Before You Say Amen

There are few subjects in the church that create more confusion—and more quiet frustration—than prayer.

Not because people don’t believe in it. Most Christians believe deeply in prayer. They would defend it without hesitation. They know it matters. They know it’s essential. They know it’s supposed to be central to the Christian life.

Believing in prayer and knowing how to live honestly inside it are not the same thing.

Many believers struggle with prayer—not out of rebellion, not out of indifference, and not even out of unbelief—but out of uncertainty.

Am I doing this right?

Am I saying the right words?

Am I praying long enough?

Strong enough?

Faith-filled enough?

Those questions don’t come from hard hearts. They come from conscientious ones. They come from people who care.

Somewhere along the way, prayer stopped feeling natural and started feeling heavy. And when prayer feels heavy long enough, people don’t usually announce that they’re struggling.

They don’t raise their hand in Sabbath School and say, “I don’t know how to pray anymore.” They don’t schedule an appointment with the pastor to confess prayer fatigue.

They just quietly pray less.

Or they pray shorter.

Or they pray safer.

Or they pray only when desperation corners them.

Or they stop praying altogether and don’t quite know how it happened.

That doesn’t happen because prayer doesn’t work.

It happens because prayer has slowly been turned into something it was never meant to be.

Prayer drifted—from relationship into performance.

No one sets out to make that happen. It doesn’t come from arrogance. It doesn’t come from bad intentions. It happens subtly. Gradually. Almost respectfully.

We learn how prayer is “supposed” to sound.

We borrow language.

We repeat phrases.

We pick up rhythms.

We listen to people who pray fluently, confidently, beautifully—and without realizing it, we begin to edit ourselves.

And before long, prayer becomes something we do correctly rather than something we enter honestly.

That’s why Matthew 6 is so important.

When the disciples ask Jesus about prayer, He does not begin with technique. He doesn’t start with structure or formulas or vocabulary. He doesn’t say, “Here’s how to sound spiritual.”

He starts with motive.

“When you pray,” He says, “do not be like the hypocrites.”

That word lands harshly if we’re not careful. We hear it as accusation. As condemnation. As moral failure.

But Jesus is not talking about atheists. He’s not talking about pagans. He’s not talking about people who don’t pray.

Hypocrites pray.

Often.

Publicly.

Confidently.

Hypocrites are not prayerless people. They are performing people.

The word itself comes from the theater. It refers to someone wearing a mask. Someone playing a role. Someone presenting something that looks real but isn’t rooted in truth.

Jesus isn’t condemning prayer. He’s correcting why people pray.

“They love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the corners of the streets, that they may be seen by men.”

Notice what He does not say.

He does not say public prayer is wrong.

He does not say praying out loud is wrong.

He does not say leading prayer is wrong.

The issue is not the setting.

The issue is the audience.

When prayer shifts from talking to God to managing how it looks to people, something subtle but dangerous happens. Prayer stops being communion and starts being presentation.

And once prayer becomes presentation, honesty becomes optional.

This is where the text presses close to home—because most of us are not praying to impress crowds. We are not seeking attention. But we are tempted to protect reputation.

We want to sound faithful.

We want to sound mature.

We want to sound spiritually competent.

So we pray in ways that feel acceptable.

Safe.

Recognizable.

We learn which phrases work. We learn which tones communicate confidence. We learn how to avoid silence. We learn how to close a prayer smoothly.

And slowly, prayer becomes edited.

We stop bringing confusion.

We stop naming resentment.

We stop admitting doubt.

We stop confessing what feels embarrassing.

Not because God can’t handle it—but because we’re afraid of how it looks.

That’s how prayer becomes heavy.

That’s how prayer becomes stiff.

That’s how prayer becomes something we endure instead of something we enter.

I once witnessed a moment that exposed this far more clearly than any definition ever could.

A missionary had spent a lifetime serving overseas. Decades among the people. Decades of sacrifice. Decades of stories. He came home on furlough and was asked to give a mission report and close with prayer.

The report was thoughtful. Earnest. Filled with stories of gospel work among the people he loved.

Then came the prayer.

Instead of praying plainly in English, he attempted to pray in the local language—one he had never learned to speak. Slowly, deliberately, with solemn emphasis, he began counting.

“Ek… do… teen… char… panch…”