Say Goodnight, Grace
We’d just arrived from out of town and sat down with Mom for dinner. She led us in grace.
“Thank you, God, for this food, for bringing Pam and Gary here, and next time maybe they can stay a little longer so they can paint the storm windows. Amen.”
Mom, bless her heart, has always had a place setting for divine intervention, and she’s not above dishing out a bowl of guilt at the dinner table.
Saying grace used to be such a simple thing.
In my family it was an established prayer that seemed to be imprinted on our genetic code. I don’t remember having to learn it, as we did the other prayers. I seem to have been born with the words already in my head.
“Bess us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts …”
We never really had to think about the words. We just sat at the table, bowed our heads, opened our mouths, and the words just tumbled out, right there next to the yams.
If you ever had to think about the words, if you ever lost your place — because, say, you burst into laughter because cousin Ed looked at you funny — you could never pick up the thread. That’s because the traditional meal prayer that I knew wasn’t made up of words so much as comforting sounds and a reassuring rhythm.
Later, Mom purchased salt and pepper shakers with the grace prayer printed on them. I suspect she was worried about cousin Ed coming to dinner again.
But at some point, the grace prayer in America underwent a fundamental change, and it morphed into a sort of freestyle, ad-lib event, which has plagued dinner tables across the land ever since.
I’ve traced this phenomenon back to the 1970s, which, coincidentally, was the era of disco, which, I will point out, is to blame for everything that is wrong in America today. I’m just saying. Anyway …
What we have now — not only at Catholic/Christian tables, but at tables across the religious spectrum, from pagans, Muggles and animists to agnostics and atheists — is sometimes a no-holds-barred extemporaneous babble that could be about anything.
I’ve witnessed it delivered in strange ways, without thought or meaning or substance, sort of an adult version of that childhood satire, “Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub.”
Sometimes, it’s not about giving thanks at all, it’s all about asking for stuff.
“Please, God, guide our vehicles home safely tonight, and if you have time tomorrow bring us some world peace.” Now, pass the potatoes.
Sometimes it’s strictly secular and has nothing to do with asking for blessings or giving thanks. It’s about politics or the weather or why we’re all gathered here together, as if we didn’t already know it was all about the turkey and the dressing.
“Dear Lord, let there be enough cranberries for seconds.”
And sometimes God isn’t mentioned at all. I plead guilty to this.
One Thanksgiving I was called upon to say grace, and I began by explaining the traditional Quaker form of prayer. In other words, silence. It was not so much about saying grace than an attempt to listen to it.
Not everyone got it. We’re not all comfortable with the quiet. So there were a few nervous giggles, and for a moment I thought cousin Ed had showed up.
I’m not arguing for a return to the old prayer, whatever that may be in your home. I have never been a fan of rote recitation and mumbled incantations. But I’m also not a fan of the stand-up routine. So maybe what I’m arguing for here is a re-examination of the purpose of the dinner prayer.
The roots of this dinnertime tradition — almost universally — are imbedded in the idea of giving thanks, and in honoring the things we take from creation that give us sustenance. The prayer, no matter how it is voiced — or experienced in silence — has to do with gratitude and taking a moment to reflect on our connection to food, to nature, our environment.
I have no idea if prayer works. I don’t know if any plea to the deity is actually heard and answered. My faith may be particularly weak when it comes to prayers that ask for stuff, but who am I to say? It works for my mother, who has graced my life all these years. We painted her storm windows.
But I know prayer can’t hurt. And if all we get out of it — no matter what form it comes in — is a sense of shared community and a sense of well-being within ourselves, then it’s indeed a wonderful thing.
— 30 —
Collected written works | Gary Marx
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