May 26, 2008

The War Prayer

Filed under: Church,Philosophy — Bob Gifford @ 10:56 am

The War Prayer

by Mark Twain

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety’s sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came – next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams – visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation

God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest! Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!

Then came the “long” prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory –

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher’s side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued with his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, “Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!”

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside – which the startled minister did – and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:

“I come from the Throne – bearing a message from Almighty God!” The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. “He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import – that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of – except he pause and think.

“God’s servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two – one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this – keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor’s crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

“You have heard your servant’s prayer – the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it – that part which the pastor – and also you in your hearts – fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: ‘Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!’ That is sufficient. the whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory – must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

“O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle – be Thou near them! With them – in spirit – we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it – for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

(After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits!”

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.

[See here for some background on this poem.]

May 11, 2008

The Homeless Man in Church

Filed under: Church — Bob Gifford @ 1:14 pm

My church now has our second homeless person attending regularly on Sundays.

The first one was Marshall, who has been attending for three or four years. I first noticed Marshall when he interrupted Pastor Tony’s sermon shouting Bible verses at him. Since then, we make sure he is on his meds, provide him with food, and in general watch out for him and his shopping cart full of worldly belongings. (We’ve tried to get him into some housing, but Marshall won’t have it — he insists on staying on the street.) Marshall attends the early service, so I don’t see him much, at least not in church, although I occasionally see him around on the streets.

Today I sat behind another homeless guy who has been attending the late service for a while (I’m ashamed to say I don’t know his name). He must have some neurological disorder, because he seems to struggle sometimes with motor control, and occasionally lets out involuntary vocalizations, although nothing disruptive. He is clearly there for the same reason the rest of us are — worship.

This morning I was monitoring my emotional reactions to his presence. On the one hand, I was glad he was there. He needs and deserves God’s grace as much as any of us, which is to say very much and not at all. I’m glad he feels comfortable and welcomed in our church, and I did my best to make him feel at home. At the same time, deep down in the less gracious parts of my brain, I kept worrying that he would do something inappropriate, cause a scene, start ranting or something that would be, heaven forbid, embarrassing. As our history with Marshall has shown, this isn’t necessarily an unfounded fear.

But as Marshall has also taught us, having an outcast cause a scene in church is not such a bad thing. It tears down the carefully maintained facade that we’re all somehow in-control, healthy, self-actualized, serenely enlightened Christians. Such a scene is embarrassing not for the scene-maker, who is beyond embarrassment, but for us observers. It reveals that our nice clothes, good educations, well-produced liturgy and nicely appointed church doesn’t change the fact that we are all more like our homeless parishioner than not. If not for the vain desire we all have to appear calmly, rationally sane, we’d all be ranting at the cross on occasion, demanding that God explain how we are to survive in a world with death, divorce, disease and depression*. We have no grounds to pretend that everything’s cool, we’re happy and life is great, at least not all the time, but we do anyway. We could use a good scene every once in awhile just to rip away this conspiracy of self-deception.

Other than standing and sitting throughout the service on a 60-second delay behind the rest of us, our homeless parishioner did nothing untoward. He partook of communion just like the rest of us, not because we deserve it but because we need it. And none of us were embarrassed by his behavior. But having him there was a blessing, hopefully for him, but more so for me. Our Pastor and others in the church are speaking to him and seeing to his needs. But he has blessed me, just by being there, by acting as a mirror to show me my own vanity. He made me realize, again, that church isn’t about being respectable, well-groomed or placidly serene. Church is there to throw us a line as we thrash about trying to keep our heads above water in this sea of troubles, and we’re there to grab the line, not pretend that we’re doing just fine treading water.

We aren’t so different, the homeless man and me, except that he knows he needs God and I keep pretending that God needs me.

Which of us should be embarrassed?

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* Forgive the alliteration — it was initially unintended, but after realizing what I had done I didn’t have the heart to find some less-good synonyms to remove it.

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