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Praying for Jane

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A dear friend of mine, Jane, drowned recently during a canoe accident on a river rapids in an Ontario wilderness.

I spoke with her husband, Gary, two days after the accident. He had been carried downstream by the rapids and had eventually found his way to help. Jane was still missing at that point, and there remained hope that she would be found alive by the massive search that was underway.

When I asked Gary if there was anything I could do to help him, he said to keep Jane in my thoughts and prayers. Then he quickly doubled back and said, “Well, not necessarily prayers in a traditional religious sense, but in your thoughts.”

I know what he was thinking. In dinner conversations with Gary, Jane, and other friends, I’d talked occasionally about being an atheist. Gary, a true gentleman even in his time of personal crisis, didn’t want to offend me by asking for my prayers, so he quickly modified his request.

I didn’t want him to feel awkward, especially in those awful hours of waiting for word from the search teams. So I reminded him of the old saying that there are no atheists in foxholes. That is, besieged soldiers suddenly in danger of their lives without apparent hope of rescue often “get religion” and appeal for help to—whom? God is the obvious answer. Sometimes people in such situations will try to strike deals, promising future good deeds in exchange for rescue now.

The more I thought about the conversation, the more I realized it was true for me. I did have the impulse to pray that Jane would be found alive. I couldn’t do anything to help the search, and I couldn’t be of much practical use to Gary while he waited (although I and other friends managed to get a bottle of scotch to him).

So I tried a conditional request, sort of a skeptic’s prayer: “If there’s somebody out there who’s in charge of day-to-day operations, and if I’ve earned any points at all for good behavior, please put them toward letting Jane live.” I found myself considering the terms of a deal, offering certain charitable acts in exchange for Jane’s life. But then, the utter absurdity that the creator of the universe would bargain with me over another person’s life, especially with my record of skepticism, brought me up short.

This event and others in my life have made me more sympathetic to the great many wonderful people I know who are religious. When their friends are in trouble, they want to do something, which is generous and admirable. Religion and prayer offer the gratifying sense that you’re making a difference, especially when you can’t do anything on the ground.

And as far as an afterlife, nothing would make me happier than having an opportunity to tell Jane and a lot of other people how much they meant to me and to ask their forgiveness for my blunders. Further, it seems to me that any decent skeptic has to be open to the possibility that at any minute, the skies could part, lightning bolts could flash, and a Prime Mover could appear and in a thunderous voice start asking for the Skeptical Inquirer subscriber list.

So while Jane’s religious friends prayed in their way, I prayed in mine.

But you already know the end of the story. The answer to all of the prayers was no. In the end, I don’t think anyone was listening. There’s no God who would pluck Gary out of the rapids and let Jane die. No God who would let some people escape the Twin Towers on September 11 and let others perish.

Jane died because of a set of physical circumstances, the outcome of billions of threads of geologic forces and human evolution intertwining over eons of time. All of that resulted in a rapids existing in that spot and Jane being there right then. Her death was part of the continuity of time.

When nonbelievers confront crises, we can’t avail ourselves of the comfort of praying, of taking some action to make things better. In a sense, our skepticism leaves us powerless.

More positively and realistically, our stance should increase our commitment to doing what we really can do. You’ve often heard that instead of waiting for your dear friends’ memorial services to tell them you care, tell them now. Our skeptical stance should add urgency to this advice.

In the end, Jane herself gave me the best answer. Gary told us that just moments before they reached the rapids, they were on a glassy-smooth lake in a pristine wilderness of thick forest; Jane’s favorite kind of place. Gary said she leaned back, resting her paddle across her knees, looked at the sky, and called out, “Thank you, universe!”

Rather than fussy rituals and fervent bargaining with imaginary powers, our best approach to life may be humility before the staggering complexity of what surrounds us and gratitude for everything we have.

Susan Bury writes from Red Lodge, Montana