Watch and Pray: How to Be Present When You Feel Powerless

As Jesus’ enemies circled, and the end of everything approached, the disciples hoped Jesus would do something. It’s our first impulse: ‘what can we do?’ What Jesus did was go off alone to ‘watch and pray’. And he told his disciples to do the same. This sounded to them like “don’t do anything,” so they fell asleep. I’m tempted to do the same: to embrace my powerlessness, tune out for, say, four years, and sleep through the end of everything. Jesus would be gracious with me, I’m sure, as he was with his disciples. But what would it look like if I tried to stay awake? Tried to watch, and pray?

I think watching would mean trying to observe, objectively, with a measured practiced contemplative awareness, the world around me. Trying, daily, to cultivate a grounded place from which to notice what’s happening outside my door, outside my head. And then holding what I observe in gentle hands… and then letting it go. This won’t be easy in a world that conspires to suck you in, a world that traffics in lies and contempt and greed, where seemingly malicious, unprincipled people (a part of me likes calling them ‘assholes’) are running the show. Can I observe all this without descending into rage or despair? Jesus must have done this as the mob carried him off. He knew he had no leverage among the powerful, had no way to stop the depredations of the principalities and powers. Which is where I find myself: relatively powerless. Watching won’t be easy, but I’ll try to do it anyway, try to take in both the scenes of desolation, when darkness is in the driver’s seat, and the scenes of consolation, when love makes surprise appearances and opens paths for compassion. I’ll try to stay awake, keep watch, and whenever I see an opening, I’ll try to speak, and even act.

Jesus also said “Pray.” Prayer, as Kierkegaard said, isn’t about changing God but about changing me. It’s really another form of watching, except my eyes are turned inward. What they usually see in there is the colorful, often unruly collection of diverse personalities that make up me, each one a discrete part of me with a mind of its own. I know these parts well enough to name them. The Caretaker; the Judge; the Perfectionist, the Lazy SOB, the Worrier, the Ruthless Critic, the Scoffer, the Escapist, the Pleaser. To name a few. Each of them works in its own, often short-sighted, way to protect my well-being and help me thrive. When my parts perceive danger, they become activated, bossy, impulsive. My inner world gets pretty noisy. When they’re activated, they need me to notice them, welcome their voices, acknowledge their good intentions for me, and then help them relax and let my deeper Self guide me toward what I really need.

This can be like herding cats – sometimes angry cats. One part of me loves raging against the rich and powerful. A hateful part scowls whenever it hears our President’s name. That part isn’t drawn to the compassion of Jesus. Fearful parts worry for my loved ones, for my daughter and granddaughters, for my future, all our futures. A sarcastic part goes after the evangelicals. Amean part feels mean toward anyone who’s mean. A part of me feels shame for my country, ashamed even for loving it. Sad parts weep for the victims of cruel policies. Hopeless parts imagine migrating to Canada. A part of me pretends all is well, another harbors visions of doom and yet another suggests pleasurable distractions like sex, drugs, rock’n’roll, or the New York Times. So: lots of noise in there. Prayer, for me, means inviting each day’s most active parts to a family gathering where I can welcome them, listen to them, invite them to relax in the presence of God’s Spirit and to trust my own deeper Self where God’s Spirit lives and works silently to help me grow in love.

So for me watching and praying are both forms of presence – a word I cherish. A spiritually alive singleness of kindly attention to whatever is going on inside me or outside me, right now. A stance of mystical awareness that I take to be the Spirit of God. Jesus emanated presence – people sensed it, sensed that in him they were somehow encountering God. I hope that by practicing presence in my daily life, by watching and praying, I’ll find calmness in the chaos, and become more keenly aware of the larger Presence that held Jesus, and that holds, in its gentle hands, you and me and everyone we love, and everyone we fail to love. This isn’t a recipe for doing nothing but for trying to make sure our doing doesn’t get too far ahead of our being, that it grows organically out of real presence, out of the power of love.

So, back to Jesus. To his disciples, he suddenly seemed powerless. And in one sense, he was. He didn’t control the events that ended his life. But he drew on a different kind of power, a power that is easily mistaken for weakness-- the power of presence. It’s the power of seeing the moment for what it is, and knowing who you are and what you trust. This kind of power doesn’t control history. But sometimes it can be heard, and can leave its mark, invisibly, in the heart of the most inattentive and self-absorbed listener. Jesus embodied this power as he stood before Pilate, unafraid of death, and in his words of forgiveness from the cross. It’s the only power I crave: to know who I am and what I trust. I should say: it’s the only power I crave when I speak from my center, from my deepest and truest self, from my heart.

--Doug Frank, an old friend of WTC Co-founder, Kasey Hitt, and author of A Gentler God: Breaking Free of the Almighty in the Company of the Human Jesus