students of jesus

“Our Facebook, who art on the Internet, followed be thy pages . . . “

Don’t worry: this post isn’t a screed on the devilish dangers of social media. It’s too easy to locate trouble and place blame in structures and technologies beyond us. It’s also too easy to ignore such complaints because, honestly, who’s going to “fix” Facebook, Twitter, or Pinterest?

Our modern problems do not lurk in apps or software. In truth, our modern problems are not modern at all. Our modern problems reside in deep within us, where they have always hidden. Facebook merely puts us—and our problems—on display with astonishing speed and reach.

Social media is like any other technology, a device capable of good or ill. It’s a tool to be wielded well or to hinder the real work of living life wisely. Social media is a comfort to the shut-in, and a means to share everyday joys; it is also the latest platform for fears and fools to find expression.

In one respect Facebook and its children have provided a new outlet: cyber prayer. What was formerly the province of what was called a “prayer closet” is now opportunity to broadcast our prayers around the world in search of someone who will hear. Prayer has always been difficult because we have so often felt alone—in the very place we are told to pour out our hearts before God. In prayer, when we meet the silence of God, we usually fill the silence with our own words. With social media, others will fill the silence for us.

We go to social media to know we are not alone. We post our prayers because we will certainly get some kind of answer in response:

POST: You guys! I’m going in for a job interview today. Please pray that I get this job because I really need it.

• You’ve got this!
• Hugs to you, I'm praying.
• Don't worry: God's in control.

These answers, well meaning but completely powerless, feel better than no answer at all, which is what we often think we get from God. Traditional prayer is the place we bump into the silence of God. Cyber prayer is how, together, we fill the void apart from the still small voice of the Spirit.

It’s true: there are plenty of examples of God’s people praying together, rallied by social media, and miracles have followed. In a world of a billion-plus Facebook users this should not surprise us. But daily, and in ways uncounted, we have turned to social media because we are sure of get some answer—any answer—which we can see and hear.

Even more frightening than not getting an answer from God is the possibility that the Father would respond, and use the response to focus us on the real problems of our lives. Imagine what would happen if God responded to your Facebook prayer:

PRAYER: Father, I’m going in for a job interview today. Please help me get this job because I really need it.

• What happened to the last job you had?
• Are you afraid I will not provide?
• Are you so desperate for money you would debase yourself by working for a company that exploits the poor and abuses its own employees?

The gospels are filled with stories of people who brought their requests to Jesus only to receive challenging “answers” to their prayers:

Someone in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.” 

Jesus replied, “Man, who appointed me a judge or an arbiter between you?” Then he said to them, “Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; life does not consist in an abundance of possessions.”

We take our prayers to Facebook because it is filled with people like us, and when people like us respond we can be sure to get the answer we are looking for. If we complain about other drivers, people like us will respond with more of the same. If we post angry words about a political party, we can be sure others will join our anger. If we post the latest warning about the dangers of modern life, we will soon read fearful words from others who feel powerless against big business or Big Brother.

Here are the challenges of living in a world filled with social media. Can we wait on God? Can we sit in the silence without trying to fill the void? Can we bear the possibility that the Spirit will change the subject, and ask about the condition of our souls?

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Just because I can cite the Lord’s Prayer from memory doesn’t mean I understand it. But still I pray. And sometimes, after years of repetition, a small bulb sparks to life with new light. It’s slow, but it’s progress; and I have a very patient teacher. Apparently some lessons are so deep they take years to sink in.

As I understand it, Jesus gave us a pattern: our prayers should be adoration followed by four requests: the in-breaking of God’s kingdom; daily provision; the grace to forgive; and guidance that keeps us from evil. (You may see it differently—in fact, I must confess that I’m no expert on prayer, merely a fellow-traveler.)

Here are a few notes from my (admittedly inadequate) prayer life:

Hallowed be your name: we start with praise and adoration because it’s important to understand who’s God and who’s not. Does the Father need our counsel or direction? Do we know our circumstances better than he? Yet, when I dive straight into my requests it’s easy to engage in a subtle role-reversal. One side effect of prayer is sanity, and the beginning of sanity is to recognize that he is God and I am not. We hallow his name not because he needs the praise but because we need to see him for who he is.

Your Kingdom come, your will be done: just because we take a breath between phrases doesn’t mean there are two requests. His kingdom is made real whenever his will is done, whether up there or down here. I need to be reminded that his kingdom is breaking into the here-and now, and that I am the agent of this in-breaking. These words are not a passive recognition that God will do whatever he wants, they are my way of joining him fresh each day; it is a commitment to seek out and join the Divine plan. It is not in any sense surrender, it is the highest form of volunteering. When we pray the pattern Jesus gave us, we should consider: who will hallow his name or who will do his will?

Our daily bread: “Don’t worry about this, God—I’ve got it covered” Who in their right mind would say this? But honestly, now: if you live in North America, when’s the last time you asked God for today’s food? If I’m brutally honest, I usually don’t worry about my next meal. (Now, money I worry about—but is that what Jesus is telling us to ask for?)

Forgive us our debts: I dunno. Jesus is pretty sneaky: what if our daily bread is actually the grace to forgive each and every day? Can you imagine how your world would change if you were supernaturally assisted in daily forgiveness? Your spouse, your kids, your co-workers, and even that jerk who “deserves” everything he gets: we could change the world one forgiving act at a time.

Lead us not into temptation: I’ll be honest, if I’m praying hard I usually get tired before I get to this one. In fact: I’m exhausted just writing this post, so I’ll let the Calvinists and Arminians duke this one out on their own.

For Thine is the Kingdom, the power, and the glory . . . You realize, of course, this was added to the prayer later on, don’t you? How would your prayer life change if you simply told God what you tell your friends: “I’ll see you later.”

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There are only two reasons I pray, and neither of them is very satisfying to me. In fact, the list of reasons I avoid praying is much longer than the reasons I do pray. (Yes, that’s right—you’ve been reading a spiritual formation blog written by someone who really sucks at prayer.)

First: Jesus told us to pray: so I pray, because Jesus is the boss.

He never says, “If you pray,” he says, “When you pray.” Jesus assumes we will pray. Three times before giving us an example of how to pray, he says, “When you pray.” (Matthew 6:5-15)

I pray because he expects it. I receive him as the Lord of Life, the wise guide without whom I’m lost. If he told me to turn left I would turn left—even if I didn’t understand why. The same with prayer: I don’t understand why but apparently he thinks it’s important. He tells stories about people who pray: old women powerless before wicked judges; tax collectors who beat their breasts and keep their eyes lowered, avoiding heaven’s gaze; proud Pharisees who boast before God about their goodness. Jesus tells me there are some kind of demons that only leave because of prayer and fasting (which accounts for why I still have a few fellow-travelers with me even after 40+ years of walking with him).

I’m not nearly smart enough to understand the whys or the workings of prayer, but I know how to do what I’m told, so I pray.

Second: I pray because I can’t seem to help myself.

I can’t help myself because it would be rude not to speak to someone who is with you every moment of the day. And I really believe that—no, I feel it.

This means I’m no good at set times of prayer. Setting an alarm doesn’t help. Neither does using a devotional. (Yes, that’s correct: I also write devotionals, which makes me something of a hypocrite.) But here’s the truth: I talk to Jesus throughout the day. Sometimes I ask the Father a question or two. And whenever I’m stuck, I ask the Holy Spirit for help. I can’t not pray.

The poets and writers of prayers don’t need to worry about competition from me. I don’t have eloquence of Saint Francis’ prayer, or the depth of Walter Brueggeman’s Prayers for Privileged People. Mostly, I’m looking to get out of trouble, or for a parking spot at the mall. I’m sure Jesus loves hearing from me all day (not).

That’s it. These are the only two reasons that compel me to pray. And here’s the really awful truth: I have more reasons not to pray than to pray:

Prayer requires forgiveness, and I hate that.

It requires listening, and I prefer talking.

It requires humility, and I’m filled with pride.

It requires faith, and I’m afraid unanswered prayer will expose my lack of faith.

It requires honesty, because the Father already knows my need, and I’d much rather lie to myself.

I don’t usually kneel to pray. I can’t remember the last time I folded my hands together, like you see in every picture of prayer. The closest I come to reverence is sometimes lighting a candle while I pray, and I get tired of praying long before the candle does.

Still, he calls me to prayer; and still, I can’t help it. Why do you pray?