iwaxshidom

You've got to dance both, they say. Otherwise you can't dance either.

"So Saska is Val's cousin. Which means Saska is also in some sense Corene's cousin. And Corene is Josetta's sister. And Josetta is my daughter." The queen was beaming. "Isn't that marvelous! All of us related in such unexpected ways!"

"It does seem strange and remarkable," Val admitted.

Seterre put one hand on Val's arm, one on Rafe's, and made as if to draw them all into one untidy embrace. "But that's the hunti gift!" she exclaimed. "To bind the world together! If we would only be bothered to look for the ways, we would find we are all connected in some mysterious fashion." She leaned over to kiss Val on the cheek. "Once you understand that, you understand everything."

It was raining buckets outside, and about fifty of us were doing serious business inside, talking about the war in Vietnam--agonizing over our impotence in the face of the horrors of that war.

Suddenly, a very wet, muddy young man burst into the rear of the hall.

"Help me, help me," he cried. He was driving too fast, had missed a turn and spun off the road in the dark, and was himself thrown out onto the road because he was not wearing his seat belt.

His pickup truck was hanging on the edge of a ravine. With his wife and child still in it, so scared they couldn't move. "Help me, help me."

As one body we rose and poured out of the hall, running into the rainy night behind the terrified young man. As one we grabbed onto the small truck and pulled it back from the edge, and as one we lifted the truck back onto the road and spun it around onto the shoulder for safety.

The mother and child were in shock, but otherwise uninjured.

Tenderly, they were carried back to the conference grounds to someone's room--dried off, wrapped in blankets, comforted. A doctor among us examined them. Warm tea was brewed. Mechanics in the group made sure the truck was in safe working order.

The young man admitted how foolish he had been, how sorry he was to have risked his life and the life of his family, and how deeply he felt our compassion. Within a couple of hours, the young man and his family were on the road again. He will never forget. Nor will those who helped.

This response to crisis--with strangers or friends or family--is part of our nature. Every day, every week, every year since time began, whatever the size or nature of the crisis, this has been true of the human community. A fact that must be laid alongside all we know of the horror of man's inhumanity to man. Few of us do not have a story to tell--of what we gave or what was given to us in response to "Help me, help me." We are capable of being agents of one another's revival. None of us can go all the way alone.

Even in the midst of the unbearable agonies of prisons and concentration camps, there are those who choose to help--to give to others: bread, shoes, comfort, whatever. These acts of compassion are the shining, diamond-tough confirmations of human dignity.

This is keeping our affairs in order at the highest level. This is communion in its highest form The ritual of the keeping of the living flame. Held daily in the unfinished cathedral of the human spirit.

Rituals are timed by beats of the heart, not ticks of the clock.

Most of our major holidays are connected to seasons.

They are flexible feast days adapted to human needs.

Heart time is not clock time--rituals should never be hurried.

Rituals are frames around the mirrors of the moment.

Rituals are the coin by which attention is paid to the moment.

Nobody lives without rituals. Rituals do not live without somebody.

The function of ritual is paradoxical: to both anchor us to high places on the steep slopes of this world on which we are always losing our footing and to free us from the despair of being stuck in the world's mud.

Ritual behavior softens the phases of life when we are reminded how hard it is to be human. Ritual behavior enriches the phases of life when we are reminded how fine it is to be human.

Is this so?

Allow me the utilitarian simplicity of saying: Prayer is talking to God. However you may define each of those five words, I'm comfortable. I'll make my circle of understanding as large as need be in order to keep the conversation going. We can get into semantics some other time.

Why do we do this thing we call "praying"?

To worship--to connect in a positive way with the ultimate ground of being.

To confess--to cleanse ourselves of shame, guilt, or remorse.

To thank--to express appreciation for comfort and sustenance.

To petition--to ask for something.

Interestingly, there's not a lot of modern evidence of direct divine response to prayer. Holy books record that God literally spoke in ancient times on many occasions for many reasons. Only about ten percent of those who acknowledge praying say that God has spoken to them. Athletic teams and television evangelists seem to have the most consistent response.

Is there something wrong here? Is this a problem? No.

The responsibility and the opportunity for the relationship belong to the one who prays. God is always there. To put it into scriptural language, "The Kingdom of God is within you."

And the work of that Kingdom is carried out in the human heart.

Prayer is its own reward.

In the ritual of reaching in and in the reaching out.

* * *

Another view.

In the realm of Buddhism, prayer takes two complementary forms.

Meditation--the process of inner focusing--of sitting so quietly and silently that the mind is slowly emptied of thoughts and one is not only at the center of one's being but at the center of Being itself.

Action--the achievement of merit by acting in harmony with the best intentions of human community and divine values.

I noticed the intersection of meditation and action in Thailand.

Homage is paid to an image of Buddha by lighting a candle or stick of incense, putting flowers in front of the image, and daily, consciously committing an act of charity to someone in need.

Thais frequently purchase a tiny square of gold leaf and attach it to the image of the Buddha where it will affect the worshiper in a specific way. This is called "pid tong lung pra." It is believed that gold leaf pressed on the Buddha's lips will bring the worshiper the gift of eloquence. On the head--wisdom. On the heart--a loving spirit. If the petitioner is ill, the gold leaf is placed on the corresponding area of pain.

It is said that those who have reached a higher level of understanding place the gold leaf on the backside or underneath the image--not for themselves, but for the common good of humanity.

And there are those who say that when one really understands the idea of merit most fully, the money used to purchase gold leaf is instead given directly to someone in need, or placed in an alms box for the temple to disburse.

It is said there is no limit to the amount of good a person can do if he does not mind who gets the credit. This is Enlightenment.

This is seeing one's self as an integrated part of the creative forces of life and not just an occasional contributor. The Thais say this is ritual prayer in its highest form--one prays by Being and Doing that which is in harmony with the best interests of all living things.

Out of the noise, an odd feeling rises in him. He looks at Aziraphale to see if he’s noticed, but the angel’s eyes are closed, and he’s singing along. There’s something bright and warm in the air, and for a panicked second Crowley thinks that some heavenly power is about to descend. But nothing burns. It’s not coming from Heaven, God is as absent as ever, and the only angel in the room is the one standing next to him. And yet, something feels a little like holiness, or grace, like all the things forever denied him. It’s connected to the humans, but he isn’t sure how they can do this—he knows for a fact that at least three of the people in this room are atheists! The feeling surrounds him, something snaps into place, and for one glowing instant Crowley is part of the whole. He understands, knows how it is that people live and feel and reach for the sacred and how they’re still human the entire time. The singing stops, but it’s still there, hanging in the silence. Then it’s gone, the connection slipping away, and he’s still the demon Crowley, albeit somewhat lightheaded.