One thing I don’t miss is the pastoral prayer. It was a childhood bane, something I dreaded every Sunday. I’d stand there shifting from one foot to another as the preacher droned on and on, lifting up every health need, from heart operations to ingrown toenails, and every ministry of the church, and “everyone gathered here today,” and bestowed numerous flowery compliments on God for his sundry attributes and his patience with us ne’er-do-wells, on and on and on. Fifteen minutes seemed to be the minimum length, else it wasn’t worth God’s time to listen.

And yes, it was necessary that we parishioners stand while the pastor was talking to God on our behalf. God, evidently, looks askance at parishioners who sit down while someone else is praying, and he withholds his blessing from that church. It was as if it’s better to focus on your poor aching feet than on actually praying. Some preachers feel the same way about public Bible reading‚Äîthat everyone must stand when Scripture is being read, because it really impresses God and proves that we are spiritual warriors. If you read Scripture while sitting, it just means you don’t respect the Bible.

Maybe once every other month, six times a year tops, the pastor would allow us to sit during his pastoral prayer. As we proceeded through our usual routine of hymns and throw-away prayers, and the moment of the high-priestly pastoral prayer approached, I would find myself hoping, “Please, oh please let us sit today!” Alas, I was nearly always disappointed. But it’s good to have hope.

I grew up in the 1960s and early 1970s, when women wore very high heels to church because, I guess, guys liked them. So lengthy pastoral prayers could be quite an ordeal for women, though perhaps that was part of God’s plan‚Äîafter all, they have pain in childbirth because a woman sinned first, so standing for 15 minutes in high heels is just more of the same just punishment for Eve’s transgressions. One of my distinct, recurring childhood memories involves our family’s drive home from church, and hearing Mom say something like, “I didn’t think he would ever stop praying. My feet were killing me.” I suspect the same sentiments were voiced in numerous other cars as long-suffering high-heel wearers headed home to pot roasts.

Anyway, the churches I’ve attended since 1989 haven’t featured the pastoral prayer. I don’t know if God is glad about that, but I am.