Words that Shape me

by John Rasmussen

Prayer is a tricky thing. I’ve been praying for a long time, but I still have to admit that there are times when I feel like I’m just beginning to learn what it means to pray. As a child prayer seemed simple enough. I remember praying with my father before bed during my early elementary years, which usually included enumerating every person I knew in my small world and asking God to “bless them.” I didn’t know what the word “bless” meant, but it had a churchy ring to it. As I grew older I only addressed God formally during difficult math tests or when I wanted a pretty girl to hang out with me. In other words, talking to God became a means to my own ends. The interesting thing is that I haven’t really grown out of this bad habit. I still catch myself describing in painful detail my own needs, preferences, or anxieties in a sort of heaven directed, one-way monologue. This is not to say that God does not listen to such self-centered litanies, but even during these prayers I know deep down that there’s more to prayer than this.

Prayer is a life-long journey – a discipline that is always in progress and never complete. There will never be a day that we can say, “I have arrived.” In fact, a life patterned by prayer will often go from one extreme to another as life passes through season after season. For example, do we pray from the heart, with our own words, or do we pray formal prayers written and prayed by saints through the ages? In my own experience, I have found myself on both sides. Earlier on in my serious pursuit of prayer I measured its validity according to my own sincerity and uniquely spoken words. In my mind, written prayers were dead with formality. But as I continued to pray with this mindset, I found myself at loss for words, or even worse, stuck with my own words. I slowly discovered that the words of others – the words of saints who have lived and suffered and struggled and prayed far before I was even born – that these words often expressed what was too profound for me to voice myself. In a way, I found that these words were shaping me, or even teaching me a language of prayer, so that when I open my mouth and dare to speak to the living God, I have words that belong not just to me, but to countless other believers. The other night my son William surprised me while I was putting him to bed. For a while we’ve been praying, “God bless momma and dada and grandma and grandpa,” etc. before bed, but this particular evening I decided to mix it up and say the Lord’s prayer with him, something we had not done before bed. I was surprised that he followed along with me, speaking about half the words. Somewhere in between playing with his cars and being distracted with pretzels during church, he’s been absorbing ancient words. Words common to believers from all ages and all nations. Words that shape us. Words I pray he’ll pray his entire life, finding more and more depth each time he says, “Our Father, who art in heaven…”