One afternoon this week I was sitting outside with some of the College staff watching the grounds staff move a dirt pile into the gardens. One of the staff, a Muslim man, walked away to a quiet area beside the College, wrapped a towel around his waist and stood still for a moment. We wondered out loud for a moment what he was doing with the towel, as he turned east toward the Dome I love so much, knelt and then bowed to the ground.
It was humbling and beautiful to witness.
Last evening as I was preparing to lead Evening Prayer, I invited a Cathedral visitor to join me if he was interested. He looked tired and weary from heat. He thanked me for the invitation but said “I think I’m all prayed out.”
At Evening Prayer, I never know how many people will join. It could be just me, it could be me and one other person, or a group could be staying at the Guest House and it could be a full house. Whenever it looks like it will be just me, I catch myself momentarily embarrassed, thinking: I’m going to feel ridiculous if visitors start wandering through the Cathedral while I’m saying prayer by myself in the Chapel. I always get over it—I don’t skip evening prayer because I’m alone. And I quickly get over my hesitation as I immerse myself in the liturgy. It’s quite lovely to say prayer in the Chapel out lout by myself.
Yet, tonight, as I led Prayer alone, I caught that slight hesitation. I reminded myself of the staff member who prays five times a day, even if tha tmeans outdoors at work and my hesitation quickly subsided.
I’m learning a deeper appreciation for and dedication to my own prayer life. I’m conscious when I’m tired and hot and culture-shocked of the Muslim people I live and work with who announce their calls to prayer over loud speakers, walk down busy streets with their prayer rugs under their arms, and who when all else fails, will kneel and bow in the garden they are building.
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