A coworker told me recently that he’s not so sure that he’s religious, but he prays anyway. “I just hope someone’s listening,” he said. A more honest posture than most — he shrugged like it was nothing, but it's been on my mind still.
I used to be him.
I used to pray before every flight. Not a long prayer — just a quiet negotiation with the universe as the wheels left the ground. Keep this plane in the air. Let me see my family again. I’d grip the armrest and whisper something to a God I hoped was paying attention.
I used to pray before bed. Not out of peace and gratitude, but out of fear. I’d confess whatever I thought might count as sin that day, terrified I’d die in my sleep and wake up in hell. It was nightly maintenance on my eternal insurance.
I used to pray over every meal, reciting the standard line: bless this food and let it be nourishing to our bodies. I said it even when I was eating fast food. I acted like the prayer was a chemical agent that could transform grease into vitamins. But the food was just the food.
I used to pray before interviews I didn’t prepare for. “Ask anything in my name and it will be given to you” — I took that literally. When it didn’t work, I blamed myself. My faith must not have been strong enough.
If you want to mock me for treating prayer like a transaction, cool — but I’ve yet to see anyone move a mountain.
What I eventually realized is that “faith without works is dead” is supposed to mean faith requires action. But the only thing ever alive was the work. Faith was the hood ornament — just what I called the work I was already doing.
When things went well, God got credit.
When they didn’t, I got blame.
Heads he wins, tails I lose.
Prayer was just the story I told about who deserved credit.
I don’t remember the last time I prayed.
It wasn’t a dramatic moment.
I didn’t announce it to anyone, including myself.
I just... stopped.
One flight took off and I forgot to ask for protection.
One night I fell asleep without confessing anything.
And nothing happened.
The plane landed.
I woke up.
My coworker is still talking into the void, hoping someone’s there.
I stopped, and I don’t know which of us is better off.
Maybe that’s not the right question.
But what I do know is this: I don’t miss the bedtime fear.
I don’t miss the haggling at 30,000 feet.
I don’t miss pretending that magic words could replace the work I didn’t do.
I just live now.
I prepare or I don’t, and I get the job I earned.
I fly or I don’t, and the physics don’t care about my prayers; the turbulence comes either way.
I sleep, and the silence isn’t a threat anymore.
It’s just quiet.
I stopped talking, and it turns out the other end of the line had already been empty for years.