When I was a kid, my sister’s favourite biblical passage was from the gospel according to Luke. “Suffer little children to come unto me,” Jesus told his disciples, “for of such is the Kingdom of God.”

My sister had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and she understood Jesus to be saying that children like her, who felt pain, would inherit paradise. Her favourite saints were the youthful martyrs – Angela of Fatima, Bernadette of Lourdes, Thérèse of Lisieux, the Little Flower. Every week my parish gathered to pray for my sister and the priest offered up her suffering, everyone’s suffering, all the suffering of the world, to God.

When I heard the priest’s words, I heard: distance, inferiority, unworthiness. I did not understand how my suffering would be of any material use to God. How would surrendering my suffering, or that of my sister, change anything?

Many of the world’s dominant religions have a tradition of surrendering to a higher power. The neuroscientist and psychiatrist Judson Brewer calls this the “universe prompt” – a reminder to let go of the small self, stepping into that most coveted of creative states, which the psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi famously called “flow”. This is a state in which a person becomes completely immersed in an activity. The inner critic is quiet and the work becomes its own reward.

In 2015 scientists studied intense Islamic prayer, which encourages the adherent to “surrender” the self to God. The study found that this type of prayer reduced the activity in the prefrontal cortex, frontal and parietal lobes, quieting the decision-making parts of the mind and reducing stress.

Later studies have confirmed the role of the inferior parietal lobe in spiritual experiences. Spiritual practices can dampen the activity in the IPL, correlating with profound shifts in the perception of agency and the sense of the body in space and time. In other words, spiritual practices can induce a sense of being part of something bigger than oneself and a sense of surrender to that something bigger.

Practices of surrender allow a person to feel wrapped in love, laying down their burdens, being at rest. Think of elite athletes who kiss their crosses or form a prayer huddle before a game, putting their fates in the hands of a higher power. Such acts may induce a much-needed sense of calm in high-pressure circumstances, allowing these individuals to enter into “flow”, akin to an experience of grace.

Muhammad, the founder of Islam, theorised that it is human nature to get caught up in material aspirations: we spend much of our lives in doing mode, striving for status. To help people recall, over and over again, their core relation to the universe, Muhammad instituted a system of regular prayer. Five times a day, Muslims hear the call to prayer, the adhan which translates as “to listen”. Muslims turn towards Mecca and contemplate their connection to something greater than themselves. According to religious scholars of Islam, each time a Muslim prays in this way, they fulfil their two key obligations to God: gratitude and surrender.

In a similar vein, Jesus implored his followers to remember him each time they broke bread together. Buddhists spend hours drilling their minds in the skill of attending to every moment, thus becoming aware of the ultimate nature of reality as empty and impermanent. They practise existing in both a state of surrender and agency at once.

Such practices might become rote over time, conjuring not connection but boredom. “Routine” comes from the Old French word rute, meaning “road, way, path” from the Latin rupta, meaning a road opened by force, from the Latin rumpere, “to break”. This is the thing about routine. It allows for surrender and comfort but requires a person to come back to it as if for the first time, every time, applying deep concentration to break through, opening a path to grace by force.

Spiritual surrender is not the same as doing nothing. Islam, Buddhism and Christianity exhort their followers to be of service to others, to work for the common good. As the Christian medieval mystic Teresa of Ávila wrote in her poem, “Yours are the hands through which he [Jesus] blesses all the world.”

As I got older and learned to read, I realised that my sister had misinterpreted the biblical quote about suffering little children. Jesus was simply telling his disciples to let parents bring their children to him for a blessing. By then, my sister’s memory and attention had started to fail. I didn’t correct her. I hoped that she could offer up her suffering and, for a moment, feel that it was holy.

I let her hold on to the belief that her pain had purpose. I hoped it brought her some comfort – that, even briefly, her suffering might feel sacred.

• Jackie Bailey is the author of The Eulogy, the winner of the 2023 NSW premier’s literary multicultural award. When not writing, she works as a funeral celebrant and pastoral care practitioner, helping families navigate death and dying