Our prayer is a “why God”, Not a “dear God”. Our prayer is a violent drowning plea, Not stiff small talk. Our prayer is thundering protest, Not a quiet mutter. Our prayer is a guttural cry to save our souls, Not a please and thank you. Our prayer is a panicked flailing, Not courteous filler words. Our prayer is desperate splashing, Not a polite denouement. Our prayer is ceaseless tears, Not a sugar-coated amen. Our prayer is a terrified asphyxiation, Not an expected obligation. Our prayer is suffocated screams, Not a performance to gain an affirmation. Our prayer is drunken hallelujah, Not a religious duty. Our prayer is a death-bed altercation, Not a neat conversation. Our prayer is a drug-induced sob, Not a pious pre-scripted presentation. Our prayer is soaked sackcloth and ashes, Not our pressed Sunday best. Our prayer is a passionate revolution, Not a shallow bullshit response. Our prayer is asking taboo questions, Not expecting answers. Our prayer is treading water because stopping means drowning.
Religious circles throw around WWJD when at a moral crossroad- but honestly, I’m more curious about WDJDTN: What Did Jesus Do on a Thursday Night? There are far more Thursdays than forks in the road.
As cynical as it may sound, the two most significant moments in a person’s life are birth and death. The timeline in between once upon a time and happily ever after is filled with hundreds of Thursdays.
I often find myself pondering about the undocumented stories, mundane moments, seemingly insignificant scenes in between the miracles- that weren’t recorded in the gospels. Traditional sermons often focus on the two significant bookends: Christ’s birth and death- which to be fair were both theological pinnacles of the utmost significance in Christian history- miracles that even the most educated and intelligent theologians can’t even begin to capture or comprehend. That being said, I’m not about to attempt to write a dissertation about the orthodoxy of the crucifixion or birth of Christ (maybe one day).
But rather, point out that we do a disservice by failing to recognize that there were 30 years of chores, stomach aches, clipping fingernails, normal dinners, morning breath, sleepless nights, and boring conversations.
We can see God when our hands are raised in worship on Sunday morning- but where the hell is He on an ordinary Thursday night?
Remember, the incarnation made these moments holy- the union of sacred intertwined with secular. The divine in the dirty brought meaning to the mundane.
We are told that God is with us on the mountains and in the valleys- but where is He in the flatlands? We are able to feel pain and pleasure- but what about when our hearts are numb? We can see God when our hands are raised in worship on Sunday morning- but where the hell is He on an ordinary Thursday night?
Let’s be honest, your favorite memories probably occurred out of nowhere on a Thursday night because even there holiness is bursting forth in life’s most mundane moments. Most of life is behind the scenes and the blooper reels.
So, raise a glass, here’s to all the ordinary Thursdays past and the exciting Thursdays yet to come and every Thursday in between.
Abigail Sefzik 