HAVE YOU PRAYED about this?
Martin Luther King Jr. and his compatriots in the Civil Rights Movement could emphatically say yes. They prayed before boycotts, before marches, and covered every nonviolent, disruptive, anti-racist action they took in prayer.
Pete Hegseth could also say yes. He prayed at the Pentagon in April as the U.S. initiated an inhumane and nonsensical war in Iran. Hegseth called for God’s blessing on the U.S. military action, inviting God to move with vengeance and anger. (Oddly, his prayer closely followed a scene in the film Pulp Fiction.)
The organizers of a series of talks by right-wing tech mogul Peter Thiel—in which Thiel offers climate activist Greta Thunberg as a possible “legionnaire of the antichrist”—could also say: Yes. We prayed about this. An event organizer addressed criticism by saying, “What you don’t know is, in the days and weeks before the event, leaders in our community were praying over the event: for protection, for hearts to be transformed, for Jesus to move.”
What do we make of these deeply disparate uses of prayer? What do we do when prayer, as an expression of a desire to see God act, can mean so many different and utterly conflicting things?
I don’t have all the answers to these questions; I’m not sure any of us do. I do know this is not a new phenomenon. It’s certainly as old as the Bible. The powerful always want God on their side. And I also know this: Whatever prayer is for, it’s not to make us feel more confident in our violence. Whatever prayer actively does, it does not absolve us of responsibility for our actions and their impacts.
Prayer can be a beautiful and powerful thing.
Perhaps in this violent era, Christians are invited to think critically about the relationship between desire, intent, prayer, and a healthy sense of accountability. We can pray for help beyond ourselves, ask for God’s blessing, and earnestly, genuinely desire for “Jesus to move” through what we do. But just because we prayed doesn’t mean that God is on our side.
Prayer can be a beautiful and powerful thing. But it is only one component of spiritual discernment prior to action. When we consider how we want to move in our world, we also consider scripture, Christian tradition, reason, and experience (drawing on the Wesleyan process of theological discernment). We ponder what ushers in love and justice, the kind Jesus worked toward wholeheartedly in every interaction. We pay particular attention to the people who are most vulnerable, both in our own communities and around the world—those most impacted by violence. Maybe we are meant to pray and use all the tools available to determine “the things that make for peace” (Luke 19:42)—for the holistic thriving of individuals and communities—and then step forward in these directions.
Standing with the victims of oppression and organizing for equal legal rights for all people moves us closer to the shalom of God. Provoking unnecessary wars does not. Neither does platforming the opinions of tech billionaires who prop up politicians as they roll back human rights, cut critical services, and generally destroy any semblance of justice and equality in the U.S.
Have you prayed about this? is not a bad question. But other questions are also necessary: Does this decision promote abundant life for all people, especially the most vulnerable? Does it grow the good fruit of justice, where every person in our communities and around the world is honored as an infinitely precious image-bearer of God? Maybe these questions themselves are a prayer.
Prayer is not a monologue, nor a transaction. It does not give us permission to “steal and kill and destroy,” as Jesus put it. Rather, Christians are continually called to join Jesus in his aim that all might “have life and have it abundantly” (John 10:10). We believe that God listens when we pray. And we can refuse to blame God for harm resulting from our own actions. When we take responsibility for our actions, then we can acknowledge when they disfigure the dignity of others; we stand ready to change course or repair harms when needed.
The best-intentioned prayers do not absolve us of responsibility. This is a hopeful, life-giving truth—if we’re willing to claim it. We embrace our own agency as image-bearers of God, and our power as agents of change in our world. We also embrace our holy, sobering responsibility for the direction in which that change moves.
Liz Cooledge Jenkins is the Seattle-based author of Nice Churchy Patriarchy and the forthcoming Maybe We Could Pray Again (Broadleaf, Spring 2027). She blogs at growingintokinship.substack.com.
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