On Praying for Mercy

When I was wee, I learned to pray to a God who lived in the sky somewhere, with his son, waiting for the right time to return and burn the whole world down.

I was terrified of God.

I was terrified of his son.

I would pray for Him to spare my family, especially my dog, as it didn’t seem fair that he got caught up in all the destruction. I prayed for Him to spare the feral kittens and their mama I knew had been born under the stairs of an abandoned house down the street from me. I prayed for Him to spare horses, chickens, deer, and mermaids. I prayed for Him to bring the fire down on people who deserved it instead. Even as a young child, I was required to compromise my humanity, because that’s what happens when we are dominated, and mercy is withheld.

I noticed that other people, praying all around me to bring fortune, to spare us from harm, seemed terrified, powerless, at the mercy of this force too. To be terrified by an unseen, omnipotent, omniscient force had me patterned to fear stepping out of line, and I would be afraid for other people to step out of line.

As I was begging for mercy from the same God who would rain down the apocalypse to kill our wickedness, I was terrorized into obedience of His will. Apparently, He had no accountability to His power over me. Who would save me from that?

At a certain point, I stopped asking for mercy. This God seemed quite passively okay with my suffering, the suffering of others...good and kind folk who I knew were also praying to Him. I became depressed, suicidal, from 9 years old. This was apparently okay with God, and his kin too.

The prayers that were prayed for me I began to hear very clearly, early on. These prayers were like songs from the other worlds. As I felt them lifting me up, bringing me to wholeness. I know these songs in my marrow, they are the songs of my People. These songs were sung from the same people who had faith, in God or gods, in Mother Earth, in Nature...some of them Christian, some Pagan. These prayer songs still hold and complete me. They still nurture me and remind me that this did not begin with me, and this will not end when I die.

I pray those prayer songs to the wee ones, to their children and grandchildren, I pray to those who will never know my touch or hear my voice leaving my body while I inhabit it. I pray in the language of my ancestors, so it will not be lost.

I have learned to no longer beg anything for mercy. I am merciful. Any fire I have to bring will be tended, to warm, to sustain life, to catalyze that which is creating disease. I am learning to bless others, to stand in the ever moving force of right relationship, not in moral purity. I am learning to make amends, to atone, rather than to curse myself or others. I am praying to become who I needed when I was wee.

Photo ‘Eye of the Storm’ captured by Sarah Hodges