Our

Standing alone before God is a terrifying thing. I’m utterly exposed. Naked. All my faults hanging out. Ashamed of what I’ve done. Ashamed of what I haven’t done. At least this is how I imagine it. And, based on some Biblical stories, others share my opinion. When Ezekiel saw the glory of God, he fell down (Ezekiel 1:28). When Job finally got his interview with the almighty, all he could do was repent in dust and ashes (Job 42:6).

So, I have to confess that I’m somewhat relieved that the first word Jesus teaches me to offer in prayer — in a conversation with the potentially all terrifying almighty — is “our.” Jesus doesn’t command me to summon my courage and address God on my own. He asks me to join him, hand-in-hand, and enter into conversation together. The strength of this bond is personal. “Our.” There isn’t a me and an other, there is us, “our.” Jesus joins the effort and supports and bolsters me when I approach the spiritual throne room.

This reminds me of a scene near the end of The Fellowship of the Ring, the first of the Lord of the Rings movies directed by Peter Jackson based on the trilogy by J. R. R. Tolkien. In the books, the scene I want to discuss occurs at the opening of the second book, The Two Towers, where its dialog is more extended and some of the ideas are expressed subtly in a song. In the movie, the action and its pathos are condensed and more explicit. (Spoiler alert: In the next three paragraphs, I’m going to divulge some important plot points. If you don’t know the story and you’d like to read it without advance knowledge of these details, just skip ahead and rejoin me at the paragraph that begins, “This scene resonates with me…”)

Let me set the stage: The fellowship mentioned in the book’s title consists of nine mutually dedicated associates. I almost said “people,” but only two are technically people (men). The rest of the group is comprised of a wizard, an elf, a dwarf, and four hobbits. I also almost said “friends,” but there have been tensions and rivalries from the beginning of their association, and friendship can be a fluid thing. Tension has been particularly high between the two men, Boromir and Strider, who is also known as Aragorn. The tension stems from the fact that Boromir is the eldest son of the currently reigning ruler in a particular city, and he is next in line to inherit the mantle of its government. Aragorn, on the other hand, is the actual legitimate heir to the throne.

The sequence of events in the movie goes like this: Boromir is enticed by the evil ring, but his attempt to seize it fails. This action results in two members of the fellowship (hobbits named Frodo and Sam) going off on their own. A battle immediately ensues between the remaining members of the fellowship and a group of orcs, who are agents of a bad guy who is also trying to snatch the ring of power. During the battle, orcs, with many arrows, use Boromir as a pincushion. After the battle, Aragorn finds Boromir lying on the ground, dying. Aragorn kneels over him. Boromir confesses his past mistakes. He says, “I have failed you all,” and he despairs over the things he cares about the most, the fate of his city and his people. “My people… my city,” he says as he grieves for the ruin he foresees.

Aragorn promises to take up the cause. Aragorn repeats some of Boromir’s words but with a subtle change. Aragorn says “our” people. Boromir’s ears mark the change immediately. “Our people,” he repeats. Boromir is no longer dying as a lonely failure. He has a champion, and the two of them are united in a common purpose. The purpose of “our.”

This scene resonates with me because I see myself and Jesus in it. Like Boromir, I make mistakes. I try to grasp what I shouldn’t, and I mess things up. When it comes to the important stuff, like facing the God who created the universe, the only thing I’m really qualified to do is to despair and fall down dead. But Jesus comes and takes my hand. He offers assurance and offers an intimate bond of common purpose.

As I write these words, I’m not literally, physically dead. But when I come to God in prayer, it seems that the first order of business is to take the notion that I’m a deserving, independent person and let that thought die. Instead, I need to take the hand of the legitimate ruler, Jesus, and let him take over the battles that seemed so important to me. “Our.” In all things, I am not alone. This single word reminds me that Jesus is my brother as well as my savior, and I have a personal relationship with God, too.

“Our.” Jesus and me. Together facing all that comes my way.

Then I notice the “our” isn’t just Jesus and me. It turns out that the “me” part of the equation is bound to someone else, my husband. When I come before God and I say “our,” I often mean it in the sense of the two of us together with Jesus. Jesus and we. Jesus stands with both of us as we ask God to guard and guide us. Help us. Direct us. Unite us and strengthen our marriage. Help us to stand and to reach out to others. Teach us.

And, yet, the two of us are not alone. We often stand together with concerns about our children. We come to God not just as parents, but as brothers and sisters in Christ with them. Jesus walks with us all as we approach God and seek his guidance on behalf of our family. Watch over us. Hold us on the course that is right for us. Hedge us in and keep us secure.

When I look more closely at my children standing with my husband and me, I notice a host of others I hadn’t initially seen. In-laws. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Grandparents. Bosses, coworkers, colleagues. It takes a moment to realize that “our” covers us all.

I watch amazed as an entire parade of others marches into my thoughts. My friend whose mother is ill. “Our.” The clerk who bagged my groceries yesterday. “Our.” The anonymous person who posted a kind comment in response to something I said online. “Our.”

Then, a random concern floats into my mind: I recall a recent emotional wound. I’ve been misunderstood. I went out of my way to do someone a favor, and they misread my motives. My feelings are hurt. “Our?” That other person? In my thoughts, I welcome her into the group standing together with me and Jesus in the “our” of my prayer.

Suddenly, I’m forced to acknowledge that although I’m supposed to love everyone, there are some people I don’t like very much. I don’t think of them as enemies in the sense of adversaries who actively wish me harm, but they certainly don’t qualify as allies. I keep a note on my desk, written to myself during a time of frustration, copied from a long-forgotten piece of self-help literature. It says, “Avoid people who treat you badly.”

Jesus specifically said to pray for our enemies, so I ask him to let even these people into my prayer.

The growing assemblage of diverse people in my prayer reminds me of a congregation, and once I’ve seen one congregation, I see another. They carry denominational labels and other titles of religious affiliation: “The True Church,” “The Only True Church,” The Truly Only True Church." They’re all shouting at each other, but with Jesus’s help I can mentally get them to quietly join the rest of the people in my prayer.

The word “our” continues to stretch more broadly. It’s bigger than my nuclear family, bigger than my extended family, bigger than my entire faith family. It spills out to impact my community. Everything I do impacts my community, and I am impacted by events in my community. “Our” includes those who govern and protect us. It includes the homeless among us. It includes teachers, pastors, and volunteers. Children. Executives of major corporations and owners of small businesses. Office workers. Laborers. Craftsmen and artists. Wait staff and civil servants. Retirees. It even includes villains and thieves. One-by-one all these people walk into my prayer. I gather them under the umbrella of “our.”

And my community is bound together with others in a nation. And our nation is bound together with other nations around the world. In the room where I typically sit to pray, I keep a globe. Sometimes, I get up and give it a spin. “Our.” All people everywhere are united in this one word. When I open my prayer with the word “Our,” I can include them all in my prayer. “Our,” an all-encompassing word.

The universe God created houses more than just people. I don’t know how plants and animals, rocks and water, and planets and stars all fit into the roles assigned to them, but when I incorporate them into the “our” of my prayer, I feel an intimate awe. It deepens my respect for nature. I feel responsible for the stewardship choices I make, and I nod in agreement as Jesus incorporates these elements into my prayer.

“Our” is so big, my mind can’t hold it. Some days, I am overwhelmed by its inclusivity. I spend my entire prayer time letting God open different doors to reveal new rooms within “our.” On other days, different assortments of groups arrive for my prayer time, and my thoughts are shaped by their specific needs. Sometimes the concerns of a friend or a child overshadow everything else. Then, there are days of intensely personal prayer. Just Jesus and me. Jesus, holding my hand as I stand before God. “Our.”