“Lord have mercy” is our most basic prayer. It’s what the blind men shouted at Jesus on the road, what the Canaanite woman cried out when she needed healing for her daughter, what we say dozens of times in every Divine Liturgy.
If you’re new to Orthodox worship, you’ve probably noticed we say this a lot. Twelve times after the priest’s litany. Forty times during another. Three times here, then three more times there. It can feel strange at first, especially if you come from a church background where repetition seems rote or insincere. But there’s something happening in this prayer that goes deeper than the English words suggest.
What “mercy” actually means
The Greek word is eleison. It shares a root with elaion, the word for olive oil. That connection isn’t accidental. When we ask for God’s mercy, we’re asking Him to soothe us, to heal us the way oil soothes a wound. We’re asking for His steadfast love, that’s the Hebrew word hesed that lies behind the Greek, the kind of love that doesn’t quit, that doesn’t depend on whether we’ve earned it.
This isn’t groveling. It’s not about beating ourselves up or wallowing in how terrible we are. When we say “Lord have mercy,” we’re actually making a statement about who God is. We’re saying He is merciful. We’re opening our hands to receive what He’s already offering.
The blind men in Matthew’s Gospel knew this. They couldn’t see Jesus, but they could cry out to Him: “Lord, have mercy on us, Son of David!” They weren’t reciting a formula. They were desperate, and they knew where to turn. That’s the posture we take in the Liturgy. We’re the blind men. We’re the Canaanite woman. We’re the tax collector in the temple who could only say, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
Why we repeat it
Your grandmother at First Baptist might’ve told you that repetition is vain, that Jesus warned against praying like the pagans who think they’ll be heard for their many words. But that’s not what’s happening here. The pagans Jesus criticized were trying to manipulate their gods, to wear them down with volume. We’re doing the opposite. We’re letting the prayer shape us.
When the priest prays a litany, for the peace of the world, for our bishop, for travelers, for the sick, we respond each time: “Lord have mercy.” We’re not just agreeing. We’re participating. We’re joining our voice to the Church’s voice, asking God to pour out His healing love on every need the priest names. Twelve times, forty times, however many times it takes to cover everything and everyone we’re praying for.
The repetition does something to you. After the twentieth “Lord have mercy,” you’re not thinking about the words anymore. You’re just praying. Your mind stops analyzing and your heart takes over. That’s when the prayer becomes what St. Paul called “groaning too deep for words.” The Spirit prays through you, and you’re just along for the ride.
Standing under the waterfall
I think of it like this. God’s mercy is a waterfall, always flowing. When we say “Lord have mercy,” we’re not trying to turn the water on. It’s already on. We’re just stepping under it. We’re positioning ourselves to receive what God never stops giving.
This matters because most of us spend our lives trying to earn things. We work rotating shifts at the plant, we hustle, we prove ourselves. That’s fine for a paycheck. It’s death for your soul. Salvation doesn’t work that way. God’s mercy isn’t a wage. It’s a gift, and the only thing we can do is receive it.
So we practice receiving. We say “Lord have mercy” until it becomes as natural as breathing. We say it in church, and then we find ourselves saying it at a red light on I-10, or when the hurricane forecast looks bad, or when our Baptist mother-in-law asks again why we “worship Mary.” The prayer follows us out of the building because it’s taught us how to live: with open hands, with humility, with confidence that God’s mercy is bigger than whatever we’re facing.
You’ll get used to the repetition. After a few weeks, you’ll find yourself saying it without thinking. After a few months, you might catch yourself saying it at home. That’s not rote. That’s the prayer taking root. That’s you learning to stand under the waterfall.
