What's the Point of Praying?

Though my parents weren’t strictly Catholic when I was growing up, my grandparents were, especially from my father’s side. I can’t honestly say that either since they weren’t churchgoers, but almost.

I received communion, baptism, the Eucharistic treatment, and all that jazz.

For a while, I was lucky enough (not!) to be sent to a Catholic school for rebellious, indisciplined, and misbehaving kids.

Needless to say, it wasn’t the most favorite time of my life.

As usual, and it didn’t take long, I was thrown out, expelled, never to return. They unknowingly did me a great favor, and I was delighted.

Priests or nuns could easily take the position of demigods, and since we don’t know any better and are afraid of the consequences, we submit to their abuse. Both physically and psychologically.

But eventually, after several trials and errors, my parents gave up and sent me to a boarding school in the middle of nowhere.

There, I spent the best years of my preteen life.

It was a military environment, not quite West Point, but close. Wake up at the break of dawn, wash up, brush your teeth, put on a uniform, and go down to the hall for breakfast.

We were only let out of the cage on weekends. Fridays, to be exact, if we behaved properly. If not, Saturday, but if the infractions committed were over the line (and it didn’t take much), no out of the cage at all.

That was the worst possible punishment imaginable for the most free-spirited of us.

We had a life outside that place: girlfriends, buddies, basketball and soccer games pending, etc.

Our best move was not to piss off the captain or his little sidekick, who kissed his ass like it was caramel. Any more, his face would’ve disappeared.

I had never seen a man with such adoration for his superior. Ever.

Years went by, too many, really, but I came out with a silly HS diploma after failing the first exam, lots of streetwise tactics, and knowing how to stand up for myself and take no shit from anyone.

I got beat up more times than I can count, but I always went for seconds.

The bullies eventually thought I was nuts and gave up, “too much of a hassle,” they said. My revenge was accomplished when I volunteered in the kitchen and, with some herbs, gave every single one of them the longest farts ever heard in the history of humanity for days on end.

No one blamed me. They were that dumb. My friends knew and couldn’t stop laughing whenever they’d let go of one. It was a symphony of trumpets and trombones.

~∆~

Back in the world, I decided to play drums, but I couldn’t afford the set, and my parents were too mad at me for the notes they received from the “academy.”

So, I learned the ropes from friends who lent me theirs and taught me the basics.

Who knows, but if my dad had gone for it, I could’ve been the next John Bonham or Keith Moon.

Or not.

It took me over ten years to forgive him, and I still give him a hard time every chance I get.

Praying was never a thing I’d do. Besides, I was a total atheist. It was part of the culture in those hippy days. None of my friends did it, nor would the girls that hung out with us. It was “not cool”. It wasn’t rock and roll or metal. It was looked upon with scorn.

That could be the thing with religion, depending on people’s experiences. People give up, too, when life doesn’t go their way.

It’s on one day and off the next, depending on the circumstances.

It happened all the time those days; nobody knew what they wanted, and we didn’t even know who we were. Just like today, we’re essentially hedonistic.

We are looking for a good time, and it’s always “me” first. The only time we pray is when we desperately need something. Whether it happens or not, we’ll measure our commitment to whatever faith we claim to profess.

It’s like we demand proof every time we ask. If our prayers come through, God lives. If they don’t, God is a lie.

Ask the agnostics.

I wasn’t as shallow as to see it that way.

I denied his existence outright. I wouldn’t even mention the premise. It was a taboo subject, and my cynicism will always show.

The memories and the knowledge that those schools left ingrained in my records’ mental cabinet are too hard to ignore. Even if God has nothing to do with them, I figured he wouldn’t allow what’s happening in the world if he were genuinely omnipotent. To me and millions like me, that was all the (lack of) evidence I needed.

I didn’t believe in epiphanies, either. To me, it was all conditioning and brainwashing. After all, God has never done anything I asked, begged, or prayed for. Not a thing!

At some point in my life, I went to a monastery in Nepal, seeking answers to life and its meaning. Answers to the most knowable but indefinable. To the reasons why there are so many questions without resolution, and so much more.

I found peace up in the highest mountains of the Himalayan range. I learned the fundamentals of letting go and training the ‘monkey’ mind.

And to pray and meditate correctly.

I got more than I ever thought possible when it was time to go. Profound lessons about how our worst demon, ego, can stop us from growing and easily destroy our lives and everybody in it.

And I learned about the importance of praying. I learned what it was and what it wasn’t. How and when to do it, and how not to pray for anything except for the goodness of life itself.

I discovered that God is everything and everywhere. It’s the supreme consciousness of all there is.

There’s no religion necessary, no need for Popes, priests, or gurus.

Eliminate the demon by intention, action, and self-respect. Empathy and compassion will destroy it.

The ego judges and hates and wants you to judge and hate as well. That’s its fuel and its reason.

The longer we take to understand such a simple concept, the longer it will take for us to evolve to something much, much higher.

That, which is waiting for us to awaken.