I have always hated praying. Since I was a child, I found the ritual dull, monotonous, and a grand waste of time. I’ve always thought that it was a weird bureaucratic wall for faith. Thank the Lord, say sorry to the Lord, beg to the Lord, repeat. I never quite understood this practice, especially after being told so many times that God loves me, and after all, being loved meant being known.
I suppose I’ve always been quite skeptical of the ecclesiastical. I could not imagine that speaking sweet nothings to thin air would ever result in a tangible outcome. When something good would happen to our family; a good grade for me and my sister, a promotion for my mother and father, my parents would always thank the Lord. This bothered me then, as I felt no holy presence when taking exams, so why should I betray my own hard work for the Lord?
Yet, my disdain for the formalities of religion has still not urged me to stray too far from it. I found that God still answers many of my life’s mysteries. Still, I pray when I want to pass a test, still, I pray when my mother is on her lonesome when work is far, and still, I pray to God to accompany my grandmother in heaven. I hope the Almighty still listens to half-believing sinners, as is constantly being spouted in the lectures my parents have never failed to shove down my throat.
These two-and-a-half-hour long lectures start and end with a band playing Christian rock (which admittedly is quite good at times) whilst the church sings along, and then everyone stands for the reading of scripture. Afterward, come the lectures and lessons that relate the scripture read earlier to current events; how Nero’s wickedness was weaved into the Book of Revelation, and whatever concept it is they can point their finger at as the ‘modern Nero’. My distaste for the righteousness of these folk fizzles out when I listen to the parables of the Bible that within me pique complex analyses regarding moral and social dilemmas. These stories have a way wherein they make my mind wonder whatever poem I can make of the tragedies that befell theological characters. Due to this, my notes app is often open on Sundays. In fact, many of my digital scribbles were written during church ceremonies. I’ve found that boredom is essential to the creative process, and there’s no greater bore than holier-than-thou Christians that lace their hatred with God’s name. I experience the Bible mostly as a great piece of literature rather than a handbook for moral beliefs. That’s why despite being a “Christian” (the air quotes are important), I am far more intrigued by the Catholic way of belief, with its Latin scripts, gold altars, intricate statues, elaborate murals, and my favorite— depictions of the Virgin Mary that slip symbolism of the vulva somehow in the composition, lingering between blasphemy and reverence.
Oh, how I wish I still had the capacity to revel in a God. We all need it. Something impenetrable, impossible, and irrevocable to grope when your fingers betray. But cynicism and hyper-individualism have built an armor on my hands and everywhere that follows. But the metal will oxidize and leave you for a better part of the world. Your hands will still shake, shrivel, and sweat. Truth is, the armor is just as penetrating as treason. You still need something to grope. And holding rusting chains and spikes never feels pleasurable.
Because of this, I still try to believe in a God, again, I think I need to believe in a God. And this ‘God’, I found, need not be an actual religious figure, just a concept one can worship in some way, to be part of something larger than oneself. I think my own little God in this sense is art— literature, sculpture, music, paintings, and everything else encompassing the human experience. I sing in the choir and worship the blessings it rains. I participate in traditions brought by the seasons. I give tithes to those who aim to establish it further. I’d like to get married in its church, officiated by someone more devout than I am, whilst I wear lace and silk interwoven and handcrafted by a solitary genius of some sort, saying vows I scribbled with my two bare hands (this is one of my only participations in the nuptials) and on an altar wherein every detail was thought out and then carved within with razor precision.
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thank you so much for reading lovelies! you can subscribe to poetic misusings for free if you seek more work like this. feel free to share this little piece with a friend who also has a complex relationship with religion, or, just if you think they’d like it.
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let’s meet again next time,
— nat ♡