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Do You Pray? Why? and What For?

A treatise for an exhausted Deity and what to do about it

The small line of childish items sat on my narrow window sill, right next to where the dense, thick fragrance of the gardenia bush floated through the screen and into my small bedroom.

I had laid them out when I had gone to bed, just for God. If there was a God, I thought, He would take these things and they would be gone in the morning.

As the night progress, from my twin bed I could see the bluish moonlight touch on my little things. They weren’t my best things. They were a test offering.

I wanted to give God a shot. See if He would take my gifts, the way you might entice a squirrel to come to my hand for a few peanuts.

In truth I wanted God to show up and land in my hand like Tinkerbell.

God failed the test. He didn’t bite. My cracked marbles and the busted Barbie head lay where they were placed, now with a thin film of Florida dew.

I knew that God didn’t exist because He couldn’t be enticed to take my second-best offerings.

It would be while before I figured out that at least for me, an Invisible (WHITE MAN) in the sky was a very effective scam, and that most organized religion was even worse. Something was afoot.

However, I also realized that I needed to pray. Where on earth do you point that energy?

To what or whom and for what were two very difficult questions, for while I am no atheist, coming to some kind of understanding about where to point my thoughts has taken decades. All that work has led me to think a few things about God. Or, whatever.

For me prayer demands humility. Humility in the face of Forces that are far beyond any understanding, which is why when I hear someone of the cloth talking about “knowing God’s mind” I am blown away by such monumental hubris. How can anyone claim such a thing when as a species we can hardly know our own? God’s mind, whatever that means, has got to encompass not only our limited reality but any and all realities of which we have no knowledge. Our minds are poor indeed; kindly look at how we use them.

Don’t get me started, it’s a nice day here in Denver. What of it I can see through the pollution, anyway.

For me, prayer demands that I don’t demand. First of all, it’s rude. God (or whoever the Great Entity may be ) is likely extremely tired of being reminded that Sean’s SATs are on Monday, please, and would you kindly help Fluffy through her vet visit, and while we’re at it, a lucky lottery number would really help ya KNOW…

God is likely somewhat tired of being hijacked for nefarious purposes, as in “it’s God’s will that you give your twelve-year-old kid to me in marriage,” “it’s God’s will that we win the war today” (which is being energetically claimed on the other side of the battle lines), “It’s God’s will that men are made wiser and better than women, minorities, etc.”

ALL RIGHT ALREADY. Will you stop with My WILL?

Besides, you got any idea how many languages the poor Entity has to speak and understand? And that’s just here on Earth.

Look. It’s rude to impose on an Entity with a lot on His/Her Divine Mind. After all everyone who is having sex at any given time (and with eight billion of us, that would make quite a few) all of whom are shrieking OH GOD at the same time in thousands of languages and dialects has to be one hell of a distraction.

After all that, a Divine Entity deserves a break. God, after all, gets a three-day weekend. Friday is God’s day off in Islam, Saturday for the Jews, and Sunday for the Christians

So we’re supposed to give the poor Perfect One a day off (or in this case, three) and we spend all three days pelting Him/Her with yet more earnest requests, including DEAR GOD please keep my dick erect while I bang the next door neighbor’s wife. And DEAR GOD don’t let me get caught, especially since he’s my boss.

It’s exhausting.

Although most folks in church are too busy comparing clothing and hats to be praying, although most likely the man of the cloth in front is praying that he won’t have to show up for the FBI inquiry into his behind-the-cloth-activities with the Sunday School attendees.

Prayer. Yah.

So the rate of suicide among health care professionals is pretty serious. Health care folks need health care.

Where does God go when He/She gets overwhelmed? Who does God turn to for mental health counseling? Buddha? Kwan Yin?

God hears the kind of shit nobody wants to hear, on His/Her days off, and He doesn’t get paid, either. Then those folks die and demand to be let in His/Her house without having done the real work to deserve living there.

Gotta be a tough gig being God.

You get misquoted, cursed (especially when that one guys’ dick doesn’t work as planned with the neighbor’s wife), blamed for shit you didn’t do and all the while you’ve got a massive Cosmos to manage, other worlds, dimensions and realities galore. And eight billion people on earth constantly demanding help with their dicks, more babies and Beemers, and better test scores and acting like they ARE God by invoking Your will.

Not only that you send your kid down to help things out and they crucify the poor sonofabitch for claiming to be Your kid.

In fact pretty much any human who did their best to live well ends up dead, burnt, crucified, scorched or they die with most of their work being grossly misinterpreted within a generation or two.

Then folks want their prayers answered anyway.


There has just got to be a better career path out there.

What’s a Diety to do?

Here’s what I decided to do.

I pray to Him/Her to show me how to help out. Lend a hand once in a while.

Ain’t much.

However, here’s what I’ve noticed: when I pray for ways to be useful, those prayers get answered.

God didn’t want my cracked marbles. He/She just wanted me to use them myself.

In fact, the one prayer that gets answered most often is


God doesn’t have to do a thing. All I have to do is wake up in the morning and start looking around, most especially at the asshole in my bathroom mirror.

Prayers answered.

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Written by

Horizon Huntress, prize-winning author, adventure traveler, boundary-pusher, wilder, veteran, aging vibrantly. I own my sh*t. Let’s play!

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