Requesting divine assistance
PRAYING, as any Lotto ticket holder will tell you, is rarely effective, but many people still offer up prayers on the outside chance that someone may be listening and be in a position to grant the wishes of the supplicant.
Since 1854, New Zealand politicians have opened each parliamentary sitting day with these words from Mr Speaker,
‘‘Almighty God, Humbly acknowledging our need for Thy guidance in all things, and laying aside all private and personal interests, we beseech Thee to grant that we may conduct the affairs of this House and of our country to the glory of Thy holy name, the maintenance of true religion and justice, the honour of the Queen, and the public welfare, peace, and tranquillity of New Zealand, through Jesus Christ our Lord.’’ The performance of MPs over 164 years would suggest that Almighty God is distracted with other matters and that the members are simply on their own, just like the optimists who thought a new leader might do some good for the National Party.
The latest proposed version of the parliamentary prayer gives the
Queen and Jesus Christ our Lord the old heaveho, perhaps in the hope that the Almighty may pay more attention if given a solo spot. God will, I suspect, stay his hand and leave the MPs to wallow in their own shambles as usual, but praying seems such an ingrained habit that, whatever form the prayer takes, it will still be offered up regardless of the absence of any useful result.
Even the most agnostic probably have some memory of praying in childhood. A bedtime prayer, most probably. Not too long ago, a quiet word with the Almighty was a nightly ritual, even among the outwardly irreligious types like one of my favourite Patearoa pioneers, exconvict Tom Lewis, who mined for gold along the Sowburn where he lived in a stone shelter which still stands. Hardened by lashes from his prison days and a wild man when on the grog, he is remembered for, after a drinking spree, being taken in for a night by farmer Tom Foster and kneeling by his bedside intoning, ‘‘And God bless Mr Foster, Mrs Foster and Joe Foster, for they are all bloody good sorts.’’
At school we were suffocated with constant prayer, so much so that it passed us by, rather like preflight safety announcements. ‘‘If you sin, follow the instructions of the Almighty, as He knows what to do,’’ sort of thing. One of my classmates, who never swotted, put in some heavy praying the day before exams but never got more than about 20%. Mind you, he always came first in religious studies, suggesting a very selective response from the Almighty.
But some prayerfulness lingered. A prayer to St Anthony was the surefire way of finding something which you had lost. I can still parrot it. ‘‘Saint Anthony, perfect imitator of Jesus, who received from God the special power of restoring lost things, grant that I may find my water pistol which has been lost. At least restore to me peace and tranquillity of mind, the loss of which has afflicted me even more than my material loss.’’
Something similar but a little more emotional and heartfelt was probably being taught at the girl’s school for those who had lost their virginity.
My introduction to the novelty of grace before meals came later in life when, invited to dinner by a deeply Christian family, I had my first forkful of spaghetti bolognaise at lip level just as the host muttered, ‘‘Perhaps you would say grace for us, Jim?’’ Blushing the shade of the tomato paste which had gone into the dish, I mumbled something like, ‘‘Our Father, whose soft answer turneth away wrath, suffer the little children to come unto Me, and let him who is without sin cast the first stone. Amen.’’
I think I got away with it, but I was never invited back.
Our rugby club had a chaplain who would sometimes offer up a prayer for our success but it never seemed to work for the team I played in. However, seeing the odd All Black cross himself and mutter a word or two after scoring a try suggests that I was simply in the wrong team.
All the same, praying for guidance in running the country seems a bit dodgy, but using the rather woolly ‘‘almighty god’’, as the revised parliamentary prayer does, may well attract aid from whatever gods are listening in.
My own advice to Speaker Mallard is to keep it simple and direct, avoiding Almighties of any persuasion. This might do: ‘‘To Whom It May Concern. If you have any helpful suggestions about how to run the country or wrinkles on how to be reelected, please send them to Jacinda Ardern (Ms), Private Bag 18888, Parliament Buildings, Wellington 6160, New Zealand. Thanks.’’