Nothing Too Great, Nothing Too Small

Some fragmented thoughts on these turbulent times, the cries of an aching world, and the strange yet stirring practice of prayer

Friday, February 25
Grand Rapids, Mich.

Hello, gentle reader.

I had some other thoughts that I was going to share with you this week, but those are going to have to wait. 

Yesterday morning, I woke too early, checked my phone, and saw the news: Russia had invaded Ukraine. I struggled to get back to sleep. We were halfway home to Michigan, in a hotel outside of Buffalo, N.Y., and all I could think of were those folks whose own sense of home was in danger.

Later in the day, as I read the news, both from Europe and from elsewhere, I felt yet more sorrow. All across this divided country and all over this aching world, so many people hope for safety, but are surrounded by violence. We long for human dignity to be respected, yet so many in power seem determined to dehumanize. Though every person wants to matter—and does matter—so many of our neighbors are ignored or forgotten or treated as if they do not matter. As a journalist, I realized, too, that the headlines I was scanning inevitably omitted countless stories. 

My doom-scrolling was getting me nowhere, so I turned to writing some brief prayers. Sometimes that’s all I know to do. 

One of my most indelible childhood memories is the image, burned into my mind, of my paternal grandmother on her knees in prayer. I could usually hear yet not decipher her murmurs to God. Occasionally, I’d glimpse tears trickling down her cheeks. I knew from her other prayers, including the ones she led in the morning and at bedtime, that she brought all manner of concern to God: from the quotidian worries of other old ladies at church to the souls of the Chinese Communist Party. Sometimes, she went to God with utter clarity. Often, she had only her confusion. Nothing, though, was too great, and nothing ever too small. 

I know that, nowadays, many people have grown weary of others’ prayers—and especially of that now-cliche combination of thoughts and prayers. I get it. Thoughts and prayers so often seem to be trotted out as rhetorical props. Yet for those of us who take prayer seriously, it is not inert. The heart moves. The soul rises up. The spirit, perhaps, steadies itself in preparation for still more action. And for those of us who believe God hears our cries, prayer acknowledges that it isn’t just our action alone that matters. In our conversations with God, one-sided as they might feel at times, we voice our conviction that we aren’t in this mess alone.

You will not get a comprehensive theology of prayer from me, not today and probably not any other day. But let me confess just one more thing to you: My feelings about prayer are mixed. Sometimes it does feel as if I’m throwing my hands up, and it’s not clear even to me whether it’s in supplication or in defeat. Sometimes I earnestly hope for divine intervention even as I continue to puzzle over how exactly God might respond to our prayers. Sometimes my prayers express my attempts to make sense of the nonsensical; perhaps the only way I know to grapple with all that’s beyond me is to reach for One whom I believe has a much wider embrace than I do. Sometimes it’s all I can do to find my footing on unsteady ground. Sometimes I just hope to be opened up again to reminders of the God who is love, the God who accompanies us through all our griefs and all our sorrows, the God who cares about what weighs us down and promises to carry the burden with us and even for us.

So, yes, I wrote some prayers, and I shared them on social media, and I offer them to you here, in case they might be helpful to you.

For all who are vulnerable and afraid, for Ukraine's people, for trans kids and their families in Texas, for all suffering amid war and violence, for all who feel forgotten—grant them courage, strength, and the true peace of knowing that they are beloved:
God, hear our prayers.

For all who abuse their power, for those drunk on arrogance, for those who wield their strength with disregard for human dignity, for those inflamed by deceptive pride—grant them humility, restraint, and the true peace of knowing that they are beloved:
God, hear our prayers.

For all who feel overwhelmed, for those who want to do something yet feel powerless, for those trying to bear witness, for those who are flailing—grant them wisdom, comfort that is not complacency, and the true peace of knowing that they are beloved:
God, hear our prayers.

What if we remembered consistently that we are all beloved—and that we are all in this together? How might that change the world? 

One joy of spending the last five months on Cape Cod was the opportunity to see the waters of the bay in all kinds of weather. Some days, it seemed absurdly still—like a sheet of glass, stretching farther than the eye could see. On others, forces far beyond our vision or understanding churned the seas; the evidence was in the whitecaps.

Even on the days when the wind drove me indoors pretty quickly, I remained grateful for the testimony of the seas. No matter the conditions, they told one consistent story: a story of our interconnectedness, a story of persistence and perseverance, a story of the beauty and the precarity of life. To ponder the seas at once humbles me, fills me with wonder, and stirs no small amount of hope. 

That’s my wish for you today—dare I call it my prayer? That you’d glimpse something that humbles you, fills you with wonder, and stirs ample hope. 

As always, I’m so glad we can stumble through all this together, and I’ll try to write again soon.

Much love,
Jeff

p.s. If you have anything you’d like me to add to my prayers on your behalf—remember, nothing is too great or ever too small—feel free to mention it in the comments below or to email me at makebelievefarmer@gmail.com.