The Lord's Prayer has been drilled into many of us from the time we were kids. These words form a kind of all-purpose prayer.
We say them when we are happy or sad, waiting for a child to be born or an elder to die, when we hear of a plane crash or watch a sunset or walk alone in the woods or gather with others for the Eucharist. In so many different moments, these familiar words are on our lips.
And they can become part of the arsenal of rituals and routines that give structure and solace to our lives--like good night kisses, or a tried and true jogging route, or that favorite recipe we can make without thinking, that practically makes itself. These soothing routines and rituals give us comfort and security. They are necessary for life.
But as many spiritual writers point out, there can be a danger of rattling the words off mindlessly, without attending to what we are saying. The trick, they tell us, is not to abandon the old formulas we have inherited--whether they be the Lord's Prayer or any of the other rituals and prayers of our tradition, but rather to inhabit them in a mindful way. The task is to enter into the consciousness they express and make it our own.
Usually this requires conscious effort and focus, but other times it just happens that the full weight of these familiar words can come crashing in on us.
A story. Years ago I was a chaplain in a big-city hospital on Chicago's south side. A young man was in the ER in critical condition from a gunshot wound. I was with his mother through what became a very long night, sitting with her, sometimes praying with her.
Along the way she taught me about praying as Jesus in today's gospel says we should pray: with persistence.
When she first arrived, the prayer that emerged from her initial hysteria and trauma was clear and straightforward: Please, God, don't let my son die. He's all I have. You can't let him die.
Now and then a doctor would emerge from the emergency room assuring us they were doing everything they could. But the signs were not encouraging.
She began to bargain: God, if you let him live I will start going back to church and maybe help in the soup kitchen. Please, don't let my son die.
The night wore on. Still no encouraging news. Her prayer shifted, becoming one of rage: You're supposed to be a loving god. And you're supposed to be all-powerful, so you can do this, you can make this miracle happen if you want to. My son does not deserve to suffer and die. If you let him die, I will hate you, God, forever.
The night turned into morning. She became exhausted with fear and sadness and rage.
But then around 4am, something else began to happen in her prayer. Her anger was softening, her prayer slowly becoming something like this : God, I know you love my son, and you love me too. I don't know whether my son will live or not. and I certainly don't know what I will do if he dies. but I trust your love for both of us. Even though I don't understand, I trust you.
A prayer of trust.
It was somewhere around this time I suggested we say the Lord's Prayer. So we did.
“Our Father, who art in heaven...” So far so good.
“Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come.” At this point she's still OK. But then...
“Thy will be done on earth.” She couldn't go any further. She began sobbing uncontrollably.
Maybe for the first time in her life those words came crashing down on her, with all their terror and pain and rage, their trust and mercy and love. So many things rolled into those powerful, all-too-familiar words.
This woman had done what Jesus in today's gospel invites us to do: She had persisted in her prayer.
And the path of this amazing woman echoes Jesus' own path. On the night before he died, when he thought ahead to the loss of all his friends, the extreme physical pain, the rejection by society and his execution on a cross-- the scriptures say he sweated blood. He pleaded with God to let that cup pass him by.
It didn't happen, no miracle would rescue him from death. The next day, he would hang from the cross, barely able to life his head, and would cry out My God, why have you forsaken me?
But then, as with the woman I just mentioned, something else happened, a shift in Jesus' own prayer, a move into a different phase: He would say Father, into your hands I commend my spirit. In the end, an act of trust and complete confidence.
I am completely broken and all my friends have abandoned me now. I don't understand where you are right now, God, or why this has happened. But I know you love me and are with me, and I trust you. Into your hands I commend my spirit.
Like the woman I mentioned, Jesus had persisted in prayer, moving through all the terror and pain, arriving finally at trust.
As I was sitting with that woman at the hospital, I could see the dawn beginning to break, and it was time for me to leave and another chaplain to take my place. I had a plane to catch and would be gone for several weeks.
When I did get back to Chicago, I asked around the hospital about this woman and her son, but no one seemed to know what became of them. To this day I don't know if her son lived or not.
But to this day, I am still amazed at her faith and what she taught me on that long night as she persisted in prayer: through the hysteria and bargaining and rage to, finally, that deep conviction that God would be there with her and her son no matter what happened.
So my take-away from today's gospel is simply this: Keep on praying. In whatever words you have, familiar or otherwise, or completely wordless. Just keep praying.
And if the little voice that is inside all of us says, "But I don't believe. I don't believe," don't worry. Just keep praying anyway. Be persistent in your prayer.
As one spiritual writer says, "Lord, I believe; help my unbelief" is the best any of us can do really, but thank God it is enough.”
