In an age of urgency, distraction, and algorithmic overload, silence and solitude feel like luxuries. Prayer, for many, has become either mechanical or forgotten. Yet the deeper rhythm of the Christian life—indeed, of Jesus’ own life—is anchored in prayer. Not as religious duty, but as relationship. Not escape from the world, but attunement to the Father’s voice.
Luke records that Jesus “would withdraw to deserted places and pray.” (Luke 5:16). This comment appears just after Jesus healed a man with leprosy and before crowds surged toward him. In the height of success and demand, Jesus withdrew. His power was never disconnected from his communion with the Father. Luke, more than any Gospel writer, shows us Jesus praying before every significant moment—before calling the Twelve, before Peter’s confession, before the transfiguration, before the cross. Prayer is not an accessory to mission. It is the mission’s fuel.
Mark’s Gospel opens with urgency. Jesus heals, teaches, casts out demons—there’s movement everywhere. Then we read, “In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed.” (Mark 1:35). The disciples scramble to find him. “Everyone is searching for you!” they say. But Jesus emerges not reactive, but rooted. From this place of prayer, he says, “Let us go on to the neighbouring towns” Clarity flows from communion. In a world ruled by demand, Jesus responds from discernment.
Matthew tells us that after feeding the five thousand, Jesus “... after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone,” (Matthew 14:23). This follows a miracle of provision and precedes the storm on the lake. Again, prayer frames both abundance and crisis. The mountaintop solitude becomes the hidden strength before Jesus walks into the storm. Prayer does not remove us from the storm, but prepares us to walk in its midst.
Later in Matthew, in the garden of Gethsemane, Jesus faces anguish. “Then he said to them, ‘I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and stay awake with me.” (Matthew 26:38). He falls to the ground and prays. Not once, but three times. “Father, if it is possible… yet not as I will, but as you will.” Here is prayer not as escape, but as surrender. The Son of God wrestles with the cost of obedience. And in the struggle, he is strengthened. The disciples sleep while Jesus prays. The Church still often does.
These passages reveal more than habits—they show us the heart of the Son in constant dialogue with the Father. They also reveal a pattern meant to shape our own lives. Prayer is not merely speaking; it is listening, yielding, watching, and waiting. It is the posture of one who believes that reality is more than what we see. That God is present and personal.
Anabaptist and Baptist traditions have long emphasized personal accountability in faith. But without spiritual discipline, our zeal becomes activism without contemplation, or silence without discernment. Prayer calls us back to dependency. As the early Anabaptists often gathered in hidden rooms to pray for strength, so we too must anchor our witness in the secret place.
One helpful contemplative practice is Centering Prayer. Choose a word or phrase—perhaps “peace” or “Abba”—and sit quietly for ten minutes, returning gently to the word whenever your mind wanders. This is not about emptying the mind, but making space for the presence of God. It’s not technique that changes us—it is the God who meets us there.
Our hope lies not in the strength of our prayers, but in the One who hears. In a fractured world, prayer restores relationship. In a noisy culture, prayer clears the soul’s ear. In our weakness, prayer joins us to the intercession of Christ. This discipline is not just ancient—it is essential.