context of such impotence and inaction on the part of some who make them—and my conviction that our life of prayer does, in fact, matter.
While I was away on sabbatical last fall, we had another one of these mass shooting tragedies (well, more than one, actually…), namely the one at the Las Vegas music festival on October 1st. In the wake of that incident, the Rev. Dr. Charles Wiley, at the time coordinator of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)’s Office of Theology and Worship, offered a reflection on the matter of “thoughts and prayers”… and I, in turn, offer it to you:
The day after the Las Vegas shooting massacre, I posted on Facebook, “Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayers.” I didn’t really know what else to say at the moment. My friend Bruce Gillette replied with a political cartoon depicting God in heaven saying, “Enough already with the ‘prayers for the victims and their families,’ you morons. Go enact some meaningful gun control!”
“Thoughts and prayers.” Shallow or meaningful? What does it mean to pray in such situations?
Prayer as communion with God: In prayer we sense God’s grace, purity, love and majesty. In prayer, we offer our lives to God. And so, in prayer, we align ourselves with God and God’s purposes in the world. When we pray, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,” we are aligning our wills, our actions, to those of God. We learn to pray in harmony with God’s eternal purposes. Far from being a giant wish fulfillment list of parking spaces, new cars or a promotion, prayer is learning to love God and God’s ways in the world. When we read in the Psalms “give to me the desires of my heart,” we are really asking that our very desires be the desires that please God.
Prayer is good for the self: We believe that growing closer to God and being filled with the Holy Spirit is good for us, although not necessarily that it will make us healthy, wealthy, and wise. Through prayer God frees us from anxiety, equips us for service, and deepens our faith. In times where many people are experiencing profound anxiety for a whole variety of reasons, prayer helps us to center our lives around communion with God.
There’s even some research that substantiates that prayer is good for us. Those who prayed regularly were more focused, less anxious and felt more connected to other people.
Prayer delivers us from the paralysis of cynicism or despair.
Prayer is good for others: Prayer aligns us with God. Prayer is good for us. And prayer aligns us with those whom God loves. This leads us to praying for others, from personal needs of family and friends to the biggest issues that face our entire world. Sometimes praying is all we can do. And knowing that others are praying for you can be very meaningful. Thoughts and prayers can be powerful. But often there is more we can do. And in those situations, “thoughts and prayers” becomes a banal excuse for not embodying those prayers in action. Jesus tells us that when we serve others in his name, we serve him.
Prayer builds solidarity with those who are suffering. Prayer is a way of practicing empathy. When children (or adults) hear the church praying for people who are poor, they learn that this is something that matters to Christians. Prayer also provides an initial way to respond in faith, and thus becomes the first step toward action. This is especially important when hearing about something distant or overwhelming that you really can’t do anything about, at least not immediately. While “first responders” are responding to a tsunami on the other side of the world, our “first response” is to offer our pain to God; then God may begin to illuminate what we can do to help. It keeps us from getting stuck.
Praying leads us to action, but it does not substitute for it. If we pray for the people of Puerto Rico, how might we concretely act? Perhaps donating to [a disaster relief agency] or writing Congress to release more aid. If we pray for the victims of gun violence in Las Vegas, working for legislation or community action that would reduce gun violence is a way to live out our prayers. If we pray for someone who is sick, perhaps sitting with them or bringing them a meal might be a way to practice what we pray.
A shallow practice of extending “thoughts and prayers” with no self-reflection and no commitment to action is no prayer at all. Embodied, emboldened thoughts and prayers is a powerful movement that follows Jesus Christ in aligning ourselves with God’s concern for all people.[2]
Indeed, I’m in full agreement with all those who decry the empty offers of “thoughts and prayers” as a simple knee-jerk response to these incidents, with no real commitment to meaningful action to change the circumstances that allow these tragedies to happen—or even to make them less severe when they do. And… I don’t want us to give up on prayer, either, because heaven knows, some days it’s all I’ve got!
Yours in the journey,
Matt
[1] Interesting side note: The last time Ash Wednesday fell on Valentine’s Day was in 1945, although it will do so again in just 6 years from now (the year 2024).
[2] Charles Wiley, “What Presbyterians Believe: ‘Thoughts and Prayers’ – Digital conversation after Las Vegas shooting massacre questions practice of extending ‘thoughts and prayers’”, article posted 23 October 2017, https://www.presbyterianmission.org/story/presbyterians-believe-thoughts-prayers/
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