In just a moment I’m going to ask you to compose a prayer in your head. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to pray it out loud. This isn’t, however, just any prayer. This is your last prayer. 

If you had only one prayer left to offer what would your final prayer be? 

What’s the content of that prayer? Who or what is it about? What would you say? What would you ask for? Is it about praise, thanksgiving, confession, petition, intercession? What’s the tone of your prayer? What emotions are connected to it? What fears are running through your prayer? What’s the hope in your prayer? What matters most to you and has to be included in your prayer? What do you need?

You ready? Take a moment and compose your final prayer based on your life today.

How was that for you? What was your prayer? What did it bring up? Was it easy? Difficult? Painful? Frightening? What did you learn about yourself? What did you notice about your life? Did you feel satisfied with your life or is there some work and unfinished business left to do? Were you ready to say “Amen” and let it go or did you want to hold on to it a bit longer? Was it clear and concise or was it rambling, circuitous, repetitive? 

The reason I asked you to compose your final prayer is because that’s what we hear Jesus doing in today’s gospel (John 17:6-19). In Matthew, Mark, and Luke Jesus makes his final prayers in the Garden of Gethsemane and from the cross. In John’s account of the gospel, however, this is Jesus’ last prayer and I wanted us to connect with that, to feel the same emotions and struggle with the same questions that are behind Jesus’ final prayer. 

The thing that strikes me about his and our final prayer is that there is always more going on in our prayers than the words we say. Our prayers say as much or maybe more about what’s going on within us as they do about what’s going on around us. That’s true for us and it’s true for Jesus in today’s gospel.

It’s the night of the last supper. Jesus knows the end is near. He’s washed the disciples’ feet. He and his disciples have shared a final good-bye meal. He’s told them he’s leaving. He’s given them a new commandment. Judas has left the table and gone out into the night. Jesus is “troubled in spirit.” He knows he will be abandoned by his friends. Peter will deny him three times. Thomas doesn’t know the way. Philip wants to see the Father. Jesus feels the world’s hate. 

And “Jesus prayed.” 

He doesn’t isolate or close in on himself. He doesn’t get angry or resentful. He doesn’t resist or fight back. He doesn’t run away or try to escape. He doesn’t complain about or deny the reality of what is happening. He doesn’t blame others. He doesn’t give up. And he doesn’t attempt a miracle to fix it all.

“Jesus prayed.”

We could say that Jesus is hanging on by a prayer. You know what that’s like, right? Haven’t there been times when you were hanging on by a prayer? A final prayer? What was that about? Maybe you are hanging on by a prayer today.

Not every final prayer comes at the end of life. Final prayers come when it seems everything is on the line and we don’t know if things are falling into place or falling apart. We offer our final prayer when we’ve done all we can do, we’ve bumped up against our limitations, and we feel overwhelmed and powerless. We say a final prayer when we’ve been devastated by loss and grief and don’t see how we will ever get through it. 

When everything we thought we knew and believed is called into question we offer a final prayer. When we feel vulnerable and the future is out of our control we say our final prayer. We make our final prayer when it seems there is no medicine for the pain of the world, the fragility of life is palpable, or injustice wins another day. When we struggle with the gravity and meaning of our life and wonder if our life matters and whether we’ve made a difference we pray a final prayer.

Maybe some of that came up for you as you composed your final prayer today. I think that’s what we see and hear in Jesus’ final prayer. The human Jesus is praying in solidarity with us, our lives, and our humanity. 

We offer a final prayer when we haven’t got a prayer, when we’re hanging on by a prayer. With every final prayer we make an offering and let go of the outcome. It’s all we can do. It’s what Jesus is doing in today’s gospel. He’s making an offering and letting go of the outcome. 

That’s not usually how I’ve prayed or what I was told about prayer. I’ve prayed to control or guarantee the outcome. Maybe you have as well. Final prayers, however, remind us that we are not in control of the outcome. 

Letting go of the outcome doesn’t mean giving up. It means that “to pray is to expose ourselves to risk, to roll the dice, hoping against hope, hoping for a chance of grace.” (Caputo, Hoping Against Hope, ) There is no guarantee. Instead, “we can only follow [our prayer] into the unknown.” (Ibid., 191) 

That’s what keeps us showing up. Prayer – this final prayer – keeps us and the world open to the future. It “prevents the present from closing in upon itself and from closing in all around us.” (Ibid., 196) 

Our final prayer holds the possibility of the impossible and who among us doesn’t need that? Isn’t that the Easter story? Isn’t that why we pray a final prayer, for the possibility of the impossible?

Go back to the prayer I asked you to compose at the beginning of this sermon. Is there anything you need to change? Is there something you want to add or take out? You got it? Do you know what your final final prayer is for today? 

Now pray it. Offer it. Follow and chase it wherever it may take you. And then do it again tomorrow, the day after, and the one after that. 

“Let us pray. Oremus. Let us dare to pray.” (Ibid., 197)

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Image Credit: By Elihu Vedder – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 55.40_reference_SL1.jpg, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons.