Lori Falce: The blessing of quiet prayer

When I was a kid, we didn’t have Good Friday off. We spent it as we spent the Friday afternoons of Lent leading up to it — in church, following along as the Stations of the Cross walked us through the milestones of the Easter story.

There was no question of prayer in my school. Not because the world was different then. I have no idea what it’s like to go to a public school that encourages prayer. I went to a Catholic school where prayer was not just an option. It was compulsory.

Because of this, I have often felt like both an outsider and an anthropologist in debates about school prayer. With the U.S. Supreme Court hearing a case that may pivot the issue later this month, I am feeling that way again. It’s possible this issue is the germ of my centrism — the beginning of my taking a position where I see and appreciate both sides.

At John F. Kennedy Catholic in Washington, Pa., we prayed at the start of the school day. We prayed before each class. We prayed before lunch and again after recess. We went to Mass on the first Friday of each month and on holy days that fell during the week. And that was all on top of religion class every morning.

But in high school, I was in a public school where we only started the day with the Pledge of Allegiance and then we were on our own.

For years, as I have covered school boards, court and politics, I have heard people talk about the bad in the world and its coincidence with the removal of prayer from the classroom.

As a person of faith, I understand the instinct to connect those dots. As someone who appreciates the law, I understand why a public school cannot have the same relationship to prayer that mine did from elementary through the middle school years.

But I have always found one glaring problem with the argument that there is no prayer in school. It’s simply not true.

There is no obligatory prayer in school. A person who has prayer in their heart cannot separate that relationship with the divine during the six or so hours in school.

For all those times I was obliged to pray during school, I don’t know how often I thought about what I was saying as opposed to how I was saying it. Did I get the words right so Sister Francesca wouldn’t glare? Did I say them loud enough for Sister Helena to hear but not so loud that I would be accused of drawing attention? I prayed with my mouth, not my heart.

In high school, I prayed organically. During a test. While practicing for chorus. Shakily as I prepared to walk on stage in “The King and I.” Crying over a broken heart in the bathroom. Prayer became both spontaneous and conscious.

It was also silent. It was not a performance. My prayers were for me and me alone, and I relished that quiet conversation that whispered in my soul.

So while I appreciate the beauty of a baccalaureate service and the unity of a pre-game “Our Father,” when I don’t see those happen, I don’t automatically assume there is no prayer happening. I believe that it is. It just isn’t for my eyes and ears.