Prayer As Counter-Magick, and the Repair of the World
There are people in my life who pray for my destruction.
They wouldn’t call it that. They think they’re saving me.
On my mother’s side of the family, there are relatives who are fundamentalist Christians. They believe I’m going to hell, with the full conviction that their god demands it. They believe I’ve been deceived by Satan. That I’ve fallen away. That I’ve defiled my body and abandoned salvation. Not just because I’m trans. Not just because I’m queer. But also because I’m a Jew—a convert, no less. In their eyes, I didn’t just leave the flock—I crossed enemy lines.
As charismatic Christians, they practice what they call spiritual warfare—prayers to break strongholds, cast out demons, “correct” identity, and bring back prodigal children from their “sin.” They pray for the destruction of my sense of self and the death of my joy, all in the name of saving my soul.
And they’re not alone. Millions like them genuinely believe people like me are possessed, confused, or damned. Many of them are in positions of power here in the United States, these days.
There was a time when their prayers felt like daggers in the dark. Invisible harm. Like curses spoken in a language I didn’t believe in—but still bled from.
But Judaism taught me something else. It not only taught me that the Christian concepts of heaven and hell are completely misguided—Hashem would never torture someone for eternity--but it also taught me that words themselves are power. That speech creates. That breath is sacred. That the name of G-d is a whisper, a verb, a becoming. And that prayer is not just passive whispering into silence—it is participation in creation.
So I began to fight back—not with hatred, not with hexes, but with prayer of my own.
And I draw strength from my own tradition.
When I am angry and hurting, I pray the words of the Bedtime Shema:
"Blessed are You, Adonai, who spreads a shelter of peace over me, over all Your people Israel, and over Jerusalem."
Because I need shelter. We all do.
When I feel small and crushed under the weight of rejection, I remember the words from Pirkei Avot 2:5:
"In a place where there are no men, strive to be a man."
And I am.
When I feel powerless, I take comfort in Psalm 147:
"The Eternal heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds."
But also, I practice prayer as counter-magic.
I pray not for the ruin of my enemies, but for their awakening.
I don’t ask G-d to punish them—I ask G-d to open their eyes. I pray for their fear to soften into curiosity, their rigidity to bend into listening. I pray for the veil of their dogma to lift just enough for them to see me—not as a threat, not as a battlefield, but as a person. A son. A soul.
These are not gentle prayers. They are not easy.
They come from a deep ache and a deeper hope.
They are spells of survival, woven from love I refuse to give up on, even when it hurts.
In Kabbalah, we are told that the world is broken in a fundamental way—shattered vessels of divine light scattered through creation—and that we are here to gather those sparks. To repair what was damaged.
This work is called tikkun olam: the repair of the world.
Tikkun olam isn’t just charity or activism. It can be the quiet, aching work of refusing to dehumanize, even when you have every reason to. It can be choosing prayer over poison. It can be the revolutionary act of saying, I still believe you might come back to yourself.
In Judaism, there is also teshuvah—often translated as repentance, but more deeply, return. Teshuvah is not groveling. It is turning. Realigning. Finding your way back to who you were meant to be.
And when I pray for the people who’ve prayed for my erasure, I’m praying not just for my protection but for their teshuvah. I want them to return. To themselves. To the parts of their faith that preach mercy. To the image of the Divine in every human being—including me.
Prayer, for me, is a forge where I turn curses into compassion.
It’s where I remind myself that I don’t have to become what hurt me.
It’s how I hold both truth and hope without letting either slip.
I don’t know if their hearts will ever change.
But I know mine won’t be hardened.
Not if I keep praying. Not if I keep repairing.
The world breaks us in a thousand ways.
But we carry the tools to heal it.
One whispered spell.
One fierce prayer.
One return at a time.
They wouldn’t call it that. They think they’re saving me.
On my mother’s side of the family, there are relatives who are fundamentalist Christians. They believe I’m going to hell, with the full conviction that their god demands it. They believe I’ve been deceived by Satan. That I’ve fallen away. That I’ve defiled my body and abandoned salvation. Not just because I’m trans. Not just because I’m queer. But also because I’m a Jew—a convert, no less. In their eyes, I didn’t just leave the flock—I crossed enemy lines.
As charismatic Christians, they practice what they call spiritual warfare—prayers to break strongholds, cast out demons, “correct” identity, and bring back prodigal children from their “sin.” They pray for the destruction of my sense of self and the death of my joy, all in the name of saving my soul.
And they’re not alone. Millions like them genuinely believe people like me are possessed, confused, or damned. Many of them are in positions of power here in the United States, these days.
There was a time when their prayers felt like daggers in the dark. Invisible harm. Like curses spoken in a language I didn’t believe in—but still bled from.
But Judaism taught me something else. It not only taught me that the Christian concepts of heaven and hell are completely misguided—Hashem would never torture someone for eternity--but it also taught me that words themselves are power. That speech creates. That breath is sacred. That the name of G-d is a whisper, a verb, a becoming. And that prayer is not just passive whispering into silence—it is participation in creation.
So I began to fight back—not with hatred, not with hexes, but with prayer of my own.
And I draw strength from my own tradition.
When I am angry and hurting, I pray the words of the Bedtime Shema:
"Blessed are You, Adonai, who spreads a shelter of peace over me, over all Your people Israel, and over Jerusalem."
Because I need shelter. We all do.
When I feel small and crushed under the weight of rejection, I remember the words from Pirkei Avot 2:5:
"In a place where there are no men, strive to be a man."
And I am.
When I feel powerless, I take comfort in Psalm 147:
"The Eternal heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds."
But also, I practice prayer as counter-magic.
I pray not for the ruin of my enemies, but for their awakening.
I don’t ask G-d to punish them—I ask G-d to open their eyes. I pray for their fear to soften into curiosity, their rigidity to bend into listening. I pray for the veil of their dogma to lift just enough for them to see me—not as a threat, not as a battlefield, but as a person. A son. A soul.
These are not gentle prayers. They are not easy.
They come from a deep ache and a deeper hope.
They are spells of survival, woven from love I refuse to give up on, even when it hurts.
In Kabbalah, we are told that the world is broken in a fundamental way—shattered vessels of divine light scattered through creation—and that we are here to gather those sparks. To repair what was damaged.
This work is called tikkun olam: the repair of the world.
Tikkun olam isn’t just charity or activism. It can be the quiet, aching work of refusing to dehumanize, even when you have every reason to. It can be choosing prayer over poison. It can be the revolutionary act of saying, I still believe you might come back to yourself.
In Judaism, there is also teshuvah—often translated as repentance, but more deeply, return. Teshuvah is not groveling. It is turning. Realigning. Finding your way back to who you were meant to be.
And when I pray for the people who’ve prayed for my erasure, I’m praying not just for my protection but for their teshuvah. I want them to return. To themselves. To the parts of their faith that preach mercy. To the image of the Divine in every human being—including me.
Prayer, for me, is a forge where I turn curses into compassion.
It’s where I remind myself that I don’t have to become what hurt me.
It’s how I hold both truth and hope without letting either slip.
I don’t know if their hearts will ever change.
But I know mine won’t be hardened.
Not if I keep praying. Not if I keep repairing.
The world breaks us in a thousand ways.
But we carry the tools to heal it.
One whispered spell.
One fierce prayer.
One return at a time.
A Prayer for the Ones Who Would Undo Me
Ruach ha’olam, Breath of the world,
You who shaped all beings in mystery and light,
Hold me in the shelter of Your wings
When I am prayed against.
Let no curse take root in me.
Let no weapon of false love prosper.
Let me not return hate for hate,
But neither let me bow to cruelty.
Bless the ones who fear what they do not know.
Bless them not with victory,
But with vision.
Soften their hearts without breaking mine.
Open their eyes without closing mine.
May they turn--
Not toward me,
But toward the truth already inside them.
And if they do not change,
Let me still choose life.
Let me still choose love.
Let my breath be a flame of blessing.
Let my words be a spell of peace.
Let my survival be a psalm.
Amein.
כֵּן יְהִי רָצוֹן.
Ken yehi ratzon.
(May this be Your will.)
Prayer of Counter-Magic and Repair
A Kabbalistic Invocation
Shekhinah, indwelling Presence,
You who dwell between the wings of angels and in the silence between heartbeats--
Wrap me in Your veils of fire and starlight.
Make of me a vessel that does not shatter.
You who flow through the Tree of Life--
from Chesed’s mercy to Gevurah’s strength,
from Tiferet’s beauty to Yesod’s foundation--
Root me in balance.
Ground me in truth.
Let no name spoken in hatred take hold in me.
Let no prayer offered against me reach the Gates.
I return, again and again, to the spark You placed in me before the world began.
I am not broken.
I am becoming.
Bless even those who curse me,
that they may remember their own spark.
Bless even those who try to unmake me,
that they may return—to You, to themselves, to the light.
And if they do not,
let me remain whole.
Let my breath rise like incense.
Let my footsteps mend the cracks in the world.
Let the radiance of my being become part of the tikkun.
Amein.
כֵּן יְהִי רָצוֹן.
Ken yehi ratzon.
