This Girl Is On Fire

In a world screaming in pain from fears and fires, “thoughts and Prayers” have become the equivalent of spiritual shadow puppets. I get it.

It’s an odd defense for complacency, a tone-deaf trope. "I am going to pray for you" can be borderline offensive. “Don’t bother,” replies the tired world. "I don't need your intentions. I need interventions. I need your prayers to grow some legs, cook me a meal, hand me a pair of socks, and live simply so that others can simply live.

"Thoughts and Prayers" is an empty, easy way to wash our hands of suffering, which is a shame because I’ve seen the extravagant miracles that can come from the power of prayer.

The first time I saw someone use prayer to connect directly to God. I was maybe six, in church with my family. We were supposed to kneel in prayer at some point after the Eucharist. This meant I would kneel, rest my head on the wood, take in the smell of crushed cloves, and wait. I didn't know what prayer was, and I was not sure what more was supposed to happen.

And then I heard a whisper, a breathy, earnest little whisper. I peeked over at my sister Erin, who was just two years older than me. Her eyes were closed, and she was speaking to someone. I tried not to eavesdrop because I knew it was a private conversation. But it was my first realization, my initiation into the idea that prayer could be a casual and common connection to God. That we could talk to God.

I had been immersed in “Glory be to the Father,” “Hail Mary's,” “Our Father's who art in heaven.” I thought prayers were just a string of words you recited to get the words right, but there was no discernible impact or implication.

My sister Erin was and is an exceptional role model for two reasons.

* 1: She does all the hard stuff, all the brave stuff, all the stuff that you could not pay most people enough to do. She does. She has always cared for the least among us.

* 2: She does it with a sense of humor—a rare, refreshing, unearned happiness.

So when I saw her speaking to some invisible presence, I intuitively knew that this was where she was getting her chutzpa from, and I wanted in.

And I began to entertain a relationship with this thing called God.

Not long after that, the book Are You There, God, It's Me Margaret ran like wildfire through our neighborhood, it seemed every girl had read it. Prayer became a play to tell God your problem and suggest a solution. Especially if your problem were something you would never ask a parent or peer about.

“Have you thought about it, God? About my growing, I mean. I’ve got a bra now. It would be nice if I had something to put in it.” -Judy Blume, Are You There God it’s Me, Margaret

As I grew, my relationship with the power of the word matured. Many years later, in another church in California called Agape, I watched a woman walk to the pulpit and set fire to prayer in a way that broke my mind and told me that she was on a first-name base with God. As soon as the service ended, I found her and asked her what she had done. I was an actress, and I knew how to deliver lines, but she had carved consciousness and lit up the room from an internal switch; she had given me a peek into a palpable present-tense spiritual authority that shook my roots with fear and fervor. Was this allowed? She was a woman.

As a kid, I had asked the nuns if girls could be priests. Their eye widened, and their brows furrowed. The question was hardly worth an answer; we girls had a physical disability, our vaginas had cockblocked us from the pulpit. And so, instead of becoming a priest, I became an actress, and off I went to Hollywood to tell stories that could change people’s lives for good. I ended up playing prostitutes, dead girls, and reporters reporting on dead girls and prostitutes, but that is another story.

Now, here I was with a firm grasp on the coattails of a woman who had dared to go where I had seen no woman go before, to the pulpit, and again, I wanted in.

She told me that she was a prayer practitioner. I asked how long it took her to become that, and she said five years. Five years.

I let that land on me as I stood before this formidable Goddess, this well-anchored, well-appointed older black woman and her patient husband who were making time for me, this thirsty little white girl, looking for answers after church.

At that moment, I knew two things for sure.

* One: with all I had, I knew that I wanted to be a prayer practitioner.

* Two: I knew that being a prayer practitioner was something I could never be.

I could not imagine devoting five years of my life to studying prayer. I had a lot going on; I was hustling for my acting career, running a kid’s entertainment business that I worked on the weekends to pay the rent, and raising my son as a single mom. Five years was not in the budget.

She took in my defeat, smiled softly, pulled up her bag, nodded at her husband, and left the church. And although it felt impossible to get to where she was. I would find I was wrong about one of those sure things.

It did not take five years; it took ten. I took the slow path. But I got there. After ten years of classes, practicums, and panels, I became a prayer practitioner. For the past two decades, the giving and receiving of prayer and council have benefitted every area of my life in immeasurable ways.

Looking back at my six-year-old self in church, my 27-year-old self in church, and my 36-year-old self in church, who finally reached the goal of being a prayer practitioner, shows me that despite learning so much, prayer still has much to teach me, so I continue following the river.

I wanted to end this post with a story and an invitation. If you want to see the full sermon, click the video below. But for now, here is a story of our dessert fathers

Abba Lot went to see Abba Joseph and said to him, "Abba, as far as I can, I say my daily prayers. I fast a little, and I pray and meditate. I live in peace as far as I can. I purify my thoughts. What else can I do?" Then "the old man stood up, stretched his arms towards heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire, and he said to him, "If you want, you can be all flame."

And so my friend, there is fire to be had, fanned, and felt. We can empower the fire as Saint Teresa of Avila, the Spanish mystic, empowered her baptism of fire when she said, "Burn from me all that is not God."

When the desert father suggested that we be ALL Flame, it does not mean your prayers will be on fire; they may be. It does not mean you will use prayers to serenade or seduce desired outcomes from the shadows. Again, you may. It might not be that you are suddenly powerfully articulate, golden-tongued, prophetic, and poetic. It certainly could happen. But what WILL happen is you find something more valuable. You move closer to becoming ALL Flame.

The fear of spiritual fire is justified. We have been told and sold a firey pit called hell. We have gotten burned, physically and emotionally. We’ve watched fire level whole towns in LA, Hawaii, and many other places worldwide. Flames call our attention, clarify, and cleanse us.

Flame can also be humble. At the National Cathedral prayer service for the inauguration this past week, Bishop Marriane Edgar Budde demonstrated humble truths, peacefully pacing and asking instead of demanding mercy for the less fortunate. We could not see the fire beneath the gentle approach, but we can be sure it was there as it caused a holy hail storm, which is what fire does.

One flame of truth can make people stand up and take note, whether you agree with what she said or not. There was power in her words, which landed like soft rain on a thirsty world.

"A thousand candles can be lighted from the flame of one candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. " ― Gandhi

So we will approach a year of prayer, and I promise, it will not be what you think.

It doesn't have to be a blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones: Just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don't make them elaborate, this isn't a test, but a doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak.

- Mary Oliver, Thirst

Prayer is what you create from love. So, what are you creating in the name of Love? Answer this question, and you will move from "thoughts and prayers" to an embodiment of the fierce flame of a living prayer.

Love, in its essence, is spiritual fire. — Seneca

I invite you to lean into the fire of prayer this year and stay spiritually lit.

Love, Maur

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Love, Maur