Agnostic Prayer

MEG RUDD


I went to a small high school in a small town. It was hard not to be part of an extracurricular. I was in nearly everything that wasn’t considered a sport. Every band (there were 3: marching, jazz and concert), scholastic bowl, musicals, plays and choir. But there was an activity that was considered a combination of music and sport: show choir (and if you’re wondering why the marching band wasn’t considered a sport, ask the popular kids, who were in show choir, and not marching band).

I had been in show choir since 7th grade and liked it okay. I could sing and dance, so doing them at the same time was the next logical step. Each year's show was typically made up of 3-4 songs: an opener, a ballad, and a closer (and, depending on how the balance was between girls and boys, a song that allowed girls to sing, boys to sing, and then both). Girls wore very sparkly dresses with very gaudy make-up, boys wore matching suit vests and cummerbunds. In short: the girls looked trashy, the boys looked adorable, and somehow it worked. At the time of this story, I was a sophomore.

The director was new and openly Christian. In a small town with 9 churches for a population of roughly 2,500, this wasn’t at all scandalous. So he let his faith guide his instruction and choices in his professional life. It didn't ever impact me until before one performance at our own school. It wasn’t at a competition. The performance wouldn’t position us above or below any other school. The stakes couldn’t have been any lower unless we had been sweatily dancing in workout attire in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the choir room. This was a “home scrimmage.” 

In the foyer area of the school, before we went into the gym to perform for our family and friends, the director asked us to circle up, hold hands, and pray.

I hesitated, watching my peers stand side by side without question. They had done this before. So had I. In junior high I dove deep into a local youth group and drama outreach at the United Methodist Church. I had been in countless prayer circles, raised my hands up during worship, and "fallen over in the spirit." I don't know how genuine those last two things are for others, but I know that I was doing them because I saw others doing it (or because a cute high school boy at youth group was catching people who fell over).

But something about this moment was keeping me from joining the group prayer. In hindsight, I can only guess at what might have been holding me back: Was it because something that was typically done in darkened church fellowship halls during youth group, being done under the fluorescent lights in my school was too performative? Was it because the people in the circle, holding hands, were so “not Christian” in their actions (and I knew, because I was the target of their bullying)? Was it because I saw the thing we were about to ask God for as so stupid and trivial? Why would he help us keep our arms straight and our voices strong? Us? In this small town, in this small school, in an absolutely zero-stakes performance? And if we messed up, would we be able to blame God, absolving us of responsibility? 

“Do we have to?” I asked, probably not trying to hide my disdain.

The circle of sparkly-dressed high school students, my peers, holding hands, all looked at me like I had spontaneously caught fire with Hell-flame.

“Um...I…” my director had no answer. If he had said “yes” that would have been a problem. As a teacher in a public school, he can’t force a student to pray or not to pray. If he had said “no,” then he might seem to be questioning his own faith in front of students who saw him as a faith leader in their secular world.

“I guess not,” was his ultimate response, and I removed myself from the foyer, walking down the darkened hallway towards the office to wait.

I was already “weird” and an outcast, and I knew that what I had just done wouldn’t help. I could have just grabbed Becca’s and Travis’s hands, bowed my head, and shut up for a minute to just get through it and keep myself from separating even farther from my peers. But I was suddenly so uncomfortable, maybe for all of those reasons.

In that dark hallway was someone else. The showchoir dressmaker: Sue. Sue had made all the costumes for every play and musical I had ever been in throughout my entire high school career, and she made or altered every show choir costume for every member. She was a blunt woman with rough-but-sure hands, and long greying hair always pulled into a ponytail. She wore no make-up and was unapologetic about everything about her. I didn’t like her at the time, but I realize that, now that I'm in my 30s, she’s my patron saint (and trust me, I realize the irony of that metaphor given what I’m about to tell you).

She was walking back to her car with bolts of sequined fabric and a sewing box, done for another season. She saw me and asked, “Not praying?”

I said, “No,” not looking at her, still wrestling internally with why that was.

“I get it,” she shrugged. “I’m agnostic.”

My ears perked up. I hadn’t heard of this word before. But part of my identity was The Smart Kid who knew the meaning of big words, and it was not above me to correct an adult who I felt had misspoken.

“So you’re an atheist.” It wasn’t a question.

She bristled a bit and said, “Not exactly. I don’t believe there isn’t a God. I just know that I don’t know. And I don’t feel like I need to know.”

Time has warped my memory of this specific moment, so here is my dramatic reenactment: Sue gave me a half-smile as she backed her way out of the front doors of the school, turning to face the Spring afternoon sun. When the doors closed, I was left in the darkness, alone in silence save for the whispered “Lord, just”s coming from the prayer circle in the foyer.

Since that time, I have been uncomfortable in times of group prayer, or in the presence of others praying aloud. Because I do not know if there is a being receiving those words, but I do know that, due to soundwaves and the inner workings of my ears, I am receiving those words, and they are not for me. It's like I'm eavesdropping on a private conversation. But I'm also part of it at the booth in Steak n' Shake where my in-laws are thanking God for our Frisco melts and 5-way chili.

When I was a junior, I was walking out of the end of the day-long ACT test and my friend (who was Apostolic Christian...still not sure how we're still friends) breathed a sigh of relief accompanied by a prayer: "God, please let me do well."

I saw no God there, it was only me. I scoffed and said, "Chelli, he's not going to rearrange your answers on the Scantron." 

This is still my stance. If there is a God, or an "over-soul" (Emerson's concept. Give me a break, I'm an English teacher), it is not injecting itself into our lives. If that were the case, then why are we having to decide anything? Why bother praying? Especially out loud?

Regardless, when I am in moments of great physical pain, or great emotional distress, I do find myself whispering a prayer so, so quietly. Why? Is it a holdover from those youth group days? Is it because I am desperate, and prayer is my last resort? Is it doing anything? I don't believe so. But I still do it. And I'm still trying to figure out why. 


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Meg is an English Language Arts Teacher and Axe Throwing Coach. She likes the nerdier things in life and loves being the mother to Marty Rudd and married to Jay Rudd.



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