Why I can't pray

So here's a thing I'll admit into the void of nonexistent readership. I don't pray.

I mean I do, but not really, and not well.

At bedtime with the kids I dutifully recite "I see the moon." At dinner we say grace. Now and again I'll toss up a "please God give us health."

But other than times of tragedy, that's it. That's all I got.

When my father-in-law died recently, I said the Divine Mercy Chaplet at his bedside, and I prayed with my wife that God comfort her and her dad and family etc., but that was serious shit.

When shit gets serious, I always reach for God.

When it's 5 p.m on a random Thursday, I find prayer impossible.

I titled this post "Why I can't pray" but if I'm being honest I don't know why I can't. I find prayer boring, dry, and when things aren't desperate, it feels futile. I know in my mind that prayer is none of those things, but even getting through an Our Father feels like a struggle these days.

I could blame the sex abuse crisis, working for the church for the last few years, or any number of things, but I know it's just on me.

Sometimes I feel like my whole life is a series of me knowing what is good for me, and deliberately choosing the opposite. If I eat right and exercise, I'll be fit. (No joke, I've had two Rice Krispy Treats and a Nutty Bar today). If I pray and live an upright life I'll be more fulfilled.... and yet it's Sin City over here.

Maybe this blog is a prayer. I know since it's largely inactive no one reads it, so who am I writing this for?

Lord, teach me to pray once again.

Nightmare of faith

A terrible dream I had last night. 

I dreamed I was at Mass. I wasn’t my usual self in pews with my family but I was….something. A deacon maybe? An acolyte? I was dressed in something liturgical, but I was not a celebrant. It was not unlike a Chrism Mass where many vested priests are in the pews. Many others were vested like me. I got the idea we were the same, but what we were wasn’t clear.

At Communion, somehow the line got jostled up and I ended up struggling to get to the front.  I got there and the priest picked up the host, said "Body of Christ.” As I began to stick out my tongue he crushed it, sprinkling the crumbs of the Lord all over my chest as I quickly struggled to catch them all and prevent their falling.

I yelled, "Why would you do this?" In an effeminate voice full of contempt he said, “Oops, I shouldn’t have done that,” and went on distributing. Sometimes he handed it out ok, others he tossed the Host. The other priest distributing next to him laughed with him, perhaps uncomfortably, but he did nothing.

In leaned back, using my body to catch all I could and tried to consume it all. There were far more crumbs than one host should produce. For each fragment I saved, two fell. I tried to get to the ground to cover and retrieve what fell but the mass of people in this chaotic communion pressed me on as I cried out. No one seemed to care.

I escaped to a rectory to try and at least save what may remain on my clothes, but my concern was met with apathy and my vestments were stripped off and taken away. Somehow I saw they were tossed in a laundry pile with no special care.

I was left standing nearly naked. No one saw me. No one cared about the abuse of our Lord that took place. No one did anything. And I just stood there.
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There's some obvious symbolism in this. I need to process it more. My faith, weak though it may be, is in Christ and not in dreams. Still, this was a painful nightmare.