We pray for and thank a deity for so many things. For the supernaturally-minded, it becomes almost reflexive – you say "thank god" when something good happens, you express every hope as a "please let...." Even those of us who don't believe there's anyone out there to listen have this impulse, because the figure of speech is so ingrained in modern society.
Judaism divides topics of prayer into several categories. One of these is Tefillat Shav, "prayers in vain." Many things that people pray for actually have already happened – but they pray for the thing they don't know as if it hasn't happened yet. The defining example of Tefillat Shav is a parent who prays for a particular gender in their unborn child. We know that (to the extent that gender expression matches genetics), the baby's DNA is already fixed at the time of conception. Prayers for something that have already happened are deemed "prayers in vain," because you're trying to retroactively influence the outcome or nature of something in the past.
But I'd like to talk more about "thanks in vain." We attribute so much to God, when in fact those things come about because of people, ourselves or others. We thank God for the food which we bought and cooked. We call God the "author of the nations," despite the men and women who fought to establish – and to oppose the establishment of – each nation on the planet. Why do we do that?
I see two fundamental reasons. The first is something we often see (in the opposite direction) in political debates. The religious right, ironically, are often the first ones to claim that they accomplished their successes on their own, by dint of their own hard work. They neglect the effect of milieu – the advantages, opportunities, and privilege that they have. People who thank God for the food they bought with their own money and cooked in the kitchen they furnished, if pressed, would acknowledge that they did all of that... by taking advantage of opportunities that weren't guaranteed.
I can actually get behind this one. I make a ton more money than people who are every bit as smart as I am, because I happen to have a skill that is in-demand in this era. I might have been considered useless a century ago, if I even survived to adulthood. But even then, the circumstances that have afforded me the "blessings" that I have are a combination of randomness (the time and place of my birth) and opportunities set up for me by others: my parents, my teachers, my schools and the people who work in them.
Which leads to the second: we're scared of randomness. The idea that the universe is fundamentally random, that entropy reigns supreme, is terrifying. There's an existential dread to the thought that all of human history is a blip in the record of our planet, that our planet itself will one day be swallowed up in the death of our sun, and that humanity will likely no longer even be around to care by then. Believing in an unseen hand that guides and plans each of the random events that makes up our world gives us hope that the randomness will not one day take us out of the world just as the randomness brought us in. (But of course, it will.) Believing in an unseen benevolent master who orders the world means that:
- Everything bad isn't actually bad; it's a temporary sacrifice in the service of a greater good.
- Everything good is a sign that we are loved and special.
- Every coincidence is a sign meant to reinforce the belief that there is a plan.
And I can't argue with the psychological comfort of any of that. In fact, that's what the hymn I'm thinking about today seems to say!
If the timid mariner
Do but eye thee, Star of morrow,
Though the winter night be drear,
Courage high he straight will borrow,
Soon will gain the port, where he
Fain would be.
-"Jesu, Bright and Morning Star"
According to this ancient hymn text, the "timid mariner" can draw courage from the thought of Jesus, and thus will actually make it to the place he's trying to go. Note that it doesn't actually say that God does anything here. The mariner was always able to reach his destination – he was merely scared, and needed the reassuring thought of the "Star of Jacob, seen afar" to give him the courage.
(I found great irony in singing this song on a Sunday where so many people, faced with a snow storm, decided they couldn't make it to church. I think a few more of the Christians needed some "courage high"!)
We all have to find our ways to deal with the prospect of mortality, both ours and our planet's. We need a way to simultaneously take pride in our achievements and humbly acknowledge the random opportunities and the privileged starting place that helped enable them.
As a Satanist, I can't meet that need by relying on an imaginary all-powerful friend. I do it by embracing the randomness and the briefness of life – if there is no eternity, then every moment matters. If none of this was planned, then the random result is all the more amazing and worth celebration.
Hail Satan! Amen.