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Dear Friends of the Ark and Dove community,
This week, I wanted to share a joyful poem with you written by Iranian-American poet and scholar Kaveh Akbar. As I prepare to preach this Sunday, I’ve been looking at Bible texts full of violent imagery, and so I’ve been seeking some balance for my soul. This poem, so evocative of being a young person with the giggles, is a helpful reminder of the effervescence of the Holy Spirit and how prayer can work in mysterious (and relatable) ways to bring us together and erase differences. Though you’ll notice their language and practices of prayer are somewhat different than ours, I’m guessing you’ll see something of yourself in this recollection of a moment of prayer gone perfectly awry.
How Prayer Works
Tucked away in our tiny bedroom so near each other
the edge of my prayer rug covered the edge of his, my
brother and I prayed. We were 18 and 11 maybe, or 19
and 12. He was back from college where he built his own
computer and girls kissed him on the mouth. I was barely
anything, just wanted to be left alone to read and watch
The Simpsons.
We prayed together as we had done thousands of times,
rushing ablutions over the sink, laying our janamazes out
toward the window facing the elm which one summer
held an actual crow’s nest full of baby crows: fuzzy, black-
beaked fruit, they were miracles we did not think to
treasure.
My brother and I hurried through sloppy postures of
praise, quiet as the light pooling around us. The room
was so small the twin bed took up nearly all of it, and
as my brother, tall and endless, moved to kneel, his foot
caught the coiled brass doorstop, which issued forth a
loud brooong. The noise crashed around the room like a
long, wet bullet shredding through porcelain.
My brother bit back a smirk and I tried to stifle a snort
but solemnity ignored our pleas—we erupted, laughter
quaking out our faces into our bodies and through the
floor. We were hopeless, laughing at our laughing, our
glee an infinite rope fraying off in every direction.
It’s not that we forgot God or the martyrs or the Prophet’s
holy word—quite the opposite, in fact, we were boys built
to love what was in front of our faces: my brother and I
on the floor draped across each other, laughing tears into
our prayer rugs.
-Kaveh Akbar
With you in joyful prayer,
Pastor Jenn
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