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The Jesus Prayer: A Sacred Script for Everyday Souls

In a culture shaped by ritual and repetition, Jesus offered something radical and surprisingly intimate. In Jesus’ day, rabbis taught their students (disciples) a signature prayer that summarized their theology in liturgical form. 

 

When Jesus’ students asked for his prayer, he gave them something unexpected, a bold alternative to the structured liturgies of first-century Jewish life.  It was not simply a continuation of the religious status quo but a sacred disruption of their familiar, repeated prayers. In so doing, he reframed the spiritual imagination of all who would learn his prayer: the Jesus Prayer—a prayer not of performance, but of presence, a quiet cadence of intimacy. He taught his followers how to pray as other rabbis did, but more importantly, what it means to be heard by God.  It was a prayer not only for learned, professional religious folks but for all who want to grow in intimacy with Abba. 

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In the Presence of Pray-ers

What do you pray in your own “private prayer”? After World War II, John Baillie, a Scottish pastor, published A Diary of Private Prayer, a month of his morning and evening prayers. Private, yes—but not isolated from his world, the public square, or the needs of “the other.” His prayers called him to love others, often expressed through compassion for the suffering and just, generous practices toward the sick, blind, and prisoners—including those oppressed by injustice.

We learn to pray best when we are in the presence of pray-ers and prayers. Baillie’s diary becomes a classroom of instruction on prayer. Listen first to his posture before God—and then to his four petitions.

“Oh, divine love who dost everlastingly stand outside the closed doors of the souls of humankind, knocking ever and again, wilt thou give me grace to throw open all my soul’s doors?”1

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“Understanding comes with use.”

“We don’t have to understand a crowbar before we put it to use.
Understanding comes with use.”1

—Eugene Peterson

 

The sentence made me laugh.  At no time in my life—as a seminary student, pastor, or professor—did I ever think about a crowbar as a metaphor for any part of the spiritual life.  A crowbar, as I used it, was for the only construction skill I possess: demolition. I am not a builder, but I can take things apart. My college roommate and I once worked for ManPower on a Saturday morning, disassembling a bakery oven in a local grocery store. We became covered in flour and crumbs from its years of use.  It took us almost all day, but we didn’t use a crowbar.

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