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Steve Argue

While there are nuances, western (Euro-American) contexts have generally assumed and taught that one matures through developing a constant “self” that transcends—even changes—one’s environment. Our non-western friends remind us that there is another way of looking at personal maturity. They often emphasize that one’s personal maturity grows not by maintaining a constant, independent self but through cultivating an interdependent, accommodating self that is moved, even changed, by one’s environment.  While these perspectives are not conflicting, one’s primary perspective often shapes one’s spirituality, including the way one prays.

As a Christian raised in a North American context, I have been taught that when we pray, things—other people, situations—change. My prayers focused on changing my circumstances, accomplishing my plans, or changing others. As a result, I think I missed praying a more needed prayer: Change me.

Over time, I am discovering that I’m reorienting my prayer practices to pray less about changing people or circumstances and to pray more toward changing me in the world to which I am connected.

When I pray, I’m connecting with others.

Years ago, a friend and an Episcopalian priest taught me how to use the Book of Common Prayer (BCP). When we met for morning prayers, he reminded me that as we prayed, we were joining other congregations around the world who prayed each morning. Given the time zones, this meant “morning prayer” occurred twenty-four hours a day, every day.  I now remember that when I pray, I join a continual flow of prayer around the clock, throughout the world.

Further, I’m becoming less concerned about praying for others as I am about praying with them. Prayer brings one closer, which is counter-intuitive in a culture that often uses prayer as a distancing tactic. When we don’t know what to say, or if someone’s issue gets too close for comfort, “I’ll pray for you” becomes the response. The subtle message is, I’m concerned for you, but let’s keep a safe distance. However, when we realize our connection with our world and are compelled to pray with others, we discover that we may be the answer to our prayers. Prayer moves me toward solidarity with others.

When I pray, I’m connecting with others’ prayers.

Following the BCP has allowed me to better understand Acts 2:25. From the beginning of the church, we witness a deep commitment to “the prayers” (tai√ß proseucai√ß). These were liturgical prayers that the community recited. While there is value to praying “my own” prayers, there is something transformative in aligning/moving toward “our” prayers, which join people together toward continual devotion and mutual dependence.

For us to pray “our” prayers means that they must be written or said together. While the “spontaneous prayer” is often viewed as “Spirit led” (it can be), I believe the Spirit also moves through thoughtfully written prayers. These are the prayers that help me say what I can’t or don’t know how. I’m learning that the best prayers I pray are often the ones already prayed.

When I pray, I’m connecting with the Lord’s Prayer.

While no miracles have broken out in the Argue household, I have a hopeful sense that our practice is drawing us—together—toward Jesus’ heart and vision expressed in the Sermon on the Mount. Through this prayer—together—we’re:

• Remembering that we are continual relationship with others (“Our Father”).
• Seeking, hoping, and joining God’s story of redemption for the whole world (“Your will be done”).
• Declaring our reliance on God every moment (daily bread, daily guidance).
• Admitting that we often contribute to our world’s pain (“forgive us”).
• Looking for ways to extend forgiveness, grace, and reconciliation to others (“as we forgive”).
• Asking to be changed to embrace God’s blessing as we bless others (kingdom, power, glory).

The question posed asks how my discipline of prayer has evolved. I think I’ve become “more prayer-less.” Prayer is less about me. Prayer is drawing me toward others rather than away from them. Prayer (I hope) is drawing me, with others, toward the heart of Jesus. My prayer? Change me.

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Sarah Arthur

During my sophomore year of college, I decided to straighten up my relationship with God. I attempted—for the umpteenth time—a daily routine of personal quiet time. I crawled out of bed at some ungodly hour, tiptoed past my sleeping roommates (feeling a mixture of superiority and envy), padded down the hall to the tiny lounge under the gabled roof, and commenced a ritual of self-torment.

It went something like this: through dense mental fog, read assigned excerpt from Oswald Chambers’s My Utmost for his Highest; lower head to surface of couch while breathing deeply through mouth; snap to attention; scramble to find and read assigned Scripture passage; lower head again; snap to attention; attempt to pray requisite ACTS prayer (adoration, confession, thanksgiving, supplication); wake up twenty minutes later with drool at corner of mouth and upholstery lines on cheek.

Daily I failed to generate the kind of intimate, impassioned, powerful, life-transforming personal experience that so many evangelical Christians insisted was the goal of daily quiet time. I felt miserable, guilty, and like a spiritual loser who was unable to love God as well as I should. And of course, the guiltier I felt, the less inclined I was to seek God in prayer. One can only confess the same failure so many times before it becomes an empty ritual—and the last thing evangelicals want is to be like “those Catholics” for whom religion is empty ritual, right?

After college I became a full-time youth director at a mainline church. And, as with many youth directors, I projected my guilt onto the youth. “You need to have a personal quiet time with God every day. You need to read your Bible. You need to pray. Every day. Just you and God.” Every once in a while, I would attempt to follow my own advice and stumble out of bed in the dark, mourning my inability to be the kind of mentor and role model these kids needed. Jesus would stay up all night praying, right? Hadn’t he chastised his disciples for falling asleep in the garden on the night of his arrest? Wouldn’t he chastise me? Guilt, guilt, guilt. I began to stop telling people I would pray for them, because who was I kidding?

Fast forward a few years. My husband and I were now in seminary, where there was a student-run morning prayer service every day. But it wasn’t just any prayer time. It was Rite II from the Daily Office (the ancient pattern of daily prayer and Scripture readings followed by many monastic communities), as outlined in the Book of Common Prayer. A handful of us met in the chapel every morning before classes, kneeling for the prayer of confession, reading (and sometimes chanting) the appointed psalms and scriptures, praying through the collects, pausing in the silence to lift our own prayers of thanksgiving and intercession.

Every morning. Every day.

Finally I was doing what I had been longing but unable to do on my own. Finally I no longer had to feel guilty that I wasn’t meeting daily with God. Finally I could tell people, “I’ll pray for you” and really mean it. 

Don’t get me wrong: I’ve got nothing against the evangelical tradition of personal quiet time. It’s solidly biblical. It’s been around a long time. And I’m getting better at carving out those spaces in my day. But I’m concerned that in our attempts to emphasize a personal relationship with Jesus (a phrase that does not appear in the New Testament, by the way) we neglect the communal nature of our faith—particularly with youth.

Indeed, the practice of daily communal prayer, of holding one another accountable to meeting God together, is what saved me from giving up on prayer altogether. It too is solidly biblical. It too has the weight of many Christian communities, over many centuries, behind it. And it’s the furthest thing from empty ritual of any practice I’ve ever attempted.

Now that my husband and I have graduated from seminary, we continue the practice of both morning and evening prayer in our home.

Anyone is welcome.

Including youth.

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Jim Hampton

To be honest, prayer is one of those spiritual disciplines I have struggled with for most of my life.  I grew up in an environment where prayer was considered more spiritual if it was extemporaneous, coming “from the heart.” The saints of our church had the ability to pray beautiful prayers that seemed to bring God’s glory into our midst.

Even though I am a preacher by ordination and practice, doing extemporaneous prayer never seemed comfortable to me. I always seemed to struggle with what to say. Early on, I was often asked to pray at various functions, often without warning. The assumption was that since I was a pastor, that praying in public should be second nature. And while I learned to be proficient enough to save face, the comfort level just never seemed to be present.

Then I had a professor friend introduce me to the Book of Common Prayer (BCP), and specifically the Daily Office (DO). Without exaggerating, this changed my life.

For those not familiar with this, the BCP contains structured services of worship, including both daily and Sunday worship.  The DO consists of daily morning prayer, noontime prayer, evening prayer, and compline (bedtime prayer).

Perhaps what most drew me to the DO was that I found there ancient prayers, many of which were written originally by our church mothers and fathers. These were people who knew God intimately and whose words resonated strongly with my heart. As I’ve reflected on why I was so drawn to these prayers, I think there are three primary reasons this was so.

First, as I prayed these prayers, I began to realize that I literally was joining the communion of saints who have recited these prayers daily for century upon century. Prayer wasn’t simply something I did individually. Rather, it was the corporate act of all God’s people for centuries. When I prayed these prayers, I found myself being absorbed into the story of God’s people. These prayers helped me better understand myself, not just as an individual, but as one who found his identity in the corporate body of believers.

Second, by inviting one to pray four times a day, the intent is to sanctify the day in which one lives, as well as all activities in which we engage. I had been used to praying at the beginning of the day, asking God to lead and guide throughout. And I believe he did. However, by praying the daily office four times a day, in one sense it was a step toward St. Paul’s instructions to “pray continually” (1 Thessalonians 5:17). Rather than simply relying on the prayer I had prayed that morning, these prayers encouraged me to seek God in all areas of my life. And as each prayer time came, I found myself looking eagerly to the time, seeing it as a time of realigning myself, listening to what God might have in store for the rest of the day.

The third thing that praying the Daily Office did for me was to help me become more comfortable with extemporaneous prayer.  I know it sounds weird, but the more I prayed these historic prayers, the more they began to infiltrate my life in ways I never expected. Soon I found myself repeating bits and pieces of them in my extemporaneous prayers. And before long, I realized that the theology of these classic prayers was infusing the theology of my prayers as well. It wasn’t long before I realized that my extemporaneous prayers began to be more cogent, more structured, and, dare I say it, more powerful.  The prayers from the Daily Office had formed me as a person such that my very prayer life had changed, almost without me even realizing it.

I understand that the Book of Common Prayer and the Daily Office may not be for everyone. But for those like me, who struggle with praying, for those who need more structure in their prayer lives, and for those who need to be reminded that our salvation story is more than just “Jesus and me,” then the BCP and DO can be tools that allow you to experience God in fresh and new ways.