40 Days of Prayer
"You will receive power..." - Acts 1:8
Gracious God,
Thank you for the ways you've been moving among us these 40 days. Thank you for the ways you've inspired our voices, lifted our burdens, healed our bodies, minds and spirits and opened us to receiving and giving forgiveness.
We pray that in this time of national turmoil, we might hear and respond to the ways you are calling us to confront injustice, cross social boundaries and connect deeply with you.
May we be compassionate with one another.
In Jesus' name,
Amen
Muchos nos sentimos con poca esperanza y frustrados,
pero Dios nos abrirá el camino.
Dios nunca nos abandona.
Juntos encontraremos la luz.
No perdamos la fe.
Que la gente indocumentada no se sienta sola
que no dejen de luchar porque aún que ello ahora no vea solucion a todo lo que está pasando
yo sé que pésimo con mucha fe.
Y amor nuestro señor nos protegerá y que nunca pero nunca olviden que el nunca nos abandona fe mucha.
Y que lo sueño se logran.
by Larry J. Peacock (Massachusetts, USA)
There is something deeper than trouble.
It is mercy.
God's amazing grace.
Carrying, lifting, holding us in all seasons.
There is something more powerful than despair.
It is mercy.
God's amazing love.
Seeing us through dark nights, waves of sadness, mountains of grief.
There is something longer lasting than pain.
It is mercy.
God's healing touch.
Bringing us hope, leading us to joy, teaching us to sing.
Dios dice:
Como una madre consuela a su hijo, yo te consolaré a ti.
Isaías 66:13
Dios de amor. Gracias por la seguridad de que aún en tiempos de desesperanzas, contamos con tu promesa de que siempre estarás ahí. Tu amor y consuelo nos sostienen para continuar siendo testigos de tu amor transformador.
Amen
Dear God,
I'm not sure what to say.
On the night that man got elected, I raised my hands in the dark and pledged allegiance to you and you alone.
I remembered that I never belonged to this nation anyway.
I remembered I was yours and that you'd already warned us about this
I remembered you called us to fearless love, and that empire would find this threatening.
I felt I knew what had to be done.
But God, it's not even a week later and I'm already forgetting.
Not about the powers and principalities–
They've only made their terror more and more known.
No. I'm forgetting the clarity I had about belonging to you.
There are so many distractions
And so much to fear,
But in the depths of my being I do know
That even when I want to yell and scream
Or ask for an explanation of where exactly you are
It's you,
Stirring in my soul
Calling me by name
Asking that we be bolder, larger, more of who you've created us to be
You beg us to rise up and break chains– you promise we already have the power.
And we belong to you.
Come now, God.
Pour your Spirit out on your people.
And be with us,
Lisa
I'm willing; my restless heart turns toward you tonight, my God
in search of comfort
in search of healing
in search of I don't even know what.
Perhaps just to know you are there
would be enough
to meet the hollow ache in the depths of this loneliness
The ground beneath my feet has shifted
And tomorrow the sun will rise on a world
more dangerous than I have ever known
past what I thought were the limits,
more threatening still.
What new perils lie in this wilderness are impossible for us to see.
So tonight, in my sleepless angst,
I gaze out the window at the stars, and pray.
Pray that you look out ahead and be our guide
Steady our gaze at the faint hint of dawn
that brings deliverance
And be the strength we'll need to resist,
the clarity of vision,
the courage,
the faith to trust Love is more powerful than the forces of death that stalk from the shadows
Hear our cries, and be faithful
For we need you now more than ever
Be our rock
Be our shelter
Be our hope against hope
That sorrow might last the longest night
But joy comes in the morning
Dear Lord,
This prayer is difficult because I don't want to be as angry or as anxious as I am. It feels like a badge of honor in America to tell others how busy one is or how much stuff one has on their plate, but I don't want to tell you that. I want to tell you that I'm happy; I want to tell you that the prayers I've said so many times have actually worked; I want to tell you that I finally understand your grand intent.
But the truth? After 30 years of longing, I still don't feel whole. I still am asking "why?"
God, I work so hard. I worry so hard, too. Why does every progress I strive for feel so incremental? Why is every part of my journey so difficult, filled with so many hills, so many valleys? Why do I have to stretch as much as I do?
I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for this body, or this skin, or this mind. I didn't ask for these feelings. Yet they're all my crosses to bear, gifts to unwrap, layer by layer. It seems like an unjust burden to have to deal with the trauma of simply existing – forgive me for having the audacity to also attempt to thrive. Why does it feel like a special request to deeply enjoy life? Why does it feel like an undeserving miracle to be loved fully? My requests seem so simple, even essential.
I'm told to hold on, to grin and bear, to remember Job. I've memorized songs my ancestors sung; I know how to bend and moan. I know what wading in the water feels like. But patience is a weight I'm tired of holding up. My life has been so accommodating. I don't want to accommodate at the expense of myself anymore.
I don't want to romanticize any part of this struggle, eitherー I want it to go away. I want to know that the world you've plopped me in was intended for me, in the fullness of how and what you've created me to be.
Are all of these things too much to ask for?
I'm still processing Saturday’s Prayer March in Support of Standing Rock. One of the places where we held a prayer ceremony was at the foot of the Times Square statue of Fr. Patrick Duffy, an immigrant of Irish descent whose family came to the US by way of Canada fleeing the Great Famine. He was a chaplain of the predominantly Irish-American 69th Regiment, founded by the Young Irelanders, who organized a failed rebellion against English colonial rule in 1848 of which one of my ancestors was a leader. The Young Irelanders who escaped to the US formed the 69th Regiment to train and mobilize the Irish in the US to prepare them to one day rejoin their brethren, casting off British empire once and for all.
Instead, the 69th Regiment became known as “The Fighting Irish” or “The Fighting 69th” for their bravery in battle in many major wars waged by the US across the globe, most recently in Pakistan, Iraq and Afghanistan– where civilian casualties number over one, and perhaps as high as, two million, according to studies that factor in deaths due to the damage done to food, health, natural and economic systems.
So, a people who were refugees and resisters of empire’s violence, and an organization founded to overthrow it, were contorted into its agents. They assimilated into the ways of a nation with capitalism, white supremacy and patriarchy baked into its foundation, that has violently broken every treaty made with the people of its First Nation in the insatiable pursuit of land, resources, and wealth.
Today, I mourn the many ways that empire bribes and weaponizes its subjects to turn against one another; to rape, rob, and murder human beings; to betray our own dignity which, if it is dignity, must honor that of others.
Today, I recognize that though we were born into oppressive systems that we did not choose, we make choices that are all our own about who we will be, what we will stand for, and what we will build. My history holds both resistance and destruction. I cannot exile my own bones that bear conflicted legacies– reconciliation and healing could never be so simple. And so my faith practice is a necessity of my existence– an audacious belief that my people, white people, can and must die to the spirit of domination, by choice or by force, so that we may re-member the spirit of struggle and of communion with all life.
I confess I do not know what all that means– the depths of the sacrifice that faith will ask of me, or the vastness of abundance it will unleash. So I walk with the questions, with an openness to receive, with a willingness to act in small and big ways to be reborn to love’s transformative power.
Each day, I make mistakes and I begin again.
In the Prayer March, I carried with me a rock and a vial of seawater from Ireland/Eire to each of the places where we held water and prayer ceremonies. Though our tears are tributaries from particular places, this watershed from our faces is flowing to the same life force– yearnings churning from that strange spirit source. May I, may we, wake up to our collective dignity, that sacred homeland from where we all come.
You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you... - Acts 1:8
Receiving the Power
This campaign objective is to open us as individuals and as a faith community to receiving the Soul Power that God is offering us.
It helps to find a regular time to pray each day. It can be 5 minutes, 15, 30, whatever is sustainable for you. The key is consistency, establishing a regular practice. Find a place to pray each day with minimal distractions. If you plan to write in a journal you can keep it there.
There are many ways to do that:
You can choose any combination of these ways to connect with God. You could try one for a week and then switch it up-- whatever helps you connect with God.
You can call or text each other once a week to check in and see how your prayer is going. If you would like help in finding a prayer partner, contact Pastor Doug at cunninghamdp@gmail.com.
At some point each day, please include this line which we will be praying together:
O God, open us to receive your Holy Spirit power, that we may be your witnesses in our community, the Bronx, New York City and beyond.
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