Silent Prayers and Honking Horns

Every Wednesday at noon throughout the Idaho state legislative session, you can find me on the steps of the Capitol building, standing still and praying silently. The silence of my thoughts is interrupted only by the occasional sniffle, as my nose angrily protests the bitter cold I’ve subjected it to.

​I don’t stand alone, but rather alongside colleagues representing the Interfaith Equality Coalition – pastors, ministry leaders, and faithful members of a variety of faith traditions gathering to bear witness to the all-inclusive love and justice of God in the context of a state (and a world) that seems hellbent on ushering in hatred and injustice instead.

By the nature of our silent prayer vigils, we don’t often come face-to-face with the legislators who are on the other side of the Capitol walls. Though it’s their lunch break, most of our elected officials have either opted to send staff to retrieve their fare, or far more likely, they’ve simply snuck out a side door to avoid us.

Still, I stand silently in prayer. And for what do I pray?

• I pray that LGBTQIA+ Idahoans might be protected from workplace and housing discrimination, not to mention hate crimes, discriminatory laws, and everything else that aims to lessen their quality of life.
• I pray that transgender children, youth, and adults would have the freedom to work with their medical providers to make decisions about their bodies and well-being.
• I pray that all Idahoans – particularly the working class – have access to safe and affordable housing.
• I pray that childbearing people have access to full reproductive services without the fear of government meddling.
• I pray that refugees who find safety in the Treasure Valley will also find hospitality.
• I pray for common-sense solutions to gun violence in all its forms.
• I pray that unionized employees are met with welcome and dignity at the bargaining table.
• I pray that our lack of quality mental health resources be transformed to an abundance.
• I pray for a highly funded public education system that places value on nurturing well-rounded and well-prepared students.
• I pray that our nation’s story can be told in full – not just the patriotic and joyous parts, but the lessons we’ve learned from our mistakes, too… so the mistakes won’t happen again.
• I pray for affordable childcare and for investments in quality early childhood education. 
• I pray that black and brown children, youth, and adults not have to fear a (quote) ‘routine traffic stop.’
• I pray that the social safety nets of Medicaid and affordable healthcare are strengthened for all, not stripped away.
• I pray that all people can earn a living wage through a single, meaningful job.
• I pray for a peaceful end to political, religious, and social extremism, in all its forms.
• I pray that the freedom of religion upon which this country was founded be a freedom enjoyed by people of every (and no) faith tradition.
• I pray that love, and love, and only love will win.

I admit that I sometimes wonder whether my silent prayers are heard, or if they’re even worth my time. Surely, my cold toes and sniffling nose would like nothing more than to return to the comforts of my warm office and its endless to-do lists. And if the legislative proposals being considered at the Capitol are any indication, our presence outside certainly hasn’t led to any changes of heart. Are my silent, frozen prayers even worth it?

But then, I notice how the world that surrounds my silent prayers isn’t silent at all.

• I hear the honking of horns as passersby drive along the street, rolling down their windows to wave in support.
• I hear the crackling voice of gratitude of one who has just left the building following a brutal committee hearing, because our quiet presence on the steps had finally made them feel seen in a place that makes them feel invisible.
• I hear the vulgar slur of an angry driver who calls out to us on the Capitol steps, and wonder if the anger is merely an attempt to mask fear (a fear of the unknown? a fear of that which he doesn’t understand? a fear that his cast-off brother is as beloved as he is? a fear that love will win?)
• I hear the sound of the geese flying overhead in a perfectly imperfect V formation, with each member of the flock held responsible for the support and well-being of those with whom they share the journey.
• I hear the gentle sniffles of the noses on the faces of those standing alongside me, each carrying their own signs, their own hopes, their own doubts, their own prayers.
• I hear the unmistakable proof that I don’t stand alone.

So, I’ll continue to stand. And pray. And write. And speak. And preach. And support. And mourn. And celebrate. And reach out.

Because the sound of every honking horn, every crackling voice, every angry insult, and every supportive community (whether goose or interfaith leader) will be woven together with the silence.
​
Until love wins.