Good Scathing

  

Prayer by Steve Garnaas-Holmes

As if prayer is something you go to

like a place or a meeting, and not

ruin, or

                seed.

As if prayer is something you can be in

like a room or a mood, and not

poverty, or

                love.

As if prayer is something you do,

like speaking, and not

what happens to you, like

                sickness, or surprise.

As if prayer is something you get up from

like a chair or a chore, and not

sex or

                a grave.

No, let my prayer storm into me,

or digest me, or dawn in me,

from which I rise risen,

                                      scathed.

“No let my prayer storm into me,/or digest me, or dawn in me,/ from which rise risen, scathed.”

Risen, scathed

Can scathing ever be a good thing? I think of scathing criticism, the kind that pierces our souls and burns. I think of the pine tree scathed by lightning after a magnificent storm. 

So when I read the poem “prayer”, I was caught up short by its last word: scathed. 

It seemed to be suggesting that prayer is not only outside our control but something which sears us, scathes us, creating not an injury to be avoided but rather a crack or wound to be tended and embraced. That’s where the light gets in after all.

It feels imperative during these times of chaotic pervasive injustice to reframe some words we have taken for granted, like looking for the good in all things, looking for the creative reimagining of words like wound, broken, scathe. 

May prayer sear my soul. May grace pierce my protective armor. May healing tears flow and fertilize hope.