Justin McRoberts - May It Be So: Forty Days with the Lords Prayer

THANKS

Scott would like to thank: Holly for being my biggest fan and never letting me quit. Anders, Elsa, and Jones for being the way through. Erick and Merrily for just about everything. Joy for being a literal unicorn. Justin for keeping it real. Bellingham Lifers, Houston Hamptons, Vancouver Nitehawks, ATL Richs, McGraw Tribe, Aurora Karaoke Crew, Lucky House Guys Night, South Everett Wannabes, Portland Eccentrics, Raleigh Ragamuffins, Mukilteo OGs, and all the other magical places in the world where I have fantastic friendsyoure my favorite part of being alive. The gift of incarnation can only be received through participation. Thank you, Giver, for this gift.

Justin would like to thank: Amy for making everything better. Asa and Katelyn for being The Dood and The Bird. Mom for being the embodiment of faithfulness and grace. Monica for your wisdom and willingness to help. Joy for holding pieces of this thing together I didnt know existed. Scott for saying yes to this whole idea. Chris Carson, Jubilee people and CCO for putting Scott and I in the same room. Byron Borger for believing words can change hearts and minds. The whole WaterBrook and Multnomah team for believing in this enough to put your name on it. The Shelter-Vineyard Church Community, the Church Without Shoes Community, Heartland Community Church in Olathe, The Good Way, KS, Frank Tate, Dan Portnoy, Coach Lisle, Derrick Scott and CCW, Mike and MaryAnne McCoy, Sean Blomquist, my @ Sea Podcast Patron community.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Justin McRoberts is a songwriter, author, speaker, and retreat leader. He lives in the East San Francisco Bay area with his wife, son, and daughter. justinmcroberts.com @justinmcroberts

Scott Erickson is a working studio artist, author, and storyteller. He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife and three children. scottericksonart.com @scottthepainter

OUR FATHER IN HEAVEN

The first time I saw a therapist, I parked in the lot adjacent to the therapists office and walked toward the entrance with my sweatshirt hood pulled up, covering my head and part of my face. I took the stairs instead of the elevator and walked quickly through the hall to the office door. The way Id generally heard it talked about, therapy was something only frail and lost people needed. I didnt want to consider myself broken or weak. Perhaps more to the point, I didnt want others to see me that way. Closing the door behind me, I pulled my hood back down to find that Id joined four other people in the waiting room.

The gray-haired woman to my right looked up from her magazine, smiled, and removed her bag from the chair next to her. She gestured to the now-open seat. You can sit here.

In other words, You are welcome here. Well make room for you.

By the time I actually sat on the couch to talk with the therapist, the knots my soul had been in were already coming undone. I spent most of that session actively (and finally) confronting lies in myself about being too strong to be weak and too needed by others to have needs of my own and about how not having my life together meant losing my place in line. This work didnt just start when I sat across from my therapist. It started when I was invited to take a seat among the people in the waiting room and began to believe:

I am welcome here. Theyve made room for me.

I am often compelled to pray because circumstances have convinced me that I am alone in my struggle and that the only honorable way to move ahead is to do so alone.

These trials are mine.

These burdens are mine.

These fears are mine.

I have them, and they have me.

These lies begin to unravel with the words Our Father. I am invited to see myself as part of the family of God, which means I can choose to see the burdens I carry as burdens also carried by others to whom I belong.

Sisters.

Brothers.

Mothers.

Fathers.

Neighbors.

When I pray Our Father, I join countless family members who share the same entanglements, frustrations, joys, dreams, and hopes that often lead me to pray.

I am not alone.

Neither are you.

You can sit here too.

Please do.

And even if you parked across the street and walked with your head down and your face covered because you werent sure you wanted a place among people who do this kind of religious thingknow that you are welcome here. You have a place. Well make room for you.

Pause and Reflect

This, then, is how you should pray:

Our Father in heaven,

hallowed be your name,

your kingdom come,

your will be done,

on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us today our daily bread.

And forgive us our debts,

as we also have forgiven our debtors.

And lead us not into temptation,

but deliver us from the evil one.

Pause here to consider your place in the family of God and the people who share space with you in this family. What faces and names come to mind? Also consider those for whom having a space here might be foreign or even distasteful. How might they feel more welcome? What did you need when you were in their shoes?

Our is not just a plural pronoun; its a plural possessive. Which is to say, just as I share these burdens and trials with you, I also share and even possess a place with you in the One who lifts burdens and who triumphs over trials.

Prayer 6

May I live in the inspired knowledge that

someday people will tell stories

about the life I lived.

Prayer 7

May I never allow disappointment

to lead me into despair but

always toward a more resilient and

active hope.

Prayer 8

May I recognize friction and strife

as aspects of healthy relationships

rather than signs that something

is wrong.

Prayer 9

May I more clearly see

my filters, blind spots, and biases

so that I might recognize

goodness, truth, and beauty beyond them.

Prayer 10

May I have vision in and through

my seasons of trial

rather than search for ways

to escape.

Prayer 11

Grant me, once again,

assurance of

Your presence and love.

HALLOWED BE YOUR NAME

The only piece of sports memorabilia I own is a baseball autographed by the 1974 Oakland Athletics. The ball is special for a few reasons: first, because 1974 is my birth year and second, the As won their third-straight World Series title (and their eighth up to that point). But more than all of that, the baseball belonged to my father and is one of the very few things I held on to after his death. Just as he had done, I keep the ball in a glass display box to keep it relatively safe from dustor a small set of hands.