The
atmosphere that brisk November day drew people in. They came looking
for something to eat, but they wanted something more, too. I'd be
lifting a box of food, in the noise and bustle of the crowd that day
in the fellowship hall, when a grieving woman, a lonely immigrant, a
sick man – all in succession – came up to me to ask, “Will you
pray for me?”
It
was obvious my function that day. I was the pastor, and I was
dressed like the pastor – with a clerical collar – so I wore the
“target” for all those who needed, food sure, but prayer too.
So
each time I took a deep breath, and prayed with those who asked. Ed,
a filthy white guy who was out of work and had his hungry wife and
three kids in the car, begging for help. One of our town's most
insane and drug-addicted visitors ranted, in no particular sequence,
all of the things she needed for prayer. “I can't do this much
longer, preacher, please ask God to help me.”
Despite
all the hysteria, I make the sign of the cross over them, offer a few
words of prayer to God for them, and a strange calm comes over them.
So
I would still sit with them, and let them talk or cry. I'd listen
and lay my hand over them as I prayed. I never really know where
those words come from. I still feel homey offering those prayers;
there's nothing mysterious there. But I still cry.
When the Church goes about its work with the broken, with those on
the margins, one of the first things we're compelled to do is pray.
And if there's one thing about prayer I've learned over the years,
it's this: Prayer hallows.
Imagine
someone comes to you and shares a great burden. They share loss,
failure, despair, fear, brokenness, or sickness. Their own or that of
someone they love. What do you say upon listening? Thanks for
sharing? Good luck with all that? I'm so sorry? Something has
happened, something was shared, that needs to be set
apart
from every other mundane and silly thing that has happened during the
day. The moment needs to be hallowed
–
set
apart, consecrated, made holy.
And
so you pray. Prayer is hallowing our daily lives.
I
think about the prayer time during worship. We go around sharing a
variety of requests. People are sick. People are traveling. People
are struggling. People are broken. People are afraid. And after
gathering all these requests, having opened ourselves up to each
other, what are we to say in response? “Thanks for sharing,
everyone”, doesn't quite cut it. The moment – where we weep with
those who weep and rejoice with those rejoice – needs hallowing.
And so we pray. Our sharing wasn't just “catching up” around the
water cooler. Something sacred
was going on. And so we pray. We hallow.