Somebody Prayer for Me

Sermon for the Twentieth Sunday After Pentecost, Year C

The Church of the Epiphany | Washington, DC

Luke 18:9-14

For several hundred years, the practice of Christian spirituality was been anchored by a handful of prayers. And for many of those prayers and practices we are indebted to the monastic tradition—to the women and men who devote their lives to deep listening in a noisy world.

In the early centuries of the Jesus Movement, there was a building sense that something in society was a little off. Authorities ruled in a way that was increasingly unjust, which wasn’t exactly new, but the way in which people were living was increasingly unsustainable. Even more so, what had made the Way of Christ so radically different from the ways of the political state was increasingly blurred—with public life slowly becoming more and more like a soup of religious nationalism. 

A common feeling for many at the time was a sense that the whole thing might go off the rails at any moment: governing structures, Christian community—all of it heading toward collapse.

What it meant to live faithfully through those times was, to say the least, complicated—because we’re never given a blueprint for how to navigate the difficulties of life. So, in response to all of those powerful forces and changes happening in the world outside of themselves, many Christians began to turn their attention inward—committing themselves to cultivating deep spirituality as a way of sustaining their faith and ability to hope together. 

This was the beginning of a movement nearly three hundred years after Christ’s life. But it is very much a story that has been repeated and lived again and again by God’s people, in both the stories of the Old and New Testaments—and through history to our own modern day.

One thing has always been quite clear: making it through dangerous realities will demand a whole lot of prayer. At the outset of the Civil Rights Movement, this was instilled in Dr. King. His mentor—the great theologian and “spiritual genius” Howard Thurman—impressed upon Dr. King the necessity of infusing social activism with spiritual practice. Doing so was a matter of great urgency.

For both monastics and activists, a spiritual life is like a deep well from which living waters are drawn. And for all of us, in the face of our troubles or temptations to despair, prayer keeps our spirits alive. It matters that we pause to pray, and it makes all the difference when each of us can say “somebody prayed for me—had me on their mind, and took the time to pray for me.”

Now, when a situation in life gets desperate it has a way of focusing our attention, doesn’t it?   

Whether that be a new diagnosis or a job loss, divorce or perhaps changes in the world around us that are outside of our control, our spiritual senses get heightened, and we become aware of our need for God to intervene. And oftentimes, prayers in those moments get very simple. 

The writer Anne Lammott’s three essential prayers are these words: Thanks, Wow, and Help. That’s it. In a similar, the poet Ellery Akers writes in a poem titled The Word That Is a Prayer:

One thing you know when you say it: all over the earth people are saying it with you; Please: a word so short it could get lost in the air as it floats up to God like the feather it is,

One longstanding practice, dating to around the 6th century, is called the ‘Jesus Prayer:’ Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. It draws on words from Luke’s Gospel.

Jesus tells a story… And the people he has in mind are those “who trust in themselves that they are righteous and [therefore] regard others with contempt.” In other words: anyone certain about the rightness of their religion, anyone confident in the accuracy of their social analysis, anyone proud of their self-sufficiency, and anyone tempted to judge others for not yet having figured their lives out… this is a story for us.

The first character we are introduced to is the hero everyone strives to be like. We tend to turn up our noses at any mention of the Pharisees, but in Jesus’ time they were viewed quite differently... Pharisees are serious people. They are the ones on the front lines, so to speak, of cultural changes and causes. Religious identity is being co-opted and compromised all around them—and they are fully devoted to their piety as a way of protecting it. Pharisees have placed their faith in the rule of law—and they are concerned with protecting the system because it is imperative for ethical living. 

Yes, they might be a little judgmental from time to time, looking down their noses on others like a group of Mean Girls, but everyone secretly wants to be them. They are admired for the purity of their cause and the discipline their lives display.

And this is not so with the second character. The tax collector is viewed with outright disdain. 

Publicans, which is another way of saying “tax collector,” collude with Israel’s occupiers. These are the people who strategically enrich themselves through collaboration with the wealthy and the powerful. They elevate themselves in social standing by selling out their neighbors—and it comes at great cost. They are widely hatred and isolated from genuine relationship with others. 

Somehow or another though, it is not the admired Pharisee but rather the despised Publican who Jesus lauds in the story… It is the Publican who prays: help, please, “God, be merciful!” 

He comes in recognition of his deep need—and he leaves filled with mercy. The Pharisee on the other hand, secure in his own standing, expects nothing, and leaves with just that: nothing. 

I think Jesus’ story tells us quite a lot about ourselves. We are, of course, both of these characters. At times painfully aware of our need, and at times all-too-confident in our own goodness and self-sufficiency. The tricky thing is that should we think we are actually the ideal model of humility, perhaps secretly whispering to ourselves “Thank God, I am not like those Pharisee with their repulsive beliefs,” in that moment the truth is revealed. The jig is up. We become the very person we so wish to distance ourselves from.

I think this the very reason the Jesus Prayer has remained relevant for hundred of years now…

As simple as it is, it is really quite powerful. These are provocative words. Because when earthly authorities seek to Lord over their people, building ballrooms or temples as testaments to their false Lordship, proclaiming Jesus Christ as Lord is nothing short of confrontational.

What I think is truly powerful though is the thing the Publican knows: we are people of need. 

We are humans in need of the divine. To borrow language from Alcoholics Anonymous, admitting that we are ultimately powerless in the face of so many of the forces in our lives is the moment we can truly begin living. It is no small thing to admit whiteknuckling our way through life makes it unmaneagle. But surrendering to a Power greater than ourselves—crying out “have mercy”—restores our sanity. And it is then that we can get on with the business of what Spirit seeks to do through our lives. 

When paired with the movements of breath, the words of the Jesus Prayer have a way of centering ourselves in moments of trouble or anxiety. With each inhale, as is customary, one prays “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God,” and then when exhaling that same breath, “have mercy on me, a sinner.” I find myself returning this prayer again and again whenever I have no other words—whether I’m overwhelmed, trying to distract myself on a morning run, of when I’m annoyed by others drivers (like this moring on the way to church). This prayer centers me enough to make my way through the circumstances I’m facing, however trivial or great they may be. 

More than telling us about ourselves though, I think Jesus’ story tells us something important about who God is. 

God’s mercy is available to all—no matter how far one has fallen to hit the rock bottom of life.

And this is truly good news. Because even the so-called righteous, who can have a difficult time receiving it and miss out, will also eventually receive the mercy of God—which falls on the so-called righteous and unrighteous alike.

Friends, God’s love abides eternally. Each and every one of us is enveloped within it. And it will see us through. 

With whatever words of prayer—however eloquent or simple, in whatever form they may take: let your heart open and be filled.

Amen