I first heard the Lord’s Prayer in the Catholic church my mother brought me to every week when I was in elementary school. Sometimes, I liked going. The lady who usually sat in the pew in front of us always smiled and waved at me. I liked trotting up to the marble altar at the point in the service where the children left the sanctuary to receive our own lesson, which I always found interesting.
But sometimes, I hated going and only trudged through it when my mother promised to take me to McDonald’s afterward. I didn’t like being the only kid not “officially” in the Sunday school and therefore not knowing anyone else. I didn’t like kneeling on those plush pads for long, silent prayers. Most of all, I didn’t like that I wasn’t allowed to partake of the bread and the cup because I hadn’t had my first “holy communion.” I didn’t know what that was, but I did know that not having a “holy communion” meant I couldn’t have a cracker like everyone else.
Many aspects of Catholic church were a mystery to me. Why was an entire book called “The Word of God?” Which word in the book was God’s word? Why did the people lighting the candles at the altar dress like ghosts and sit in chairs that looked like they belonged in a castle?
Why did we say, “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us”? The only other time I’d ever encountered the word “trespass” was in those signs posted on private property that said, “No Trespassing.” No sneaking in. No jumping over the fence in the dark of night, which I often imagined when we prayed the Lord’s prayer.
Throughout middle school and high school, I was part of a non-denominational (evangelical) church where I learned that “trespasses” were “sins,” but we rarely prayed the Lord’s Prayer anyway because it was a bit too Catholic, a bit too traditional, and a bit too structured for a church culture that claimed to just teach the Bible without all that extra doctrine.
In college, I was surrounded by people who knew a lot more about church and Christian tradition than I did. Many of my friends and classmates had come from mainline Protestant churches or from some other denomination that rooted itself, in some shape or another, to a very long and ancient history–not to mention that many of these kids seemed to know a lot about social justice and Christianity. By that point in my life, the Lord’s Prayer was the only traditional thing I knew–the only “Christian” thing I could recite in whole, from memory, if asked. I had never been the type to memorize entire Bible chapters or Psalms.
So when I found myself standing in a prayer circle after my first excursion with my college’s homeless feeding program, I felt a little more comfortable when the leader asked us to pray the Lord’s Prayer. I knew this one, and I wouldn’t feel silly in front of all these people I didn’t know plus the person I had a crush on.
Then, they threw me two curve balls. First, they said “debts/debtors” instead of “trespasses/as we forgive those who trespass against us,” throwing off the rhythm I’d grown accustomed to. It sounded so…financial. Second, they added, “For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever and ever. Amen.” I had never heard this addition before.
Yet when I started attending my current church and I prayed the Lord’s Prayer with the congregation for the first time, I paused and waited to hear which version this church would go with. Were they trespassers or debtors? Turns out, they’re debtors and I rolled with it. I still do, even though I like the cadence of “forgive us our trespasses.”
So I chose that phrase as the title for this poetry collection. In just four words, it invokes grace and ownership of our wrongdoings. It is a gentle request and acknowledgment of our flawed state. It is traditional language tied to a contemporary style of poetry.
Forgive Us Our Trespasses engages with old language and often transforms it to mean something new. This is my favorite aspect of applying the blackout poetry form to an old text. Pre-order the collection here.