“Prayer is not a private activity; indeed prayer is the most political activity in which a Christian can engage. ‘To fold your hands in prayer is to begin an uprising against the world’ (Karl Barth).” – From Kim Fabricius’ Ten Propositions on Prayer from Faith and Theology.
In bringing up social and political issues in churches I have attended, I have often been frustrated that the church’s action on these concerns never moves beyond prayer. For example, I have been to churches that pray for the hungry but do not feed hungry people. Some of my friends also share this frustration. Yet, since stumbling on this quote from Kim Fabricius, I have been questioning many of my own (and other people’s) assumptions about prayer.
At first, the quote above felt like an attempt to justify passivity or at least downplay the significance of action, service and being in solidarity with people. However, in thinking about prayer as the “most political activity” that I can ever do, the power seems to lie in transformation and communion.
I have, and still often, see and use prayer as a formula. If I put in enough work – with my requests and thanksgiving, it will all be processed and calculated to result in the fulfillment of my wish. My wish-listing frequently leaves no room for God’s possibility. I appeal for change, but only change that I have already planned.
Entering in prayer with petitions for change is entering into risk. It is a direct challenge of my preconceived notions of success and how change should happen. I feel it as God turning me away form the path of victory that I have mapped out; my intended goal and the route to it are subject to change. And in this risk, God is inseparable from the moment, from the possibility of change, and from the goal. My perfect 10-step-strategy to end hunger in San Diego and my prayers for this ultimate plan now taste so stale and bitter. My cheap (or naïve) optimism of activism and rote prayer falls away and I have to be open to risk that I will be transformed in this too. My wish-list prayers and my once brilliant plans for activism are revealed to be a formulation of my own ego; a reinforcement of who I am comfortable being. Yet, prayer drags me into a certain terror and joy. Henri Nouwen writes, “I believe that true prayer makes us into what we imagine. To pray to God leads to becoming like God.” This is terrifying because the example we have for becoming like God leads to a cross. And this is joyful because Jesus also demonstrates our connection with God.
Our transformation comes via communion with God and with people. Prayer is not an excuse to distance myself from a difficult situation, the people, and suffering. Instead, it is the act of taking the situation into myself; not for me to solve, but to empathize and join in the affliction, to begin to be a part of the relief for those afflicted. It is a communion with both the subject of what is prayed and God as the focusing of the praying. Prayer is risky, but in it we are never alone.
The dichotomy that I have been making between prayer and action is another way in which I have limited the political possibilities of prayer. A blurring of the borders of prayer, action and worship provides me a better guide in communing with God and people. With each aspect present and informing the other, I hope to approach service and solidarity with reflection, joy and openness for change. This is not to be a rejection of purely contemplative prayer; rather I hope to recognize that prayer does not need to end there.
And as Kim Fabricius ends his Ten Propositions on Prayer, “Ultimately, the question of prayer is the question of God: What kind of God do I believe in?” My formulaic and wish list prayers are sad indicators of how I view myself and my limited view of God. Just as my reluctance to acknowledge prayer as political is a reflection of my disregard for God’s transformation of and communion with me and the world.