Day 164 - Is the prayer strike working?

 

No reason to start praying again even if my prayer strike doesn’t seem to be working.

And I’m not inclined to apologise to the Almighty at the moment. To be honest, I feel he owes some of us an apology.

Pride, I’m sure.

You won’t find Christ apologizing for anything in the gospels (or, weirdly, saying please, or thanking anyone but his heavenly Father (basically thanking himself)). Not once. One might imagine that he would have apologized after bumping into someone in some crowd once or twice, or maybe he did a shoddy job on some piece of furniture and bodged the nail-work and had a run-in with a carpentry customer.

Who knows? As his followers conveniently (and often sycophantly) say today, ‘He’s got nothing to apologise for’. Or, if they are a little kinder, ‘You’re going to be waiting a long time if you expect God to apologise to you.’ Nothing, it seems, is impossible for God, except for that… and a few other things. Things like not letting brothers die too early.

But I don’t even want an apology (though it would be nice). I want God to answer my occasional past prayers. And they are and will remain between me and him, although I can say that some of them were not entirely selfish and were to make things better even for you, patient reader. Basically, one of the reasons I’m not praying is in order to get prayers answered (because praying definitely didn’t work).

I could have written a book about prayer. Or about my relationship with it. As I say, it is harder to stop praying than you may imagine. It sounds easy. Lazy even. After all, many people do not pray at all. But it isn’t that easy. The ex-Christians know this and sometimes write about it. That, and the lingering fear of an (agreed-by-me-to-be-unfair) … hell.

But I could have written a book on prayer. Except, why would anyone want to read a book on prayer by someone who has had so few answered? Let the prosperity preachers write their books about how God has made them rich and successful and how it has had nothing to do with the fact that they give love a bad name by fleecing their congregations.

Prayer is greedy like that. Always wanting more.

So, no prayers answered. The prayer-strike seems not to be working.

The Almighty doesn’t need my prayers; he’s made that clear. So, what is his problem?

As my prayers are so utterly useless, it doesn’t matter if I carry on with the strike then, does it?

It will end when the conditions have been met.

Day 157 - A little story about prayer

 

'Meet like-minded people' (AI generated image)

I thought I would simply post a joke about prayer this week. Not mine, but if you haven’t heard it before, it’s quite good. (I’ve tweaked it a little to reflect my Pentecostal church background – but I’m allowed to do that.)

 

A famous coffee company arranges an urgent meeting with the Chair of the World Assemblies of God Fellowship.

After being led to the Chair’s plush main office, the coffee official whispers,
"You’re a difficult man to reach. I’ve come to propose an offer for you…

We are prepared to ‘donate’ £111 million to the Pentecostal church if you change the Lord's Prayer from ‘Give us this day our daily bread’ to ‘Give us this day our daily coffee.’"

The Chair responds, "That’s impossible. The prayer is the very word of the Lord. It must not be changed. Prayers are powerful. We believe in the power of prayer. It is unthinkable!"

"Well," says the coffee man, "we anticipated your reluctance. For this reason, we will increase our offer to £333 million."

"It’s impossible, the prayer is the eternal, unchanging word of the Lord. It cannot be altered! Besides, we are merely one part of the whole worldwide… admittedly slightly disunified… Church."

The coffee guy says, "Sir. We respect your public adherence to matters of faith, but we do have one final offer.... We will donate £66…6 million to your church if you would only change the Lord's Prayer from ‘Give us this day our daily bread’ to ‘Give us this day our daily coffee’... Please consider it."

And he leaves.

The next day the Chair convenes with his church executive council.

"There is some good news," he announces, "and some bad news. The good news is that the Assemblies of God will come into a very useful £66…3 million.'"

"And the bad news?" asks a colleague.

"We're losing the Warburtons account."

Day 150 - The boot dream

 

When I was a boy, aged about ten, I had a dream which I have never been able to forget. On one of the family holidays in Cornwall I had this dream:

 

My brother and I were away from home on holiday in the caravan. The dream was set at the campsite where there was a fast river filled with fish. In the dream my brother and I went fishing in the river. It was daytime and we both stood on the riverbank with our fishing rods. Suddenly my brother started to struggle. He had caught a huge fish, it seemed, and the rod was bending so much that he couldn’t keep his balance. He was tugged into the water and floundered in the fast river. There was a heavy current and he couldn’t keep afloat. I watched with horror and didn’t know what to do.

Suddenly I felt myself being tugged towards the river too. It was some strange force. Before I knew it, I was pulled into the raging river. We both floundered in the water trying to stay afloat. I looked across to my brother and watched as he sank. Before I knew it his head had sunk underwater and he was gone. I felt so powerless. But before I could do anything I felt a tugging from beneath and I began to drown too. I was being pulled down into the river and I couldn’t stay afloat. Then it was just my head being pulled under the water. As one final act I looked up, gasping for breath.

And I saw the sky darkened above me. I saw power cables over the water. And perched on top of the power cables was a giant boot. And climbing around the boot were evil imps, I knew at once that they were evil. They were watching and enjoying seeing us drown. Laughing. And then I went under too.

My dreams and nightmares are often Kafkaesque – but this was among the first of those and had always stuck in my mind. Last winter, when my brother lost his use of language and the understanding of the language of others, I would sometimes think back to this dream as it seemed so pertinent.

In exasperation, I rewrote the boot nightmare – the nightmare which was haunting me – as I felt I was living it. I even prayed it through in the hope that I could bring a new version to pass. I wrote the following…

My brother and I are away from home on holiday in the caravan. We are at a campsite. There is a river filled with fish and we decide to go fishing. It is daytime and we both stand on the riverbank with our fishing rods. Suddenly my brother starts to struggle. I think he has caught a huge fish; the rod is bending so much that he can’t keep his balance. He is tugged into the water and is floundering in the fast river. There is a heavy current and he can’t keep afloat.

I watch with horror and don’t know what to do.

Suddenly I feel a force tugging me towards the river too. But although it looks as if something is pulling the rod, it is some invisible power which is like the most powerful magnet in the world. It is a force stronger than myself.

Before I know it, I am pulled into the raging river too. We are both struggling in the water trying to stay afloat. Trying to stay alive.

But the force has stopped and at this point nothing is tugging me under…yet. I remember what people have said. I am a strong swimmer. I know that my brother is a strong swimmer too, but it is as if that force is now tugging him under.

I swim to him and cannot understand what he is saying but I see in his eyes that he needs help. Using my strength, I reach under his chin and try to push his body upwards so that he is kept afloat at least. But the force is still tugging at him and I am not strong enough to save him that way.

I look upwards, at a loss. Above us I see power cables over the water. And perched on top of the power cables is a giant boot. It is ridiculous. A huge boot, resting on power cables, like something out of a fairy tale. Except to me, it is like something from the end of 1984 and we are to be crushed under the boot forever. The sky is dark now. Most ridiculous of all are the evil imps clambering over the boot and wires. They are laughing and pointing at us. I know that they are connected to the force.

In desperation I call out to God for help.

And we both go under at the same time.

The evil imps laugh in total victory.

Now we are both underwater. I am the first to realise that we can still breathe there… and it feels… safe. The surface of the river is like a shield against the force and the imps. There is life in the river.

I shake my brother a little and he opens his eyes, finally taking a breath. He can breathe too.

We swim underwater for a while, both surprised and happy that we are not drowning at all. That some more powerful force has saved us. On the river bed, among the weed, we find some gold treasure and swim to it, filling our pockets with diamonds and gold and pearls and sapphires and rubies and emeralds.

Looking upwards, the imps are still there. But they are no longer laughing. Now they are angry. The hatred can be felt. Suddenly, out of the river burst two angels. Water sprays our faces and we are again surprised at their appearance. They are bright white and full of dignity and power. They fly up to the boot and slaughter the imps quickly with golden swords. The boot remains on the cables but there is not an imp in sight. All of the imps have been destroyed and one of the angels makes a sign in the air, a swirl, destroying the force and the leaders of the imps in one moment.

Then the angels return to us. We have both survived and our pockets are full of treasure. The boot remains as evidence of what happened. Perhaps we will go back for the rest of the treasure when we have recovered from the ordeal. The angels disappear but we know that they will protect us until we are both old and full of years and will have to return to the final river, both of us believing that we will be able to breathe when we go under.

 

The prayers and re-writing didn’t work. And I cannot prove that we will be able to breathe when we go under. I wasn’t able to write or pray my brother free of cancer and death. 

I don’t want this entry to sound sad, it’s just what happened.

And the river flows on.

Day 143 - ‘Les choses sont contre nous’

 

 

I had warned God that I would cease from prayer in these circumstances, before my brother died. But I had imagined that God might treat me with more kindness in the event of it happening. I don’t feel he has.

I had imagined that afterwards, the Almighty would make everything a lot easier and that he would command life itself to be a lot kinder and gentler with me. And that past prayers would get quickly answered. And yes, that his big promise, ‘Those who grieve shall be comforted’ would involve all kinds of comfort, including answered prayer.

But that hasn’t really happened. Besides, that promise can’t be true for all, can it? That all those who grieve will find comfort? Some people simply don’t get comforted afterwards, or worse things happen...

The comforts are family and friends and those who are understanding while I grieve. But the discomforts are myriad. My left arm hurts chronically and the doctor doesn’t know why. There still seems to be a ‘conspiracy of things’ in which inanimate objects break down, tear, fall or are simply lost. Resistentialism – yes, there is actually a word for it as well (there is almost always a word for what you are going through). The way things don’t do what you want them to do… and its slogan.

'Les choses sont contre nous’

It means, ‘things are against us’.

And I’m disappointed with God for it all. ‘It is’, as the atheists say, ‘almost as if he doesn’t exist, isn’t it?’ A claim which I can’t really disprove, even if I have evidence and experience to the contrary.

But I AM disappointed with God. For the things which he has allowed and for the things which he has not allowed. I think less of him for it. And for the way it has all happened. I hadn’t been praying for THIS.

And it's a thing, isn't it? Not forgiving yourself after the death of a loved one? I keep thinking of the things I’ve said and done wrong. We’re human beings. Should I punish myself about those things too? Do I forgive myself, God… my brother for going and dying on me? Of course, I’m willing to, but forgiveness is a journey isn’t it, rather than necessarily a one-time event?

Punishing yourself happens, doesn’t it? And there are reasons for it aren’t there? It doesn’t just happen in a void. Besides, if you punish yourself, maybe others will go easier on you.

I don’t feel I’m progressing much.

Anyway, I’m on strike and I certainly do not have to persuade anyone of God’s existence or otherwise (unless I choose to do so).

It has made me re-examine so much. Just how important my faith is anyway. Like a vote for God in a supposed heavenly democracy in which our votes don’t seem to count for much. I’m not sure democracy is all it is cut out to be.

We should take the advice of the character Giorgio from Sondheim’s ‘Passion’.

“These thoughts are bad for you. You must concentrate on everything around you that suggests life. These trees, these flowers, the warm smell of the air.”

And ignore Fosca’s valid reply:

“You make it sound so simple Captain. As if a flower or a tree could somehow make one happy.”

 

Day 136 - Wednesday's child

 

‘Wednesday’s child is full of woe’.

I was born on a Wednesday. My brother on a Sunday.

Thanks superstition… always blessing us?

I heard an owl again at my brother’s grave. It was daytime but that didn’t stop the owl.

I didn't say the coronation oath. I was listening to it on the radio on the journey down to the cemetery and remained stubbornly silent, thinking how hard it was to find a radio station without news every hour.

The rest of the country seemed to be celebrating again. And once again I felt like crap. And so deeply tired. A kind of tired which seems to saturate and chill my soul, like moss in a cold rain.

Perhaps I would have felt better if I had said the oath?

At the grave I didn't say anything dramatic. I listened.

In the distance, at the cemetery, an owl hooted again. I think it is something to do with those who are grieving being more open to signs, dreams and suchlike. Plus, there is that thing where people listen less to you when you are grieving, so who is going to believe you anyway? It’s just the grief talking, after all. Best ignored.

Like the way people are less inclined to believe the word of children.

This week I also saw two rainbows, at different ends of the sky. It was raining and a little sunny around dusk, and the rainbows were to the Southeast and Northwest. Hopefully a sign of encouragement, like all signs should be. Or that the Almighty really doesn’t have a problem with the LGBT+ community after all, despite the prejudice of some of the Church. We need more LGBT+ believers.

I thought the coronation was muted. I watched it on catchup - but feeling as lousy as I do as I write now. As I say, I think the whole thing made believers look bad – as if we are all part of the establishment. Some of us cannot win.

I will recognise Charles as a king now. And Camilla as a queen.

But nothing is resolved. Grieving people should not be put together. They heap us all together so that everyone feels bad in a group. It is convenient for society.

The Tories got in again where I live. It made me feel a little less kind towards my neighbours. Who are these people who vote Tory? They are rarely proud of it, as if knowing that it is selfish.

So, the story of the country rumbles on and all of our stories rumble on with it. Stories which could use some genuinely good news. And the Almighty rumbles on too. Unchanging. His face like thunder. Like that of an archbishop crowning a king.

‘Wednesday’s child is full of woe’.

Day 129 - Kings and Queens

 

“The world is full of kings and queens who blind your eyes and steal your dreams.”

Black Sabbath

 

I’ve always been fascinated by the monarchy, even since I was a boy. Making cardboard crowns with plastic gemstones for jubilees. Looking at pictures of the crown jewels (now available in augmented reality from your smartphone).

It is hard not to be impressed by them. Well, not that hard, but you know how vulgar and crude those of us who are disillusioned by it can be.

Blame Spitting Image and every caricature in history (for which there really is a place). And university, where I made the mistake of listening while they taught me about the portrayals, symbols, pomp… and façade of the royals.

I won't recognise Prince Charles as a king until he is crowned. Put the crown on his head, anoint him with the most special oil (which has not been spat into) and that's when you become a king. Becoming king or queen happens when they put the crown on your head in public. That’s not much of a window for a one-man revolution. But, for a few more days we are leaderless as far as I’m concerned.

Surely nothing can go wrong? No-one is going to ‘bring down the whole edifice on their unworthy heads’ (to quote from ‘The Medusa Touch’) are they? And who is going to even plan treacherous acts against the new king in their head? Anyway, it’s illegal to think that way – look it up. (Although, it can make a pleasant meditation if you do not obsess over it. Try it. Just don’t follow up on it because that is called regicide… (Why not? Because regicide is like killing just one head of a hydra and you need to get to the power behind the hydra – which may not be Loki or Cthulhu (to mix my mythology)).

Have you committed thought-crime too? In a couple of days’ time, I may be so ground down that I will probably be on my knees, howling my allegiance to Charles III.

In reality I will be at my brother’s grave on coronation day. I guess I will have to watch the coronation on catchup. Unless I can listen to a little of it on the radio on the journey there.

I’ve read the coronation text. I can assure you that it is a spellbinding nightmare. Superbly written, if a bit archaic (funny how the word ‘archaic’ also sounds old-fashioned these days). The Prime Minister is going to have to read about how all of his Government’s power comes from ‘you know who’. The PM likely won’t be humbled, or see any irony in the way his actions do not match up with his words. Well, I can talk, but at least I have some self-awareness.

We may as well try to enjoy it.

And then there are going to be all those beautiful sparkly crowns, orbs, sceptres and swords. I’m mostly talking about the main crown, St Edward’s crown – the one which is symbolised on all those passports and post-boxes and the… oh so helpful…. GOV.UK website. A desirable item. Charles will also be given a special ring to symbolise how he is marrying the country… before the ‘consummation’ (because we have a great history of leaders making love to the soul of Britain don’t we?).

Dieu et mon droit. It means ‘might is right’. Only joking, it means ‘God and my right’… Meaning the right of the new king.

It’s a bit of a shame that so much of the church is now lumped in with the establishment. Blame Constantine or something. Some of us don’t like the optics. It looks bad.

I will recognise Prince Charles as a king after the coronation.

But very, very sadly, I will probably not be praying for our new establishment for a while, if at all.

I did manage to dig up a helpful quote from David Icke, the famous monarchy critic. He comments on his website: “Oh, do f*ck off: Coronation will include invite to public to swear allegiance out loud to King Charles – swear allegiance to a moronic bloke living off the people who wants to destroy freedom through the WEF??”

 

“The world is full of kings and queens who blind your eyes and steal your dreams.”

Day 122- The Almighty is a jewel thief

 

There are things called 'arrow prayers' among believers - brief prayers sent like arrows at times of crisis or need. Although shooting an arrow into the sky at God, to see him tumble out of his place of relative luxury, appeals to me, I'm not inclined to pray any kind of prayer anymore.

I'm going to go to visit my brother's grave soon. He is buried too far away to visit often. The last time we were there was for his girlfriend's funeral and burial. His birthday would have been soon and I'm not sure it is going to be an easy day, just like I don't think I will ever feel the same way about Christmas (he died on Christmas day).

There will also be a retrospective exhibition of his artwork in a couple of months. And there is still so much to sort out to do with his affairs.

Obviously, I will not be praying at the grave, just as I didn't pray at the funeral. Just as I have not taken communion for some time and have no plans to. I have not particularly taken to talking to Ad when alone. Maybe sometimes. But the gulf between the living and the dead seems to me to be greater than the speed of sound.

I came across a commercial AI chatbot service through which I could, conceivably, upload the conversations with Ad I have from texts, along with any stories, videos and pictures. Like in some Black Mirror episode. Without getting judgy towards those who choose to do this, I don't think it is really necessary for the grieving process. Our ancestors never did it and I figure I have the videos and pictures to remind me anyway, without organising them into some AI system. I think that even Ad would think it was weird if I did it. Maybe it could help some.

I also have no particular urge to go to visit a medium or psychic. To be honest, I'm not entirely convinced that they could contact him anyway. Well, the dead may not be beyond our prayers, but at the moment that isn't much of a comfort. All options are open though.

I cry some days. Some days are better than others. It has only been four months. I am still angry with God. A newspaper article read, 'Even the most fervent believers often rage against God when they are grieving'. I don't think I'm raging against God, but I'm very publicly saying that I think he is a thief, even if he is not really negligent or cruel. Of course, my brother never belonged to me, but it still feels very much like a theft. God, I feel, steals a lot, all the time saying these things belong to him anyway. Well, that's what all thieves think isn't it? That it is their right to steal.

What kind of thief is God? A jewel thief. Stealing the most valuable things. Intricately planning his next move. Seeking pearls of great price.

And all the time I know that this is not the end of his theft. Maybe this harsh accusation should be reversed back onto me, as usual, like some celestial mirror across the sky. To remind me of the things I have stolen. Or that some further irony should steal away other things and people simply because I have called God a thief.

Arrow words shot into the sky, only harming me, I hope. Simply something to witness. Nothing more.