Several years ago, when I was less wise and more raucous, I happened upon a box in the basement of my family home. The box was filled with papers, and had some Hebrew scrawling on the outside of it. Figuring it had something to do with the Jewish camp that my brother was working for at the time, I asked him about it.
He informed me that it was part of an activity that he had been doing at the camp. The campers, you see, were learning about “The Wailing Wall”, a monument of the fallen temple in Israel. Many Jews make the pilgrimage to Israel for the express purpose of visiting this last remaining vestige of their once great structure.
It is tradition, while at the wall, to write a message on a small piece of paper and insert it into one of the many crevices therein.
What that is supposed to accomplish is left entirely up to the person writing and inserting the message. I can say that I have put a message in the wall, but I can’t tell you that it meant anything to me when I did it, nor do I remember the contents of the message itself.
Some are likely partaking in the ritual for tradition’s sake, some may do so to personalize their trip to their home land. But, though it may not be pitched explicitly, this is prayer.
Ultimately, these messages are inserted into the wall in the hopes that some sort of higher power will listen to the writer. And so, people put down their requests, and oftentimes their thanks as well and gingerly search for a nook in the wall to place their hopes and dreams.
So what ends up happening to these bits of paper? Is there a god who witnesses them?
Well, for more reasons than one, I can’t speak for god.
I can speak for myself however.
Because the moment I found out what that box in the basement was, and what it contained, I descended onto it and devoured its contents.
I won’t make any claims that the initial intention here was fueled by anything but voyeurism. I am, after all, profoundly interested in what’s going on in people’s minds, behind what they present to the world.
The notes were cute, they were written by children after all. One asked for world peace by way of a princess revolution, another asked for there to please be no rootbeer popsicles for dessert that day because they looked like “doody sticks”.
But some, as you could probably guess, were heartbreaking. Requests to see a dead relative again, praying for their sick friends, that sort of thing.
The more I read them the more my enjoyment diminished. This quickly felt like something beyond myself. I felt responsible. It was suddenly my duty to read all of these notes.
I did. There were probably 200 or so and I read them all.
The notes were anonymous, for the most part. I’m sure I knew some of the kids who wrote them, but there were no recognizable names on these bits of paper.
Some of these kids had written down things I could have helped them with, but not knowing who they were made that rather impossible.
So I was stuck. Over the span of an hour or two, I had read all of these little bits of wishes. I didn’t know what to do with them. I wanted to share them with my friends, but when I brought it up and told them about what I had done, I was, without exception, chastised.
Was it really so bad for me to have done what I did?
I mean, yeah these notes weren’t written to me, they were written to god.
But was god going to read them?
I didn’t think so.
And you know, that just seemed unfair to me. These kids were told to write down something, put it in a box, and to address their letters by beginning them with “dear god”, they clearly wanted them to be read.
If I, despite my questionable motives, hadn’t read those letters, no one was going to!
That’s why the adrenaline from doing something that felt wrong at first, became something that felt like a duty soon after.
It was my job to witness these children’s hopes, dreams, and woes, because no one else was going to.
I couldn’t help them, I couldn’t rescue them, and I couldn’t give them what they asked for.
But, I laughed when they were funny, and cried when they were devastating.
I couldn’t give much else to these kids, but I was able to honor them and their efforts.
And isn’t that all we really want from god?
Do we really believe that there’s a man in the sky in charge of everything, judging us at our every move?
I think what most people want is far simpler. Prayer, for all its popularity boils down to the basic fulfillment of a simple desire.
People want to be heard.
Sometimes, the things people pray for are perhaps things they would never tell another person. Maybe, they’re afraid of stigmas or being unfairly judged by their peers.
But in reality, will they actually be judged by god?
Probably not.
And so, god becomes this save haven, a place where a person can experience the relief of unburdening themselves of their woes and admitting to a being devoid of criticism their deepest dreams and ambitions.
That’s why despite prayer not being something that has ever worked for me, I would never want to take it away from anyone.
Instead, I stepped up.
Because when I read those notes and let the hopes, dreams, and gratitude of these children into my heart, I bore witness.
And isn’t that what it’s all about?
Want to be god? Go for it. It’s not that hard, really.
