Skip to main content

Holy Name of Jesus

I have to admit, swearing doesn't bother me all that much.   I do think, as my 5th grade teacher, Mr. Lee, told us, that foul language is the sign of a poor vocabulary and a small mind, but in the scheme of things, it doesn't get me too riled.

I HATE when I hear God's name, the name of Christ, or any version thereof, used in vain.  It makes my ears bleed.

There was a charming older gentleman at our parish, who has now passed away, that kept the lovely tradition of bowing his head at the mention of the name of Jesus.  I confess I am not that reverent, but I always admired the man for it.

In the Orthodox monastic tradition, they have the "Jesus Prayer", which they attempt to ceaselessly pray:


The Jesus Prayer is the traditional practice of ceaseless prayer in the Christian tradition. The standard formula of the Jesus Prayer reads: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.” In practice, a variety of forms can be used. For example, the designation “a sinner” may be added to the ending: “have mercy on me, a sinner.” Likewise, the invocation “have mercy on me” may be expressed in the plural, that is, “have mercy on us.” Some omit the title “Son of God.” Or the prayer can be simply shortened to the following invocation: “Lord Jesus, have mercy.” The shortest form is simply “Jesus.”

Today is a good day to have the name of Jesus on our lips in love, in prayer and in homage.

Comments

  1. All the priests at Our Lady of Walsingham Anglican Ordinariate Church (Houston) bow at the mention of Jesus as well as a few parishioners during Mass.

    Let's change the culture and bring this back rather than let the culture change us.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Love this prayer - so simple! Great idea for a post; I love that you included the charming story of the old man at your parish! How sweet! :o)

    Jamie
    For Love of Cupcakes

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

I love comments, even if you don't agree, but please don't leave anonymous posts. A well-mannered reader leaves a name!

Popular posts from this blog

Trying to "end run" God

If you're a football fan, you know what an end run is. From Merriam-Webster:
a football play in which the ballcarrier attempts to run wide around the end of the line We try to "end run" God a lot. I do. I figure I know better. I've got this - no need to worry the Big Guy about such a trivial thing.

Of course, it never works.

Like the puppy above, when we try and evade the tough obstacle (even though we KNOW we will eventually have to do it), we end up - well, off in the bushes.

But oh! How I wished my way worked. I'd love to take a flying leap and land smoothly and gracefully. People would be in awe, as if watching Simone Biles nail a balance beam routine that no one else would even attempt. I would shyly look down and blush - just lightly - and acknowledge (But humbly! Oh so humbly!) my achievement.

But no: I am the one pulling myself out of the bushes, scratches all over my legs and twigs in my hair. I'd hear that gentle but loving voice of God saying, &quo…

Secret Santa!!

Too old for Santa? I think not.

Yes, there are discussions as to whether we should "lie" to kids and tell them that Santa brings them gifts vs. We can't lie to the kids; it's wrong.

There is also the "Christmas is about Jesus" vs. "But Santa is magical!"

You know, we have so few magical and joyful moments, and less and less as we get older. Santa is fun. And the kids usually figure it out, and no one I know was ever scarred for life for believing that Santa brought them and every child everywhere a toy for Christmas.

It's the magic of looking up at the sky on a clear December night, thinking "I'll wait up to see Santa" and later, as you fell asleep at the window, being in your daddy's arms as he carries you to bed.

It's the magic of putting out cookies and milk (or beer, because Santa does like beer) and maybe some carrots for the reindeer, and then checking in the morning to make sure the food was all consumed.

It's…

Advent Brokenness

It was a lovely May evening, the kind we in Michigan savor like honey. After the brutal cold of winter, flowers blossomed, grass greened, mosquitoes flocked. School was almost done for the year - just the formalities of 8th grade graduation were ahead.

Why not saddle up the horse and go for a ride? Why not, indeed. So my sister and I did. I took Prince out across the road from our house, to romp through the weeds on a path my father mowed for us. The view from horseback on a spring night - well, nearly Heaven.

Until Prince bolted. He spooked. I fell. And my arm broke. Compound fracture.

My dog, a collie, had followed us out. He was not particularly trusting of Prince, as Prince would never allow himself to be herded, and this vexed my collie. My dog, channeling his inner Lassie, ran home without me.

My sister had been in the yard with her boyfriend at the time, Gary, waiting for me to come back. Instead, it was just the dog loping across the road. That didn't seem right, so my si…