What We Say with Our Eyes Closed

There have been many thoughtful reflections on what exactly happens when we pray.  Theologians have described prayer as both intiated by God (the work of the Spirit moving us to pray), as a holy reverence with God, as a wrestling with God, as a bold crying out, as a listening.  When we try to pray with intention we are often left wondering if God really needs our prayers if God is truly soveriegn.  Do our prayers affect God or are our prayers an intentional opportunity for God to change us?

These are good reflections for which I do not have an answer.  I often wonder what it is that is happening when I pray with members of our church in their homes or in the hospital or at the nursing home.  What exactly are we doing in those moments of lonliness or fear, joy or anxiety?

Words are insufficient, I suppose, for what really happens in prayer (the apostle Paul speaks of prayer as sighs too deep for words), but I can affirm something does happen.  At the very least, I feel that when we pray for one another aloud, we are often willing to place before God those things that we hesitate to name when speaking face to face.  We bow our heads, close our eyes, and open our mouths in an unusual honesty.  It is almost as God serves as an intermediary between those gathered, allowing us to speak the truth of our heart.

Sometimes this honesty comes out in terms of gratitude, as happened at our session meeting on Tuesday night.  To close our meeting we gathered around our outgoing class of elders, laid hands on them and offered to God our thanksgiving for the gifts these women and men have brought to our church over the last year.  Many of the elders shared their gratefulness of the unique gifts of the outgoing class of elders, traits for Christian leadership they had experienced through the ministry of these people, and I wonder if in a face-to-face encounter we would have had the courage offer those thankful words.

Before God, though, we are willing to express our sincere gratitude.

In prayer, do we find a deeper courage to speak the truth that we might gloss over in regular conversation, striving to name a pain or a longing or a hope I have heard in the midst of an encounter or conversation?  When others ask us to pray for them, is there some longing of their heart they desire to articulate but they need another to help name?  Maybe there is.  Maybe it is simply a desire to know they are not alone in the struggle.  Maybe they hope that by sharing and praying they can find a meaning in the midst of chaos.

And with our eyes closed and our hands held, maybe we can name before God the truth of our hearts, which brings us into deeper communion with each other as well.