In the course of my life, I have traveled the continuum from believer to agnostic to atheist to believer*. But throughout that entire journey, I never stopped praying. I found that what I prayed to wasn’t as important, as long as it wasn’t me.
“But that’s crazy, nobody prays to themselves!” You may be thinking. If you had asked me before I learned to pray if I was praying to myself I would have scoffed as well. But if I look at what I was doing: reciting grudges in my mind like mantras, ticking off worries on a list of fears, obsessing about not getting something or ruminating on losing what I have — I was praying to myself. To whom or to what else was I directing those thoughts, many of which were as scripted as a Catholic Mass? I was directing them to myself. That’s who.
When I began a practice of directing my thoughts in a conscious way to not-me, I experienced a profound shift in perspective over the years. That, my friends, is one approach I have to prayer that I think an atheist can find as useful as I have. I know it to be so, because I know an atheist or two that do it and they find it helpful. I think there are ancient mechanics at work in a focused message in the mind directed at not-ourselves. It doesn’t have to be God. It can be anything, as long as it’s not you.
If you’re an atheist, this may sound silly. But is it any sillier than standing in the shower and arguing with people who aren’t there? Or lying in bed and recounting that embarrassing time when you said something stupid at a party for the millionth time? I submit that it is not more silly than that.
So what would an atheist prayer look like? It looks like any prayer of your choosing. Here’s one that I like: I imagine the cracks in the sidewalk as I’m walking to be the creases in the palm of a giant hand, and I say, “[Gravity, Universe, God, Nature, your choice], hold me as you’ve always held me.”
It comforts me, when I’m in despair, to remember that I’ve always been held on this planet. I’ve always been kept safe from the void of space. The constant of gravity has never let me go and it never will. I’m held in its embrace, a giant cosmic hug that never quits. You may say that I have a very emotional view of gravity, and I would agree. But I would counter that it is also poetry, and that’s where I’ve got you. Because nobody but the dullest dullard objects to the majesty of a poem merely because each word is not literally true. Poetry is about the magic of being alive. It’s about the world of meaning that we bring to our experience that transcends physics. Praying is the most intimate form of poetry there is. It is a surrender to the sublime.
Once I started this type of prayer I found it incredibly helpful. I use that prayer space for gratitude, for pleas to be a more loving person, for strength to do the right thing, for the courage to create. All those things are helped, in my experience, by this type of prayer. If you have never tried such a thing, I’d be curious to know if you give it a go and whether you find it helpful over time. Or if you discover it to be useless, I’d be curious to know that as well.
Be well, my friends,
Holding poetry in my heart for you,
I am,
Your Free Life Coach,
Sean Sakamoto
Very helpful. I like the idea of gravity holding us, like God.
This is really generous and beautiful.