how to pray in a presidential election year

I used to hate it when people said they would pray for me. I didn’t grow up in church, so usually, when folks said, “I’ll pray for you,” what I heard was “You are completely wrong and I will use my divine wish-granter to make you agree with me.”

I call this combat prayer – praying to God for God to make happen what we want to happen – or, in other words, making our agenda God’s agenda.

Now, after following God’s call into pastoral ministry and serving alongside some very beautiful souls in various churches and organizations, I realize that some people mean something very different when they say, “I’ll pray for you.” And, more shocking still, I’ve become a person who says “I’ll pray for you” with every intent of offering hope, comfort, and peace.

So, with election day just eight weeks away, when things seem more polarized and downright disrespectful than I can remember, how do we pray with and for one another without just praying our own will be done?

1) Recognize your own agenda. 

One of my favorite football movies is Rudy. In one scene, Father Cavanaugh finds the title underdog in a pew in a big, empty church:

Father Cavanaugh: Taking your appeal to a higher authority?

Rudy: I'm desperate. If I don't get in next semester, it's over. Notre Dame doesn't accept senior transfers.

Father Cavanaugh: Well, you've done a hell of a job, kid, chasing down your dream.

Rudy: Who cares what kind of job I did if it doesn't produce results? It doesn't mean anything.

Father Cavanaugh: I think you'll find that it will.

Rudy: Maybe I haven't prayed enough.

Father Cavanaugh: I don't think that's the problem. Praying is something we do in our time, the answers come in God's time.

Rudy: If I've done everything I possibly can, can you help me?

Father Cavanaugh: Son, in thirty-five years of religious study, I've come up with only two hard, incontrovertible facts: there is a God and I'm not Him.

Rudy has an agenda. We all have agendas. We have ideas of the way life is supposed to go, what we want, and how it should all work out. And sometimes we feel like if we just share our perfect plans with “a higher authority,” we’ll get it. We just need to pray harder or more often or use the right words.

But here’s the things, folks, prayer is not a magic incantation. There’s not a formula to how we should pray that guarantees we get exactly what we think we need or want.

Recognizing our agenda as we come before God is a big first step. It’s a moment to practice a self-awareness that sees virtues and faults, triumphs and mistakes. It’s a time to recognize that, in Father Cavanaugh’s words, “There is a God and I’m not him.”

2) Pray for the other. 

Being human and being American, I’ll tell you that I do have an opinion in this upcoming presidential election. I paid close attention to the primaries, I watch the news, I talk about the platforms and policies with my family and friends. And, after lots of thoughtful consideration and maybe just a bit of gut feeling, I’ve selected the candidate I will vote for in November.

And, being human and being American and being fully honest, I’ll tell you that a lot of times, when I see a bumper sticker or a yard sign for the other candidate, the first thought that comes to mind is something like, “How could they vote for ______? I mean, come on!”

The next step in praying in this presidential election year is this – pray for the people on the other side. Not a combat prayer – do not pray that those blankety-blank Trump/Clinton supporters will suddenly see the light and change their vote.

No. That’s not the point of this step. The point of this part of the prayer is to practice compassion. Try to imagine yourself in the place of the other. Try to understand their experiences, their struggles and hopes, and why the things they are hearing from one camp or the other are resonating with them.

Pray for the other as you would pray for yourself.

3) Pray for the whole. 

Now, after all this focus on the other, remember that there’s really no such things as the “other side.” Divisions and competition are often human inventions that create “us” and “them.” God sees creation and loves it all, from the best of us to the worst. Human beings, created in the image of God, have been given free will to make choices and exercise power, for better or worse. I’m sure God would like it to be for the better, but there’s nothing we can do that puts us beyond the reach of God’s love and grace.

After we’ve felt compassion for people on the “other side,” hopefully we recognize our common humanity and the core values that so many of us share – the longing for safety and security, the hope of providing a better future for our children, etc.

We have much more in common than the things that we allow to drive us apart. We are one common humanity, not just in the United States, but around the world. As you move through this practice, recognize your brothers and sisters and pray for the whole.

4) Listen.

Much of what comes to mind when we think about prayer revolves around us. We’re terribly self-centered that way sometimes – what should I say, what do I want, where do I begin?

Remember that you have a conversation partner when you pray – that God really is listening to you and may have something to say to you in response. It may not be an audible message that you could repeat verbatim. It may be a feeling or a sense. It may be a stirring or a new insight.

Whatever the case, when you show up to pray, know that God shows up, too.

I know I’m terrible about having a case of monkey mind when I enter into prayer. My thoughts tumble over one another – one part of my mind going over my to-do list, another thinking about what time it is or what I might make for dinner, another apologizing to God that I can’t seem to stay focused.

Instead of mentally castigating myself and giving up on the whole prayer thing, I try to follow the advice of a meditation leader I knew – I recognize the thoughts jockeying for position. I acknowledge the anxiety in myself that struggles to find peace. And I let those thoughts go, gently returning myself to the conversation with my friend, my Creator, my God.

However it works best for you, make room in your prayer for listening. You may be surprised by what you hear.

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Finally, friends, remember this – God works through and in spite of us. None of us are perfect and no matter who is in the White House next year, there is a lot of good we can do for one another and the world. Be the redeemed, beloved people God calls you to be and love one another, as God loves us. I’ll be praying for you.

the Power of the Pack

There’s no such thing as other people’s children.

This simple, impossibly challenging phrase has been with me for a few weeks now. It’s from Glennon Doyle Melton, the spark behind Momastery, and one of my favorite gurus.

It’s been prickling my soul because on my less-redeemed days, I can roll my eyes, sigh in exasperation, and silently judge other people’s children whether their 2 or 22 or 82. 

Thinking of some as “other people’s children” gives me the imaginary distance to feel superior to them. It allows my compassion to wither on the vine. It reinforces the biological and cultural desire to care and provide for my blood kin first and foremost, even to the detriment of “other people’s children.”

That kind of thinking is what builds walls between neighbors, whether they are individuals or countries. We trade in vulnerability and connection for the illusion of safety, security, and superiority.

And we do it to our own detriment. Recently, I’ve been thinking about the amazing youth group I served at First UMC – Denton. There were a lot of things that made those kids special, but one of my favorite things was that they self-regulated. I didn’t have to exert control or correction from outside as an adult. Instead, there were such strong core values instilled in the group, that were taught and transferred even as some graduated and others middle schoolers joined, that the youth themselves kept their peers held to high standards. It wasn’t uncommon to hear a high school student say, “We don’t do that here.”

That was the power of the pack, to borrow a phrase from the dog whisperer, Cesar Millan. In his work, he would occaisionally find dogs that were so isolated, so anxious, so ungrounded in what it meant to be a dog living right here, right now, that he would take them back to his place for some pack therapy. He knew that there is no better cure for what ails us than the support, encouragement, mentoring, and accountability that comes from pack life.

What we fail to realize most of the time is that we humans are pack animals. I mean, look at us – we’re so soft and tasty. We’re not faster. We’re not stronger. We’re not bigger. Like a school of fish or a flock of birds, the original means of safety for us was life together. That and the really big brains and opposable thumbs.

But over time, we’ve forgotten the simple truth that we are hard-wired – physically and spiritually – for the power of the pack.

As a young mother, I imagine there must have been a time when women didn’t have to be taught how to give birth or breastfeed. I imagine that life together with other humans meant that you saw the life cycle firsthand and learned accordingly. Heck, you might have even helped with the process, truly living into life together.

I long for the life I imagine. To know and be known in community, where “iron sharpens iron, and one person sharpens the wits of another…just as water reflects the face, so one human heart reflects another” (Proverbs 27:17, 19).

Of course, there is danger in pack life – ask anyone who has experience with the mindset of a mob or a gang. In every form, there is infinite possibility and danger, as we know from the smallest atom to the fathomless reaches of space.

But life rightly lived is life together.

This past week was Holy Week. For Good Friday, I prepared slides for worship that depicted different parts of the Passion narrative. And, I’ll confess, Lent went by in a blur this year and I wasn’t very prepared for the work. As image after image appeared in my search of the battered, bloody body of Christ, I felt the tears come.

But the one that hit me the hardest was when I imagined myself at the cross, because my creativity stood me in the place of Mary, Jesus’s mother. I felt an echo of the surge of grief and pain that must have been hers when she looked on her son, when she touched his crucified body. “Oh, my baby!”

Because being a parent, at least for me, means always thinking of my children as my babies. I’m sure I’ll do it even when they’re old and I’m ancient. But a part of me will always remember, will always be viscerally connected to their joy and pain, will always want to provide them the shelter and comfort of my own body.

I never thought I’d think of Jesus like that.

But suddenly, he wasn’t another person’s child – my compassion had been stretched to see him like his own mother did. It was heart-breaking in sorrowful and beautiful ways. In the next few moments, as I heard the news of those injured and murdered in terror attacks, I felt that same wave of compassion flood my system. Those are our children – somewhere there is a mother, a father, a whole pack, who mourns them. And beyond that, I thought of those whose desperation, whose isolation, whose warped sense of superiority and righteousness would lead them to do such things. Those, too, are our children. Oh, how my heart hurts for them.

I pray we all find our packs, our communities of redemption, including all the children whom God loves. Life is meant to be done together.

Rationing our Compassion

Around a week ago, a local news story popped up on my Facebook feed. A young woman had a car accident and died. Her baby, just 8 weeks old, survived with non-life-threatening injuries in the backseat. 

That’s the way the story read. I skimmed the details, brimming with tears, and filed it away as another tragic thing in a broken world. Then I got the text from one of the CDO directors at the church I serve – Did you see the story? Did you know that these are our people? The baby had just started in our program.

Oh no. My heart sunk further. I went back and read the story more carefully. Then I did the dumbest thing – I read the comments.

“I heard she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.” That may be true, but I can tell you this – I have done a million dumb things while driving. I’ve reached into the backseat to retrieve a pacifier and attempt to shove it back in the mouth that’s crying. I’ve fumbled for my phone as it rang in the depths of my bag. I’ve reached down to try to grab something on the floor. I’ve even unbuckled myself from the front passenger seat, shimmied between the gap, and wedged myself between my children to try to fix something back there. The difference is this – none of my choices have been fatal. Yet. 

As I digested all the ugly things that people are willing to say when they have the distance of a computer screen, it boiled down to this: It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what happened, why it happened, or whose fault it is. The truth is this – there’s a family hurting and they need our compassion and love. They deserve a humane response to a human tragedy.

I know our boats are swamped with tragedy these days – from Michael Brown to Eric Garner to the Jordanian pilot burned alive to the three young Muslim people killed by a neighbor in North Carolina. And, quite honestly, I don’t care who is right or wrong after the incident. The truth is this – there’s a family hurting and they need our compassion and love. They deserve a humane response to a human tragedy.

What do we save ourselves when we ration our compassion? We try to justify not responding with love and grace by saying that something the person did or said or was earned them this horror. Rather than saving ourselves heartache, we diminish our humanity. We refuse to see the other person as our brother or sister, and we find ways to attach blame to the one who was hurt.

And here’s the catch for me because, as much as it hurts, I can let my heart break a million times for the victims or survivors of tragedy. It’s much harder to let my heart break for those who enact the violence and create the horror.

A colleague of mine is inviting members of his church to adopt a terrorist this Lent. They will pray for that person, not in some vague way, but specifically. They will read all they can about this particular individual, look at their picture, and pray to God on their behalf. Not combat prayers, which I've experienced myself – those prayers that people pray only so you’ll come over to their way of thinking. No, these prayers offered on behalf of those who have found no other way to live life in the world than by inflicting fear on others will be for God’s mercy, grace, and healing.

It’s an incredibly bold proposition. I don’t know if I’d be able to do it. Would you? And yet I know it’s precisely this life of unlimited compassion, of love freely poured out, that God calls us to live. As Jesus taught, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous” (Matthew 5:44-45). 

It’s not for us to decide who deserves compassion. After all, I know I can be pretty unlovable at times and make some bad choices. And yes, we also need to work on our wisdom and justice, but if we start with our love, flexing the strength of our compassion, the other things might fall into place. Perhaps when we practice giving our love away, we’ll find we have more of it. 

Courage in Relationships

One of my favorite parts of the holidays is the way it brings together friends and family. I’m not great at sending birthday cards or having long phone conversations, so I appreciate cultural norms that bring us face to face. There’s nothing like really connecting with others when you share space.

I also love people-watching. When I was working on my undergraduate degree, I nearly got a minor in sociology – the academic way to say people-watching. And in seminary, I took family system classes – the theological, psychological way to say people-watching.

So I couldn’t help but watch during holiday get-togethers. I noticed how unkind one dear woman was to herself. When something would go awry, she would often preface her aside with “well, that was stupid…” or “I’m so stupid…” I was saddened that a mature, faithful woman would speak so harshly to herself. And you know that there was probably more going on internally.

I noticed the curious way we all fall back on old habits when we are around our family of origin – the family we grew up with. When we’re with our parents, we can’t help but become something like the children we once were, and sometimes that’s not very pretty. We follow long standing patterns of relating with siblings – teasing them about weight, lateness, etc. – no matter how old we are.

Recently I’ve been trying to read my Brene Brown book, The Gifts of Imperfection, again. I can race through novels in under a week, but I’ve been trying to read this book for over a year because it’s like rich fudge – I can only read a little bit before it’s too much. I have to set it down to reflect.

Brown says that the three gifts of imperfection are courage, compassion, and connection. The latter two I get and value already. But she points out that the three are inextricably linked together. So it took me a while to unpack what she had to say about courage. It rang a bell in my mind because “courage” was the word I chose to guide my journey in 2014.

According to Brown, courage is less about heroics and more about the original definition of the word, which meant to share your heart by telling your story. If you think about it, and how all of our stories are complex messes of sweet successes and utter failures, you’ll have a good idea of why this is the definition of courage.

Brown also happens to be a shame researcher and it was through her work that she came to discover these gifts. Because shame can’t stand courage. Shame thrives on secrecy, embarrassment, and fear. When we overcome shame by having the courage to share our story, connecting with another in authentic relationship and receiving compassion, shame is banished!

Watching the dear ones in my life these holidays, I wondered how much of our familiar ruts are based on shame and just how much courage it would take to intentionally speak the truth of our lives to one another. And how much stronger our bonds could ultimately be if we did.

We’re built to live in relationship, with each other and with God. It’s no coincidence that Jesus says, “For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them" (Matthew 18:20). It’s also not coincidental that this teaching comes right before the question of how many times we have to forgive one another. To be in relationship, we have to be ready and willing to exercise forgiveness muscles that may be weak from lack of use.

Another point Brown makes in her book that made me stop to reflect was about self-talk. If we are called to forgive our brothers and sisters, we are also called to forgive ourselves. And yet, think about your typical day. If you’re anything like me, you probably find yourself lacking in the mirror, on the scale, on the road, as a parent, and on and on. It’s easy for us to become our harshest critics.

But if we are to be loving and kind toward others, we have to start practicing that with ourselves. So, next time you find yourself slipping into the easy, unredeemed rut of speaking negatively toward yourself, remember the magnificent God who made you and have courage. You are a beloved child of God and nothing can change that. Praise be to God!

Marks on the Body

A few days ago, I realized that I still had a faint bruise on my left arm from my procedure more than a week earlier. A little closer look let me know that I also had a little mark from the entry point of the IV. This mark was just a little further up my arm than the shiny white scar from where the port was when I gave birth to my first son. Reaching around to the back of my hand, I felt for the small bump that was my souvenir from the days spent in the hospital, losing my second son. I wondered then and I continue to reflect on how these children of mine are leaving their marks on my body.

It’s not just the little scars and bumps from the medical technology, or the more expected and natural stretch and change elsewhere. By changing my body, my children have inexplicably and wondrously changed me down to the core. I’m like the Grinch in the 1966 version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. “And what happened, then? Well, in Whoville they say - that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day.” 

Or as we read in Ezekiel, “A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh” (35:26). I would hope that my heart was not so small or hard to start. I remember quite clearly one person who told me I would never make it as a pastor because I was too compassionate. Regardless, what I had for a heart has grown by leaps and bounds with each child.

As Christians, we have an embodied theology – literally that our understanding of God takes place in a body, more precisely in the person and work of Jesus the Christ. Jesus, while fully divine, consented to become fully human, too. He was born as we are, lived as we do, and died as we all will one day. But in Jesus, God had the definitive word on our sad situation. Not content to let us wallow in our sin, God reached out toward us, proving God’s tremendous love toward us.

And I can’t help but wonder at the marks on Jesus’ body - the marks on his body that represent part of God’s labor pains, what God was willing to endure for our sake. I am confident that in the resurrection, Jesus’ body could have become spotless and perfect. Yet we read in the gospel of John, "So the other disciples told [Thomas], 'We have seen the Lord,' But he said to them, 'Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.' A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, 'Peace be with you.' Then he said to Thomas, 'Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe'" (20:25-27).  

God bears the marks of our birth in God’s own body. Thomas is not shamed by Jesus for struggling to believe. Jesus simply gives him what he needs – the ability to reach out and touch his body, even though Thomas doesn’t take him up on it.

I wonder how many times our brothers and sisters around us need just that same offer of reassurance. I see folks all around me who bear the marks of their life on their bodies. It would be easy to judge the unmarried young woman who is great with child or the man who smells of alcohol, stumbling down the sidewalk. But they are already bearing the marks of this life.

What would it mean for us to instead offer them the compassion we bear, the grace we have received, the love of a Savior who offered his all to save us. Imagine what new stories they could begin to embody, if we were only so courageous.