What’s in a name?  That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act II Scene II

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I got a text recently from a friend in their 30s who for a time attended my Quaker meeting but has since moved away from the area—and away from participating in any religious community.

“I got some unexpected news last week.  Doctors found severe compression in my spinal cord and I have to get neurosurgery on my spine this week to avoid potential permanent damage.  I’m scared shitless.

“I feel lucky they caught it in time, and my neurosurgeon is supposed to be one of the best in the area.  I’m trying to put as much positivity out as I can, but I definitely need some help.  Can you please send positive thoughts my way this Friday—that the surgery will go well, that I will have a speedy recovery, and that I will still be able to go on my long-awaited trip to see family overseas.”

“Wow,” I texted in reply, “that’s a lot coming at you quickly!  Of course, I’m in your corner all the way, with positive energy and deep hopefulness.  You are a dear person to me, and I’m holding you in my heart.”  On Friday morning, I shared these sentiments again. 

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As a chaplain, I regularly offer prayer to patients and families who request it—it’s part of the job, and I love it.  But I live and work in Portland, Oregon, a theologically diverse community.  Many of the patients I see practice religions outside of the American “mainstream”; many others don’t practice any traditional religion at all.  Yet they still seek prayer, even if they don’t call it by that name.  My goal, always, is to listen and respond in a way that respects and is aligned with their beliefs.

Fortunately, this meshes well with my own approach to prayer.  A core Quaker belief is that the Light (or Spirit of God) is present in each person, and is at work in the world seeking to guide us toward healing.  When we pray, then, we don’t recite verses we know from past experience, but instead listen closely to discern the movement of the Spirit within us and among us so that we can respond in accordance with its leading. 

In a hospital (and elsewhere), the sentiment underlying many requests for prayer is “Help!”  When something threatens our sense of security (or that of a loved one) and we cannot manage the threat ourselves, our vulnerability is laid bare and our instinctive response is “Help!”  As a chaplain, or simply as a caring human being, the challenge becomes listening for what help is being sought and then offering help in a way that is … well, helpful.

Petitioning for help in situations that feel overwhelming is foundational to religious practice around the world and throughout time.  Paraphrasing the writer Anne Lamott, one way to think of God is simply as a name for whomever it is we are speaking to when we cry “Help!” into an empty room.^[1]  But one need not believe in any notion of God at all to seek prayer; most of us know the feeling that Lamott refers to, or someday will. 

That day came for my friend whose story begins this post.  While there is no religious context to frame their petition for help or to guide a response, that doesn’t make it any less “prayer.”  There is still a theology at work here, one that acknowledges a source of power outside of themself, one that believes comfort and strength may be available by beseeching that power to engage on their behalf—while also acknowledging that their hoped-for outcomes may or may not be realized.  This is the heart of prayer.

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On the day of the surgery, I was included in a text thread initiated by my friend’s partner to keep family and friends informed of progress.  The contributions of others, many also in their 30s, were touching.

“You got this!  Thinking of you big time.  You’re the GOAT—remember that!”

“Sending positive thoughts and love your way.”

“Sending love and positivity and light your way!  You are in my thoughts and heart today!”

“Sending positive vibes for a successful surgery!”

And things went very well indeed.  My friend went home that evening and continues to recover, though it’s not yet clear whether the hoped-for family reunion will happen as planned.

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In seminary I spent a lot of time trying to wrap my head around the nature of prayer, and I still do.  The conventional view is that we are seeking the intervention of an omnipotent deity to grant us something we dearly want.  I discarded that view as a young adult, for many reasons, but even traditional religious figures question the wisdom of that approach.  Jesus wisely said, “Not my will, but yours,” and Teresa of Avila commented, “More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.”

I was struck by a piece of dialog from the movie Shadowlands (1993), in which the character of C.S. Lewis says, “I pray because I can’t help myself.  I pray because I’m helpless.  I pray because the need flows out of me all the time … It doesn’t change God, it changes me.”  This has stuck with me all these years because it feels true.  Prayer is about moving away from self-reliance and opening oneself to external support and guidance, human and divine.  In my theology, God isn’t changed by my prayers—God is always present and available, I just need to remember to engage.

The Buddhist monk and teacher Thich Nhat Hanh has a helpful perspective on prayer.  He says (paraphrasing slightly) that “When we sit down to practice unifying our body and mind [pray] … we are producing a new energy.  That energy immediately opens our heart …  We are gathering our strength from within and combining it with the strength that lies outside us.”^[2]  For him, prayer is participating in a flow of energy among all of us, including God, who are not distinct but one being.  This captures my experience of praying with patients and families across all belief systems.

It also describes well the prayers that arose on the text thread for my friend.  Their words may not arise from any religious tradition, but they produced new energy that strengthened the spirits of my friend and their partner as they faced surgery.  They created a sense of being part of a fabric of love that would hold them up no matter what.  I have no doubt that my friend fared better physically and emotionally because they knew they were supported in this way.  For me, this is the healing power of prayer—by any name.

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[1] Anne Lamott, Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Prayers, 2012

[2] Thich Nhat Hanh, The Energy of Prayer, 2006