At The End of The Standing Prayer

 

Art by Mike Cockrill

Standing, tired, knees hurting,

Listening to the room of silent prayer,

Hidden in my tallit, mumbling to

The old white man on a throne in the white clouds, 

Privilege incarnate,

A God for children of another era. Nah. 

Who or what listens to me now?

Talking to myself, I guess, 

Until I can sit down. But then

I imagine my ideal Listener—

All antiquity, quirks and holy one-ness,

I hear them in the whispers of the liturgy. 

I love the mystery 

And the boredom 

And the hope

In our loud quiet. 

Praying to an idea I don’t believe in,

I can’t shut up.

Help us!

We’re scared. 

We’re in danger. 

We’re in shock. 

Yet here we are, eyes closed and swaying,

Still holding ourselves to

Dreams of logic and compassion

And conversations with the divine. 

We must be brave. 

Standing in noisy silent prayer 

I step back in ritual 

I step back in jest

I step back in grief

I bow in awe. 

Blessed Holy Wholeness!

Amen. 

Now, my Listener,

May I sit?