The Way of Prayer
Prayer, the Way I Learned It and the Way I’m Learning It Now
I grew up with a fairly traditional Christian picture of prayer. You asked for things. You thanked God for things. You confessed things. There was a sense of speaking upward, of presenting requests and waiting to see what would be given or withheld. A lot of it felt like conversation with someone outside the situation—someone who could intervene if the request was clear enough or faithful enough. I still recognize that shape. It was the one I was handed, and for a long time it was simply how prayer worked.
I was baptized into the New Church (Swedenborgian) on May 21, 2017 by the late Rev. Alfred Acton in Summerville, SC. However, I was not new to the New Church. I have been an avid reader of Swedenborg since 1983 when I lived in New Jersey and worked at the Princeton University bookstore. The New Church understanding I’ve been sitting with since that time treats prayer a bit differently. It isn’t mainly about persuading God to change circumstances or to supply what we lack. It’s more about opening ourselves so that what is already good and true can have more room to work within us. The emphasis shifts from asking for outcomes to asking for a change in our own loves and understanding—so that we become more willing to receive what is useful and more able to act from it. God isn’t pictured as deciding whether to grant a request; the picture is closer to divine life constantly present, and prayer as the means of turning toward it instead of away from it.
The difference sounds clean when I write it down. In practice the shift has been slower and less tidy. The older form still rises first when something is hard or when I want a particular result. I catch myself framing the prayer as a request for intervention, then having to pause and reframe it as a request for clearer sight or a less resistant heart. That pause doesn’t always feel natural. It can feel like I’m doing prayer wrong, or like I’m abandoning something that once felt straightforward and personal. At the same time, the older approach sometimes leaves me waiting for an answer that doesn’t arrive in the form I expected, and the waiting itself becomes another thing to manage.
What I’m noticing is that both versions are still available to me, and they don’t cancel each other out as neatly as the explanations suggest. The traditional way still carries the directness I grew up with—the sense that I can bring something specific and be heard. The New Church way keeps returning me to the question of what I’m actually willing to let change in myself while I wait. Neither one has fully replaced the other yet. Most days I’m somewhere in the middle, using the language I know and trying to point it toward the understanding I’m still learning. The prayer itself hasn’t gotten simpler. It’s just become more honest about the fact that I’m still in the process of changing how I listen.
The Lord’s Prayer
The Lord’s Prayer has become the place where those two understandings meet most clearly for me. It was the prayer I learned first, the one that still rises without effort. At the same time, it keeps pointing me toward the things the New Church writings emphasize—thy kingdom come, thy will be done, forgive us as we forgive, lead us not into temptation. Saying it slowly doesn’t feel like presenting a list of requests. It feels more like turning my attention toward what I’m actually willing to receive and what I’m willing to release. Of all the prayers I know, it is the one that most reliably opens my heart instead of simply filling the silence. I still don’t always stay in that openness once the words are finished, but the prayer itself keeps offering the doorway.
Our Father, who art in the heavens,
Hallowed be Thy name.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done
As in Heaven, so upon the Earth.
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our debts
As we also forgive our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.
For Thine is the kingdom,
And the power, and the glory
Forever and ever.
Amen.