Watch and pray Matt. 26:41
This little phrase is literally a wake-up call. Jesus says it to the disciples when he finds them sleeping through what was to be an hour of prayer. It’s another of the many moments in the Gospel stories that is both convicting and slightly comical. It’s hard not to sympathize with the drowsy men who are trying so hard to be faithful and failing in such a common, human way. I think of the times I’ve had to prod myself awake during a long service—or given way to sleep and been nudged back to consciousness by a fellow worshipper who doesn’t want me to fall into his lap.
The two verbs, watch and pray have been grafted to one another for centuries in liturgy as well as scripture and so, when we hear them, we might sometimes hear them as a single act: watchandpray.
Watching is part of praying: as we step into a quiet space, drop into a pool of silence, and open ourselves to divine presence, leaving behind distractions as well as we can manage, awareness and awakeness assume a quality of expectancy: something is about to happen. The Spirit is about to show up. We may suddenly find ourselves at peace in the midst of the day’s frustrations or even in the midst of political threats or natural disasters. Or a sorrow we’ve been suppressing might bring sudden healing tears. Or a simple sentence might give us direction. Or inexplicable, irrational joy might erupt for no apparent reason. A lot of things can happen in prayer when words leave generous, hospitable spaces for silence and when listing of needs finally gives way to listening.
I like to think the “watch” part of the instruction might sound something like the way a child might say, “Hey! Watch this!” having made a discovery that deserves to be shared. If you watch, you’re likely to notice something you might have missed. You don’t want to miss this. As Annie Dillard reminds us, “Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.” Watch for what unfolds or flashes or glistens or hovers or surfaces.
Watching for dolphins or whales from the beach is like this: you spend a long time gazing at the swells, lulled, perhaps, until suddenly they leap or breach and you laugh, accepting and enjoying blessing. Lying out at night watching for shooting stars, as I remember doing with my daughters, is like this. The eye scans the sky, trying to maintain soft vision, watching, waiting, hoping to see the sudden, short-lived arc of fire that reminds us we are small creatures on a small planet, who, miraculously, matter in the unimaginably grand scheme of things.
Lent is a good time to practice this kind of watching—to cultivate in the course of ordinary days a closer attentiveness to the hints and clues and invitations the Spirit offers, rarely appearing in blinding light or throwing us from a horse, but faithfully providing assurances that we are accompanied and witnessed and, even when we fall asleep, watched.
(image from flikr.com)
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