Why I Don’t Pray

Killing the Buddha is featuring a short confessional piece I wrote that’s not about conspiracies, cults, or secret societies. Click here to read it.


2 thoughts on “Why I Don’t Pray

  1. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Give us this day a million dollars and send whoever hired Ali Baba, the illiterate Hindu with a cleft pallet from hp tech support, straight to hell. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, forever and ever. Amen

    I think prayer, and the personal revelation it can bring, is like talking to your wife. At first you blab about everything. Eventually you realize that what you are saying is meaningless too her.
    “So he says they did something to the wiper on 1215 and now it doesn’t work. Yeah, like he’d go out and check. Just ready to blame things on someone else! Guess what? One of the mounting screws went into the wiring harness or the linkage caught it when it turned on. There was no way to tell! Blah, blah, blah…”
    You find yourself telling your wife, “It was just another day. How are you?” And you have to listen, or else.
    With wisdom I think you pray less because you see your blessings when it is hard to pick out the forest from the tree stuffed in your brown eye.
    “Why ask for more when I have enough? I know what ‘It could be worse’ means.”
    As you say, a liver cell in relation to creation. Perhaps you have achieved a state of grace and are sensitive to the sting of guilt it brings? To reserve prayer for big things that are within scope of reality may mean you are blessed with an insight many people simply lack.
    Went to private school for a few years(elementary). I asked a retarded girl there what she asked for. She liked to talk to God while swinging. Nobody played with her, unless it was a joke or demanded by teachers. She said,”I don’t want anything, so we just talk.”
    It may be that the Great Spirit is beyond reproach but there is, like the sunset, a measure of intimacy. Each of our lifes’ experiences are textured so differently in that, as creatures of finding pattern, we may discover something personal in chaos. Another conspiracy or joke, “Was it me or was it you?”
    In all reality, shouldn’t broccholi taste the same to everyone? Or does it?

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