Book Summary: The War Prayer by Mark Twain

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, and in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism. The drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, and the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering. On every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies, a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun. Daily, the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue, gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers, mothers, sisters, and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by.

Nightly, the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory that stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks all the while. In the churches, the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, invoking the God of Battles, beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence that moved every listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half-dozen rash spirits who ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness quickly received stern and angry warnings. For their personal safety’s sake, they shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came – the next day the battalions would leave for the front. The church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams – visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths.

The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation to God.

Then came the “long” prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work, bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset, help them to crush the foe, and grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory.

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless steps up the main aisle. His eyes were fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, and his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way. Without pausing, he ascended to the preacher’s side and stood there waiting. With shut lids, the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued with his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, “Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!”

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside – which the startled minister did – and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light. Then, in a deep voice, he said, “I come from the Throne – bearing a message from Almighty God!”

The words smote the house with a shock. If the stranger perceived it, he gave no attention. “He has heard the prayer of His servant, your shepherd, and will grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import – that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of – except he pause and think.

God’s servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two – one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this – keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! Lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor’s crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

You have heard your servant’s prayer – the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it – that part which the pastor – and also you in your hearts – fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: ‘Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!’

The uttered part of the prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory, you have prayed for many unmentioned results that follow victory – must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words.

The aged stranger continued, his deep voice unwavering and solemn. With the congregation hanging on his every word, he described the horrors that would accompany their prayer for victory. He spoke of the enemy soldiers, young men like their own sons, torn to bloody shreds by shells and gunfire. He painted vivid pictures of fields covered with the pale forms of the patriot dead, their bodies broken and lifeless. The stranger’s voice grew even more somber as he spoke of the thunderous sounds of battle drowned out by the shrieks of the wounded, writhing in pain and despair.

He spoke of the homes, humble and cherished, laid waste by hurricanes of fire. The hearts of unoffending widows wrung with unavailing grief, their cries echoing through the desolated land. Little children, roofless and wandering unfriended, their rags fluttering in the merciless winds of winter and the scorching flames of summer. The stranger described the bitter pilgrimage of these broken souls, imploring the refuge of the grave and finding none. He beseeched the congregation to imagine their steps heavy with travail, their way watered with tears, the white snow stained with the blood of their wounded feet.

The stranger paused, his eyes sweeping over the silent, spellbound congregation. He had delivered the unspoken part of their prayer, the dark and terrible consequences that must follow the victory they had so fervently prayed for. He stood as a solemn messenger, a reminder of the duality of their plea, the blessing for themselves that also carried a curse for their enemies.

The room was hushed, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. The congregation, once filled with joyous anticipation and patriotic zeal, now sat in stunned silence. The minister, who had led them in their fervent prayers, was no longer at the pulpit. The stranger’s presence, ghostly and ethereal, seemed to cast a pall over the room, dimming the light that had once filled their hearts.

Slowly, the reality of their prayer began to sink in. The congregation, who had gathered to send their sons and brothers off to war with blessings and glory, now faced the stark truth of what they had asked for. Their prayer for victory was also a prayer for death and suffering, not just for their enemies, but for innocents caught in the crossfire.

The stranger, his message delivered, stood waiting. His eyes, filled with an uncanny light, seemed to pierce through the souls of those present. He had done his duty, revealing the full import of their prayer. Now, it was up to them to decide. Would they reaffirm their prayer, now fully aware of its consequences, or would they reconsider their fervent plea for victory?

The silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive. The congregation, once so sure of their righteousness, now wavered. The weight of the stranger’s words, the vivid images he had painted, pressed down on them. They had prayed for glory and honor, but now they saw the other side of that prayer, the suffering and despair it would bring.

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic because there was no sense in what he said. The congregation, unable to reconcile the joyous patriotism with the grim reality the stranger had presented, dismissed him as a madman. Yet, the memory of his words lingered, a haunting reminder of the true cost of their prayers.

As the service concluded and the congregation filed out of the church, their hearts were heavy. The excitement and exalting fervor that had filled them before were now tempered with doubt and unease. The aged stranger, his task complete, was nowhere to be seen. His presence, though brief, had left an indelible mark on their souls.

The war continued, and the young volunteers marched off to battle, their families cheering them on with voices choked with emotion. But now, in the quiet moments, the congregation remembered the stranger’s words. They had prayed for victory, but they could not forget the price of that victory, the unspoken part of their prayer that the stranger had brought to light.

In the end, the war prayer had been more than just a plea for victory. It had been a revelation, a stark reminder of the duality of human desires, and the unintended consequences that often follow. The congregation, now aware of the full import of their prayer, faced the future with a deeper understanding of the true cost of war and the heavy burden of their pleas.