When we were little, my sister and I said our prayers every night before bedtime. By my teenage years I had started falling asleep before we had finished. I am pretty sure the failure of peace talks between the US and Russia in the 1980s was my fault.
I never had the transportive sense that, as reported by the Christian female mystic Julian of Norwich, “all shall be well, and all manner of things will be well”. I only ever felt the deep certainty that I would never get it right.
When I left the institution of Catholicism I thought I had left prayer behind too. Prayer, for me, had become a meaningless repetition of a creed I did not agree with. The words that were supposed to bind people together in community were making me feel more and more alone.
Psychological research has shown that people tend to feel happier as a result of the following types of prayer: conversational prayers, prayers of adoration and of thanks, or simply a prayerful attitude of opening oneself up to a sense of connection with mystery. These kinds of prayers are also associated with a relaxation response in the brain and an increase the kind of cortical activity that is typical of focused and attentive communication. By contrast, some studies suggest ritual prayers and petitionary prayers have been related to increased depression and tension.
I do not belong to the Christian religion any more but I still pray. Prayer is my birthright. I will always belong to the tradition of humans who have for thousands of years articulated their longing in words.
In the creation stories of the Diné (Navajo) people of North America, everything is made of the Word – and speech, sound, song and rhythm are how beings manifest their relationships to each other. In a Diné prayer known as the Twelve Word Song of Blessing, each word holds the power of that which is named; blessed, bestowed, celebrated and brought into relation as it is named.
There is a Muslim practice listing the 99 attributes of Allah, and a Hindu practice reciting the multiple names of God. The ancient Chinese text the Tao Te Ching starts with these words: “The unnameable is the eternally real. Naming is the origin of all particular things.”
The Jewish Torah explains that the world was called into existence with words: ויְהִי אוֹר (yəhî ’ôr). The divine being breathed divine breath, spirit, life, ruach into the world of humans. In the Christian gospel according to John, the author writes: “The Word was the source of life, and this life brought light to humankind.”
Words are how the universe calls itself into being. By naming its longing, the universe creates distance, which creates me, and you.
Muhammad, the prophet of Islam, spoke of ghaflah, which translates roughly as “forgetting”. To help his people recall their connection to God, their obligation of gratitude and the deep wonder of being alive, Muhammad instituted a system of regular embodied prayer, called salah. Five times a day, a Muslim is called to attend to this breath, this moment.
I am too inflexible for the full prostration involved in several world prayer practices, so what I do is put my hands together, palm against palm. Sometimes I bow down and place my hands on the ground, but not my creaking knees. I say my version of the Buddhist metta practice: “May I be at ease, may I be of service, may I be well, may I be happy, may I be safe.”
The theologian Casper ter Kuile suggests replacing the phrase “our father” in the Christian Lord’s Prayer with other nouns, such as “mother wolf” or “sister pigeon”. In this way I might still access the deep familiarity of this prayer, while remembering that “God” is everything, everywhere.
Sometimes my mind runs automatically through the prayer I used to say during the Catholic mass, as I crossed my forehead, mouth and heart: “Lord let me think of you, Lord let me speak of you, Lord let me love you.” I used to get mad at myself when I said “Lord” or “God” – “Not Lord! Say mystery! Say goddess! Say divine mother! What sort of feminist are you, still praying to a patriarch?”
Now I acknowledge that these words are part of my spiritual history. These words, and all the words, are signposts, trying to give breath to the unspeakable mystery of being alive. Sometimes all I can do in the face of the sacredness of creation is bow my head and give thanks. And that is a prayer.
Jackie Bailey is an ordained interfaith minister and the author of The Eulogy, which won the 2023 NSW premier’s literary multicultural award. When she is not writing, Bailey spends her time helping families navigate death and dying
