So, I’m out for breakfast with a couple who have been

worshiping with us occasionally, off and on, for several

months. I know that they are interested in learning more

about the church because they accepted my invitation

to a meal. But I also know from our brief conversation

after worship that church is something new for them,

something they are just beginning to explore in this

new chapter of life. So, we meet at a coffee shop, tables

filled with other young professionals on laptops sipping

lattes. We sit down and stare nervously at our avocado

toast. The silence is filled with suspense. Well, probably

not, but at least that’s how I perceive it. Why? Well,

because in that very moment, a decision must be made.

To pray or not to pray? Do I bow my head and risk

being the presumptively pious pastor praying in public?

Or do I skip it and leave these potential parishioners

pondering the possibility that the preacher is a pagan?

For me in that moment, the stakes feel high.

I wonder if you have ever been in a similar situation. The

awkward dis-ease. In some ways it’s a minor concern.

After all, there are many different ways to give thanks,

including in the silence of our hearts. But I do think that

it demonstrates the discomfort, even among the most

faithful among us, with the practice of prayer. Many of

us are unclear about what prayer is. Or perhaps, more

to the point, what prayer does. Some have abandoned

the practice altogether as archaic, outdated, antiquated,

unscientific. Others among us continue the discipline

with about as much passion as brushing our teeth. Just

a part of the daily routine. Going through the motions.

Checking off the to do list as a part of our spiritual

hygiene plan.

This morning, we renew our annual tradition of August

sermons on questions the preacher often hears. And

it may not surprise you that I already have next year’s

list in mind. I am blessed with a congregation of deep

thinkers! This week we take up a question I have heard

from young children and older adults, a question I have

heard in hospital rooms and on youth group retreats,

a question I have been asked by those struggling with

big, life-altering decisions, those processing terrible

news, those grieving difficult loss. Does prayer work?

And as with any profound theological question, this

seemingly straightforward quandary immediately brings

up others. For starters, what is prayer?

And here I think we have some important

deconstructing to do, because the most pervasive

and misguided understanding of prayer in popular

culture is as a wish list for God who must either fulfill

our demands or risk losing our devotion. Perhaps like

me, you’ve heard more than a few preachers deliver

articulate and exhilarating explanations of prayer

that simply turn God into a kind of magical vending

machine. We deposit our prayers, and God delivers

the results for which we pray. Anyone who lives a real

life in the real world knows the transparent falseness

of this claim, and yet when we hear it—packaged well,

shiny, and new—it feels so good to us, so convenient,

so comforting, so compelling. Perhaps you’ve heard it.

Whenever prayers go up, blessings come down.

Except that they don’t. Not always. Not automatically.

Not in the way that we hope or imagine. The problem

with a faith dependent on God’s customer service

record is that it ignores divine sovereignty and human

limitation. Perhaps worse, it cheapens the practice

of prayer. It sets God up for failure and us up for

disappointment.

Perhaps truer to our lived experience, especially for

those who have given up on the practice of prayer,

is a deep frustration with God’s lack of response. We

diligently pray for loved ones who do not experience

the dramatic healing we hope. We persistently pray

for patience, and then we lash out at those who

upset us. We passionately pray for peace and then

watch as the world careens toward violent conflict.

We pray diligently for guidance and then feel no

clear sense of direction. We see no answer written

in the clouds. No voice booming from heaven. In

fact, the silence of God is often more consistent than

God’s response to our requests.

And so, sometimes we assume that God is not

present or does not care. I have to say, however,

that this perspective also seems to me to miss the

mark or misunderstand the meaning of prayer. Every

time I consider the perceived silence of God in the

contemporary world, I can’t help but think of the

amount of noise we create. If God is speaking, how

would we ever hear in a culture flooded with the noise

of our babble? Perhaps the sense that God is not

speaking is rather an indication that we have stopped,

or forgotten how, to listen.

I love the story of Mother Teresa. A reporter once

asked her (of course, Mother Teresa was known to

spend hours each morning in prayer). The reporter

asked, “What do you say to God during your time in

prayer?” Mother Teresa’s response: “I don’t say much.

I mostly listen.” Well, intrigued by the answer, the

reporter asked the obvious follow-up question. “Well,

what does God say?” Mother Teresa smiled. “God

doesn’t say much. God mostly listens.”

In the verses just before our passage, the disciples

have asked Jesus a practical question. Teach us how

to pray. What they want is what we want. A method. A

manual. A process. A formula. We want the how, the

when, and the where.

In our text, Jesus shifts the question. Not how. Not

when. Not where. Not even why. Jesus is interested

in who. He wants his disciples to know who God

is. He wants them to know the God to whom they

pray. Prayer is rooted in relationship. Prayer is a

conversation. We listen. God listens. The practice of

prayer, modeled for us in scripture, is one of active

listening and genuine vulnerability. Prayer is not about

proving ourselves to God (or to prospective church

members). Prayer is not about demanding God prove

anything to us. We pray because we know and love

the God to whom we pray.

Before he was a journalist, Bill Moyers served as

Special Assistant to President Lyndon Johnson.

The story goes that one Sunday he was invited to

the White House for dinner, and since Moyers is an

ordained pastor, the President asked him to bless

the meal. As he was praying, President Johnson

could not hear the words he was speaking and

so said to Moyers in that way President Johnson

could, “Bill, I can’t hear you. Speak up, man! Speak

up!” With that, Bill Moyers looked up and calmly

answered, “Mr. President, with all due respect, I am

not speaking to you.” There was a very long pause.

The President sighed deeply and lowered his head

for the rest of the prayer.

Listen to this. The substance of our prayers depends

on our understanding of the God to whom we pray.

Who is this God? There are many answers. If the

recipient of our prayers is a Santa Claus in the sky,

then why not make a list of what we want? If we are

praying to a divine vending machine, yes, deposit our

prayers and make our selections. If we are convinced

that this granter of prayers is partial to our tribe and

subject to our whims, why not ask God for victory on

the court, the field, the election, the war? If we can

place the one to whom we pray in a box of our own

creation, our prayers will reflect that impoverished

theology. We put God on a leash. Our prayers are

weak, subject to our personal preference.

If, on the other hand, we are praying to the sovereign

Lord whose power is defined by compassion, we

will think differently about the prayers we offer. For

starters, we will pray with humility. We will ask for

God’s wisdom. We will pray with confidence. We

may even have the courage to pray for our enemies,

recognizing that they too belong to God. That’s why

I think an authentic practice of prayer should come

with a warning label—if you choose to pray, you will

be changed. Sometimes prayer works by working on

us. Opening our eyes. Softening our hearts. Changing

our minds. Reordering our values.

I pray because I believe in a God who desires

relationship, a God we can know, whose love we can

experience. In response to the disciples’ request,

what Jesus offers is an invitation to approach God

Almighty with the same intimacy, boldness, and

trust as a child running to her parent for protection

and provision. And so, to pray is to lean on God’s

strength when we cannot rely on our own. Prayer is

not about getting the things we want from God but

about deepening the relationship we have with God.

We listen. God listens.

As we raise two sons and do our best to teach them

the faith that we have received, I am filled daily

with gratitude for the gift of my pastor-spouse and

her attentiveness to the practices of faith. A few

weeks ago, at dinnertime, Sara suggested that,

instead of a spoken aloud prayer, we try sharing

a silent moment to listen for God’s voice together.

We made it 15 seconds. And after that prayer, she

explained that the Bible says we can speak to God

even without words. She asked the boys what they

thought that might mean.

Samuel said it was like when something is so

beautiful you can’t describe it, but you know God sees

it too. Ben, who had a challenging day, said it’s like

this: sometimes you are angry, and you want to say

something nice, but you can’t, and God knows what

you want to say. These beautiful perspectives on the

meaning of prayer. We listen. God listens.

Friends, to say prayer works has nothing to do with

measuring God’s batting average. To say prayer works

is not to suggest that we get what we ask for or the

results we’ve demanded. The work of prayer is rooted

in relationship, grounded in the trust that the God of

the universe is also our loving parent: attentive to our

struggle, aware of our deepest need, present in our

life, eager to give good gifts. The work of prayer is

about getting our priorities into alignment with God’s

priorities. The practice of prayer means becoming

more like the One to whom we pray, defined by

compassion, driven by love. Yes, the work of prayer is

coming to know God, who gives us not everything we

want, but what we most need.

Give us this day our daily bread. Grace enough for

today. Hope sufficient for tomorrow. Amen.