What Are We Doing When We Pray? Part One: Prayer—Coming Before Our Father

What Are We Doing When We Pray?
Part One: Prayer—Coming Before Our Father

Over the years, in parishes, in seminary and at public gatherings, I have noticed what can happen when someone is asked to pray aloud.
The person freezes. Colour drains from the face—or rises into it!
Occasionally, they look as though they would welcome a hole opening beneath their feet.
I recognize the feeling. I have experienced it myself.
Sometimes the difficulty is simply speaking in public.
But sometimes another worry lies beneath it: What am I supposed to say? How do I make this sound like a proper prayer?
We can become so concerned about the people listening that we struggle to attend to the God we are addressing.
What, then, are we doing when we pray?

There are many books, programmes and podcasts about prayer.
In this short series, I would like us to listen especially to the ancient Church and to the saints who have continued to teach the Church how to pray.
St. John of Damascus describes prayer as “an uprising of the mind to God or a petitioning of God for what is fitting.”
St. Augustine draws our attention to the desire beneath our words: “The continuance of your longing is the continuance of your prayer.”
St. Theophan the Recluse—my mother’s favourite saint—teaches us to bring our attention and our heart before God.
The words matter, but we are called to enter into them, offering ourselves as we speak.
These teachers direct us towards prayer as communion with God.
We come to the Father through the Son, in the Holy Spirit.
We bring our needs, our gratitude, our sins, our questions and our grief.
We come because Christ has opened and is the Way and taught us to say, “Our Father.”
We do not have to become impressive before we can pray.

Prayer has room for the whole of our lives.
In praise and adoration, we acknowledge God’s goodness and glory.
Our attention rests upon Who He is.
In petition and intercession, we ask for help—for ourselves and for others.
We may ask plainly for healing, daily bread, wisdom, protection or reconciliation. God invites us to ask.
We need neither conceal our desires nor pretend that we know the best outcome.
In thanksgiving, we acknowledge what we have received.
The word Eucharist itself means thanksgiving. We learn to receive life gratefully and to share its gifts.
And certaionly giving thanks in suffering does not require us to call suffering good.
In repentance, we acknowledge our sins and turn towards God.
The Greek word metanoia speaks of a change of mind; Christian repentance involves a deeper turning of heart and life.
It includes sorrow for the harm we have done, asking forgiveness and beginning to make amends.
In lament, we bring our sorrow and bewilderment to God.
The Psalms give us words for this, including the searching question, “How long, O Lord?”
We need not disguise our pain before the One Who loves us.
And sometimes we pray in silence.
The Eastern Orthodox tradition speaks of hesychia: stillness.
This is more than the absence of speech. We begin to gather our scattered attention and remain before God.
The mind’s coming into the heart describes a growing unity within us: our thoughts, desires and attention turning towards Him.
We need not manufacture a feeling or expect a message.
We can simply remain, trusting that God hears us even when we have no words.
These expressions overlap.
A prayer may begin with grief, move into petition and end in thanksgiving.
Sometimes all we can manage is a cry for help.

When prayer becomes a performance deserves a quick note.
i once attended a seminar whose leader frequently offered what I privately called “weejus” prayers: “We just ask You … we just want You …”
The petitions became long and detailed, moving from the surgeon to the instruments, the nurses, the equipment and the many possible difficulties of the operation.
There is nothing wrong with praying for any of these things. Nor does a repeated phrase tell us what is happening in another person’s heart.
Anxiety, love and habit can all shape our words.
But the experience raised a question for me: do we sometimes pray as though God needs a complete briefing before He can help?
Jesus tells us that our Father knows what we need before we ask Him. Yet He still teaches us to ask.
We are invited to bring our needs to a Father Who already knows and loves us.
A simple prayer might be: “Heavenly Father, we entrust her to Your care. Give skill and wisdom to those treating her, bring her healing, and sustain all who love her. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
There is no need to be embarrassed by its simplicity.
Nor should we measure prayer by a stopwatch.
A long prayer may be deeply attentive; a short one may be hurried and distracted.

And what about prayers from a book?
At an ecumenical service, a priest prayed from a prayer book.
Afterwards, the master of ceremonies passed near me and muttered, “Glad that’s over; now we can get to real prayer.”
I understood him to mean spontaneous prayer.
But why should words become less prayerful because someone has written them down?
The Psalms give us words. Our Lord gives us words. The Church gives us words learned and prayed through generations.
Even when a leader composes a prayer at that very moment, everyone else receives someone else’s words and makes them their own.
That is part of what our “Amen” means.
A written prayer can be offered with complete attention and love. A spontaneous prayer can become habitual or distracted.
Either can help us turn towards God.
The question is whether we are praying what we say.

Consider the Jesus Prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
Here we confess Who Jesus is and acknowledge our need of Him.
We ask for forgiveness, healing and the grace to live differently.
The still shorter cry, “Lord, have mercy,” is already a real and sufficient petition.
It needs no elaborate explanation to make it acceptable to God.
Some of the Church’s teaching often associates mercy with the soothing and healing qualities of oil.
This is a rich image: God’s mercy reaches us in our wounds, restores us and helps us rise again.
His mercy also forgives our sins and calls us into a changed Life.
We can pray these words for ourselves, for someone we love or for a world whose suffering we can’t comprehend.
Their repetition is no magic formula.
Patiently returning to them can help us return our attention to Christ. If our mind wanders, we begin again.

There will also be times to ask for particular things.
Jesus Himself taught us to ask for daily bread.
Such requests belong within trust in our Father’s wisdom and goodness.
For today, begin simply.
Take a quiet moment. Remember before Whom you stand. Bring Him the person, the need or the sorrow that is upon your heart.
If words come, offer them. If they do not, this is enough: “Lord, have mercy.”
Our Father does not require eloquence from His children.

Questions for Reflection
Have you ever struggled to pray aloud in front of others? What made it difficult?

Has this reflection helped you think differently about prayer? Why—or why not?

Scripture tells us that the Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness and intercedes for us, and that Christ Himself intercedes for us (Romans 8:26–27, 34).
How might knowing this change the way you pray—especially when you cannot find the words?

Prayer: Lord have mercy upon us. Amen