"Can we then continue the activity of prayer if deep down we know the skies are empty and that there is no divine protector to whom our words are directed?"My thoughts begin with two deaths—two memorial services. The first was for Jeni Lockrem, Jean and Linda's colleague, and Grace's teacher. All year long she fought the relentless progress of cancer, teaching until the last weeks of school. Faith was kept, prayers were said. But it was hopeless, in spite of faith and prayers. She died at age 45.(John Shelby Spong, Why Christianity Must Change or Die, p. 140)
At her memorial service they praised God and thanked God for her life and tried to explain how God somehow has reasons we don't understand for taking people from us. Scriptures were read and the Mass representing God's sacrificial love was offered to Catholics. The rest of us were offered a blessing. I declined.
If you have paid any attention to me over the years, you know that I do not have faith in a "person-God," nor do I believe that there is anyone "out there" that "does" anything. Such faith is hopeless. It is not reasonable to believe in a God that performs occasional miracles and offers occasional relief on an occasional basis for special people. I call such faith hopeless because it doesn't work. Something is wrong with that notion of God.
The second death was that of Betty Joy Bryant. She was a healer; murdered by one she sought to heal. Again, faith in a God that stands by to protect us from all evil is a hopeless faith. Otherwise Betty Joy Bryant would not have been murdered while offering a service of compassion.
There was good in both services, but more that helped me in the Bryant service. Nobody tried to explain God. None of this, "God has his reasons," baloney. Rather than think of God as out there or up there, we were opened to the reality of supportive love in which we live and move and have our being. It is a love that—in spite of all the horror of life—never lets go of us. It is both mysterious and powerful beyond understanding.
We all attended the memorial service. Paul sang a solo in that overflowing sanctuary—"Love makes the time, the time of your life never ending." All of us together sang the hymn—"O love that will not let me go." Paul's song and the hymn reminded us of the connections we have with both those who have died and those who live—love never ending. Betty—and Jeni too—were embraced by that love during their living and after their dying.
I found myself denying the old hopeless faith of a past time while embracing a faithless hope for the present. By faithless hope, I mean a hope that does not require an understanding of the mystery of life. It is a hope about the value and meaning of our lives no matter what happens. It is a hope about the presence of the sacred in the sharing and caring between human beings.
After both services we went to receptions. In the time after the services we shared food (com pan = with bread, thus companionship) and life. We spoke awkward words and shook hands and embraced. I've watched it happen too many hundreds of times. Without exception, there is comfort in the coming together —companionship—of people who care. I want to stop the proceedings and say to everyone: "Look, people. Remember the God we were talking about in the church. Actually, God is right here. Those who abide in love abide in God and God in them." It is a holy companionship. You can feel the hope even without faith.
In times like this, faithless hope works better for me than hopeless faith.