I am a theologian and a biblical scholar. I teach courses on spiritual formation, Pentecostal history and theology and New Testament theology with a special interest in the Gospels and Acts. I teach that prayer is a foundational discipline. I stress Pentecostal emphasis upon prayer and intimacy with God. I underscore how Jesus and His first followers practiced prayer, taught about prayer and expected us to follow suit.

I have a confession. When it comes to prayer, I’m a novice. I’m not very good at it. It’s been a lifelong struggle. I genuinely want to draw close to God. I want to know God. I want to hear God’s voice. I crave God’s wisdom and guidance. And I am growing in prayer.

Through extended seasons of anxiety, pain and doubt, I have discovered the importance of two kinds of prayer. I continue to employ both forms at various times. Wherever you may be on the spectrum of prayer, I hope my stories will prove helpful.

On October 2, 2006, Charles Roberts marched into an Amish schoolhouse in West Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania, and shot eight of 10 young girls, killing five of them, before taking his own life. In the days that followed, reports of forgiveness and acts of reconciliation by the Amish baffled reporters and their readers and listeners. Amish families attended the funeral of the killer and believed that the grief of the killer’s widow and children compelled them to participate in collective suffering. Amish families supported Roberts’ family by setting up a scholarship fund for his children. As these and other acts of kindness continued, various media groups suggested that the Amish response came as a result of their state of shock and denial on account of inferior grief management skills (even though numerous Amish families accepted professional grief counseling).

In Amish Grace: How Forgiveness Transcended Tragedy, the authors recall the blunt reaction of an Amish business owner to a reporter who could not come to grips with Amish capacity to forgive the killer. When the conversation turned to Amish emphasis on the Lord’s Prayer, the business owner stated: “We don’t think we can improve on Jesus’ prayer. Why would we need to? We think it’s a pretty good well-rounded prayer. It has all the key points in it.”

Though the nature of Jesus’ prayer could fill volumes, I found comfort in the simple yet profound words of Jesus. 

The Amish man reminded the reporter of Jesus’ teaching on prayer: “forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.”

Why would the Amish forgive such a brutal killer? Because Jesus commands us to do so!

The Amish practice on prayer includes daily recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. The Amish — unlike Pentecostals and most traditions — choose not to employ spontaneous prayers. For the Amish, such spontaneity may lead to hochmut (pride) and diminish a cardinal Amish (and Christian) virtue, namely damut (humility).

I heard this story at a low point in my prayer life. I was perpetually lost for words. As I reflected on the Amish concept that “you can’t improve on Jesus’ prayer,” it made sense. On New Year’s Day 2009, I resolved to pray only the Lord’s Prayer for one year. I told no one outside of my immediate family. Early on, my wife and children wondered about my sanity, though they eventually came to understand and occasionally share in my practice. In public and ecclesial settings, I continued to offer spontaneous prayers.

Though the nature of Jesus’ prayer could fill volumes, I found comfort in the simple yet profound words of Jesus. When someone requested prayer for healing, I prayed, “Thy kingdom come.” When I heard of financial need, I prayed, “Give him his daily bread.” When I encountered stories of personal failure, I prayed, “Deliver her from the evil one.” And so on. I meant these prayers. I found them assuring. These prayers also relieved a growing dissatisfaction with my inability to find the appropriate theological and emotional responses before or during my prayers.

Fast-forward to the summer of 2014 and another trying season. A number of dear friends were experiencing terrible grief and pain. I shared in their grief, and once again, I struggled for words. In the span of a few months an extended family member drowned, a dear colleague lost his wife to a sudden heart attack, and a dear friend with a clean medical history received news of stage four prostate cancer.

I felt exhaustion as I watched the news. Acts of terror around the world, and a sudden onslaught of murderous acts in my normally quiet city stirred questions not unlike those we find in the Psalms.

My workplace was in a transitional season. Fear of job loss made life stressful. At home, I watched my children transition from their late teens to young adulthood. I’m sure I worried more about their futures than they did. The cumulative effect of these events produced yet another season for a fresh encounter with God.

But once again, I had no words. This time, I found myself on the opposite end of a prayer spectrum from Jesus’ teaching on prayer. I struggled to bring rational prayers to God. I experienced the ongoing curse of a theologian; I wondered whether my prayers were theologically sound. I was unable to articulate my pain. I didn’t know how to pray. I dreaded public prayer. I could only sigh. A recurring response to daily news became a deep sigh.

I struggled to bring rational prayers to God. I experienced the ongoing curse of a theologian; I wondered whether my prayers were theologically sound.

It was around this time that I reread two essays by Frank Macchia that I assign to my students. In his “Sighs Too Deep for Words: Toward a Theology of Glossolalia,” and “Groans Too Deep for Words: Towards a Theology of Tongues as Initial Evidence” Macchia recounts the moving story of a shoemaker who questioned his rabbi on prayer. The story is found in Abraham Heschel’s, Man’s Quest for God. The shoemaker often worked through the night to repair the tattered shoes of his clients, many of whom had only one pair and needed them for work the following day. The shoemaker sometimes raised his hammer and only sighed as he worked through morning prayers. In exhaustion and frustration, the devout shoemaker approached his rabbi with his question: “Should I be allowed to miss the occasional morning prayer for the sake of my customers?”

“Perhaps,” said the rabbi, “that sigh is worth more than the prayer itself.”

May it be that sighs represent performative prayers? Is it necessary that prayer be understood only as rational, articulated conversations with God? Don’t Pentecostals (and many other Christians) practice activities — including tongues speaking — that transcend verbal communication?

Jacques Ellul remarks in Prayer and Modern Man that prayer is a striving “with the one who is unknowable, beyond our grasp, unapproachable and inexpressible, asking that he be hic et nunc [here and now], the One he promised to be.”

Paul said: “We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans” (Roman 8:26).

Pentecostals have consistently — and rightly — taught that Paul’s commentary in Romans 8 includes prayer in the Spirit. I have also benefited from this kind of personal prayer during comparable times of testing and difficulty.

Gordon Fee has a discussion on the various interpretations of Romans 8:26,27 in his God’s Empowering Presence: The Holy Spirit in the Letters of Paul. He associates the wordless groans of Romans 8 with Paul’s discussion of tongues speech in 1 Corinthian 14.

Through my sighs, I experienced the presence of God — this time, not through the literal words of Jesus, but through groans too deep for words. When I could go no further, when news became overwhelming, when I had no answers, sighs became my prayer. And though the tough questions didn’t always receive answers, God was there — as always.

When I could go no further, when news became overwhelming, when I had no answers, sighs became my prayer. And though the tough questions didn’t always receive answers, God was there — as always.

Given the almost daily news of violence and chaos at home and abroad, and ongoing events in my personal life, I continue to employ both kinds of prayers. Though I had bookmarked this idea in my list of things I ought to write about, I never made it primary. I share it now as my prayerful and reflective response to the sudden passing of my brother. Andy Mittelstadt died of a heart attack on January 6, 2016, at the tender age of 49. I found God’s peace and courage through both forms of prayer. I dedicate this narrative to Andy. No regrets, only too soon.

I conclude with two prayers. The first is the poetry of a dear friend. In the spirit of the wise rabbi cited above, I turn to the words of Father Kilian McDonnell, a world-renowned Catholic scholar and ecumenist, a leading proponent of the Charismatic renewal and a poet. In Swift Lord, You are Not, McDonnell’s poem “After All the Words” illustrates his loss of words. I share his words — indeed, his lack of words — with you.

After I have emptied out

my store of words, depleted

all useable sounds,

in praising God’s unsayable

glory,

wasted the Oxford Dictionary,

pauperized the Coptic Lexicon,

have no breath between my teeth,

wordless beauty I give back to

God.

And finally, we follow the words of the Master Teacher in Matthew 6:9–13, praying:

 “Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your Name,
your kingdom come,
your will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us today our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts,
as we also have forgiven our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from the evil one.”

Amen.

Marty Mittelstadt is professor of New Testament at Evangel University in Springfield, Missouri. This article was originally published in the October/November issue of Influence. For more print content, subscribe.