The Jesus Prayer: A Play in Three Acts

Prologue:

The Jesus Prayer goes like this:

"Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me."

Remember that. It will be important.

Act 1: Delilah

I have officially decided to name my new car Delilah, because she is on the one hand beautiful and on the other a harlot who has betrayed me. The list of pickles she's gotten me into is getting longer and more maddening by the day, and the memory of one of the more harrowing of said pickles is still fresh, having taken place not two months ago on the way back to Newberg from an interview in Portland.

You guys tried that picasa photo editor? Really easy way to make your car look like it's in a comic book.

The interview was for a position in Young Life's Associate Program, a dream job of mine except that it would require me to live wherever they might place me, rather than in Springfield where I had resolved to go after graduation. My interviewers and I reached this impasse at the end of the interview, them telling me I would have to live away from home, and me trying to humbly and gratefully explain that I must return home, that home is where I felt God calling me.

I left the interview feeling that it had been a pleasant-enough waste of time, and this subtle frustration gave way to despair as my car began to sputter and stall as she and I ambled through the thick traffic going out of Portland. I pressed my fingers hard against the steering wheel and ground my teeth together each time the traffic came to a complete stop, and felt my heart leap and sink with each deep metallic rattle in the engine, audible even from the driver's seat. I feared (rightly so) that her coil may burn out somewhere en route, leaving me high and dry on the highway.

On yes, I forgot to mention that Delilah needed a new coil, immediately after needing a new fuel pump, immediately after needing new motor mounts, immediately after needing a new starter, immediately after needing a new rear main seal. Yes, by this point my $1,200 car had cost me well over $2,200 and was still not running how she ought to. I knew about the coil prior to this little excursion but couldn't afford to fix it until later that week and needed the car for this one run to Portland, a quick ride by all accounts (thirty or so minutes each way). And like an idiot I was sure she could make it for me. My confidence, unsurprisingly and not for the first time, was misplaced.

Following each lurch of the traffic flow Delilah coughed more pitifully than the time before. After some twenty minutes of fitful idling we were able to reach a few dozen miles per hour, but by this point she was sputtering even more violently, and her accelerator simply wasn't accelerating the way an accelerator ought to do. As I felt the engine approach death I floored the gas pedal to avoid being rear ended, but I knew I would still have to pull over sooner rather than later. The challenge: I was in the middle of four wide lanes which were rapidly merging and separating such that there was no clear path to a safe patch of shoulder. So I merged in and out, hitting the blinkers and hazards manically as smoke began to pour out from the sides and front of Delilah's hood. By that point there wasn't much I could do about, though, so I kept flooring the gas hoping the short bursts of acceleration would carry me off the freeway. And sure enough, by the grace of God, I managed to veer onto an exit ramp to Beaverton where I pulled into a gas station and cried into my hands for a few minutes.

The gas attendants were helpful enough. They let me park in their lot, lounge with them in the store while I hatched a plan, and were even kind enough to direct me to the nearest place where I could buy a phone charger (if I was going to be stranded in Beaverton I was not going to be without a phone). So I embarked on what ought to have been a half hour walk to Fred Meyer, dressed in full interview garb in the balmy 80 degree weather.

Round trip the mission set me back about an hour and a half, as I grew slower and groggier with each heat-stricken step. Once I'd returned to the gas station I plugged in my phone, stripped down to my skivvies (the shorts and t-shirt I wear under everything, which I ought to have remembered before I made the long walk to Freddy's) and weighed my options. I called a Young Life colleague whose AAA had saved my skin a few months before when I blew out a tire on the way to a school retreat, but he was out of town this time and suggested I purchase my own membership. I tucked this nugget of advice away as a last ditch option and considered the alternatives.

What alternatives? You're not from here. You have no one to help you here.

So I sat near the store's entrance in a Captain America t-shirt, basketball shorts, long black socks and dress shoes, looking like a royal dope. My preoccupation with getting a charger had temporarily staved off a mental breakdown, but now that I had time to sit and think about my situation, I had to suddenly reckon with waves of fear, anxiety, and the persistent loneliness which always seems to paste my other dark feelings together.

You can't afford another repair right now, I reminded myself. And that was true. I'd already borrowed six hundred dollars from some very gracious friends to get this thing running; surely that wouldn't be an option this time around. 

While the phone charged I used its GPS to see how many miles separated me from my destination. Nineteen. Damn it. According to my colleague, AAA's standard membership would only cover fifteen miles of towing. So I let the phone charge halfway and resolved (like a maniac) to try my hand at driving the wounded beast home.

By some miracle she started up when I turned the key. By some even greater miracle we managed to make our way out of Beaverton, catching every green light and maintaining speed enough to avoid stalling. If I can just make it four miles, I thought, I can pay AAA to tow it the rest of the way. I'll worry about the money later.

Worrying later. Pfft. A fool's errand for a head case like me.

The miracles started to stack up as Delilah maintained her pace out of Beaverton and on into Tigard. Soon I'd passed four miles and decided to try my luck with the rest of the journey. Tentative hope began to swell within me as each mile ticked by, until something like surreal peace gripped me as we reached the hills between Tigard and Sherwood. Those hills, Lord help me. The first one almost did me in.

As the road's slope began to rapidly increase I noticed the sputtering return. Moment of respite officially past, I resumed my frantic pounding on the gas pedal, and just before anxiety overtook me, a thought broke through. A memory, something I'd read.

Madeleine L'engle, remembering the time a truck t-boned her car out of the blue:

"The ancient words of the Jesus Prayer, Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me, surfaced in my mind. They have been with me for many years, like a deep, inner fountain. When I wake up in the night they are there—those strong, affirming words. They were with me as I sat in the crumpled car."

And they were with me and my dying car as we ascended that first hill. I frantically repeated to myself, Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me. Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me. Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me. And sure enough, the gas caught, the engine soldiered on, and Delilah puttered up the hill.

Then the next hill: Sputter, stall, LORDJESUSCHRISTHAVEMERCYONME!, catch, putter, over the hill.

And then the next.

And before I knew it we came scooting into the streets of Newberg. *Holds for applause*

At that point I'd gotten a bit cock, too. I was convinced God must love me best of all, that is until my baby girl's engine coughed hard and died, five blocks down the road from my mechanic.

LORD JESUS CHRIST HAVE MERCY ON ME!

...

Nothing, The car still wouldn't start.

I pressed my head against the steering wheel, prompting the horn to let out a long whine. I'd come all this way, just to get stuck, dead in the street, blocks away from my mechanic. I heaved a deep sigh, hopped out and tried to push my car over to the side of the road, as those behind and to the right of me honked and swerved past. To my left, a little redhead girl of about nine or ten sat on her porch-swing watching me grunt and push in vain. After an uncomfortable length of time, she ran inside, emerging a minute later with someone I presumed to be her grandfather.

Later I learned his name was Randy, that he was the girl's much-older father, and that her mother was a drug addict who had abandoned the family years ago. He weaved this melancholic yarn as he helped me push my car into a parking spot, took a look at her engine and called my mechanic, whose personal cell number was on his speed-dial (Newberg is a very small town and our God is a very big God). After we'd made arrangements to get Delilah where she needed to go, I sat on his stoop and listened to his story, one I could tell had not been shared in some time. I offered bits of mine too, but in a rare moment of sensitivity to the Spirit I knew that this was a time for listening.

Prayer doesn't work like magic, I know that. It was never the words themselves that kept my clunker running but the mercy of the God to whom I prayed. And I was frustrated when she finally died so near home, but now I can see that Jesus answered my prayers by providing those few precious moments with Randy and his daughter. At the end of the day, I prayed for God's mercy and the mercy He sent down was not just for me. It was for them, too.

Act 2: That One Scene in Alien

I had health insurance for the whole time I was in college. It came standard with my full ride to George Fox, and I even used it once or twice (one time I sneezed so hard I pulled a muscle in my abdomen and went to the ER because I thought I was dying). Once I'd graduated, though, I was on my own in that department, and any potential medical costs would come straight out of my shallow pocket. This didn't bother me at first, because I still harbored some delusions of youthful invincibility, but the events surrounding my graduation day would rob me of those delusions for good.

At first I thought the deep, sharp pangs in my gut were just nerves, so I dismissed them and went about checking items off on my graduation checklist with frenzied determination. By the time my family had arrived for the ceremony, though, it was clear something was seriously wrong with me, as the pain had remained and intensified. Come hell or high water, though, I was determined to graduate, so I pressed on toward the goal.  And the days were mostly fine, but the few nights prior to and following the big day, I spent in a hotel room with my mom, sister and grandma, writhing and moaning in my bed.

I don't remember much from the actual day-of, apart from my first thoughts immediately after graduating, which went something like:

So you graduated. Cool. This stomach thing'll probably kill you though, so don't get too excited.

And this voice only got louder following graduation as the days passed and the pain persisted. By the end of the week it was coming in waves, each met by a ghostly moan emitted from deep within my belly. For a week and a half, my mom's living room (where I'm crashing between stabler living situations) sounded like a haunted house, and each day I grew more panicked. I'd never been stomach-sick this long before. Nothing was... passing through my system (so to speak), and I couldn't keep solid food down, so my diet was strictly liquids-only. Then came the hunger, mixing with the pain, itself persistently feeding my fatalistic inner monologue, until it all threatened to unravel me.

You're screwed. You have no insurance and this stomach thing is dangerous. It will kill you.

In the midst of one of these moments of purely intense pain, weakness and fear, my mind floated back to Delilah's and my turbulent trip a few weeks before. I remembered the prayer and again in deep desperation cried out:

LORD JESUS CHRIST HAVE MERCY ON ME!

I kept saying it, too, for as long as I was sick. Not aloud, mind you, unless I happened to be home alone so my mom and sister wouldn't overhear me. Can you imagine hearing a loved one, sick on the couch, begging for God's mercy? It would have scared them half to death! So instead I chanted the words in my mind, over and over until they became a mantra. At the cresting of each wave of cramps I would say the prayer, and it somehow managed to keep me sane. The practice sustained me for the whole week and a half until one morning ,when I woke up with a calm stomach (and a busted molar, but that's a story for another day).

Act 3: Deeper Cuts

I have a dear friend who doesn't seem to want much to do with me lately. I have a few actually, and I've spent the last three years aching to be home for them, to be present and available, but I was a hundred miles away at school. Now I'm home, for good, but the momentum has gone out from some of these relationships, like air escaping a balloon. And it hurts, to so feel dismissed and unwanted by those I care for so much, but there's not much I can do. There is, in fact, nothing I can do if the desire for friendship is completely one-sided. Nothing but cling to the vestiges with my needy mitts, or else to let go and let God.

But letting go has never been my strong suit, especially when it comes to friendships. It eats away at me when I sense the people who matter most getting tired of me. It messes with my sense of worth, makes me feel fundamentally unlovable. So when I noticed this one particular friend had stopped answering my calls and texts, seemingly without reason, it bothered me. It's not just that I'll miss him, either, it's that these each instance bring to surface all other times I felt rejected or abandoned. That part isn't my friend's fault, but it's not exactly mine either.

Maybe I should warn people before we ever even become friends. Maybe I should wear a TV-shirt that reads "Warning: Gets Old Fast."

Clearly this is deep-seated issue for me. The long and short of it, though, is that watching my friendships fall apart makes me feel desperate, and a few days ago, it was in one of these moments of desperation that I again remembered the prayer. So I prayed, this time quietly and more intimately, but as intensely as ever, "Lord Jesus Christ, please have mercy on me."

And sure enough, He did. He gave me comfort, came down and sat with me and let me cry on His shoulder. He told me He loves me, and reminded me of the dozens of people in my life who genuinely love me too. He was right there beside me, not literally, but truly.

You see, as much as my grief over lost relationships can make me feel hollowed out (and it does), the Jesus Prayer fills me up again, as it reminds me that it is "no longer me who lives, but Christ who lives in me" (Galatians 2:20).

Epilogue:

A wise friend once said to me, "I don't think God will ever let me have a running car because I would never pray or remember to trust Him." And I think she was right, but only in a tongue-in-cheek sort of way. I don't believe God exercises His sovereignty by sabotaging our cars so we'll fear Him, but I do that every moment of fear, frustration, or pain is a new opportunity to be filled up by the Jesus Prayer, to ask and receive God's mercy.

Every now and then I think I hear Delilah's engine rattle like it did on that day in Beaverton, and it brings to mind again that ancient prayer which saved Madeleine L'Engle from the trauma of her collision, and me from becoming overwhelmed by my own car trouble. And which eased the agony of my stomach virus, and which guards my heart at it most vulnerable. The miracle of this little prayer, that it quiets fear, dulls pain, and eases loneliness, is proof enough that God is real, and good. And that He loves us. Oh, how He loves us.

[Jesus speaking:]

“Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.’

 “But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’

“I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Luke 18:10-14