What is Prayer Part II: The Three Modes of Prayer-Exploring Liturgy, Spontaneity, and Abiding

Only post-70 did they really start to drift, and post-135 that drift began to become extremely pronounced—eventually leading to intentional deviation for identity and polemical reasons.

That divergence, however, will not occupy us here. It is enough to recognize that it occurred. For our purposes, what matters is not the precise mechanics of that separation, but the deeper reality that both traditions carried forward patterns of prayer that were already ancient, and in many respects shared.

Because both Rabbinic Judaism and Christianity inherited rather than invented their patterns of worship, the forms of prayer we encounter within them are not arbitrary developments, but expressions of something far older and more deeply rooted in the life of God’s people.

Beneath the later distinctions, we find a shared inheritance of prayer that moves along several recognizable lines.

At its broadest, this inheritance may be understood in three interwoven modes: liturgical prayer, extemporaneous prayer, and abiding or meditative prayer.

Liturgical prayer is the voice we are given—the words that steady us, shape us, and teach us how to approach God when our own language falls short.

Extemporaneous prayer is the voice we offer—the immediate, unguarded response of the heart, rising in petition, thanksgiving, or cry.

Abiding or meditative prayer is the life we live—the continual orientation of the soul toward God, in which prayer is no longer confined to moments, but becomes the atmosphere of one’s being.

These are not competing approaches, nor neatly separated in practice, but together form a unified vision of prayer as structured and spontaneous, communal and personal, spoken and lived. They are not three options to choose between, but three dimensions of a single life of prayer.

It is to these three modes—and the way they function together—that we now turn.

Liturgy:

This is has traditionally been the back bone and done the heavy lifting of prayer. At its heart it is a set of texts that one repeats at relatively fixed times.

We have witness of this in the First Temple and Second Temple, with fragments of Psalm cycles and prayers the priests would recite. We also have the witness of the Dead Sea Scrolls of liturgical texts.¹

As we discussed in Part I, the one thing that the disciples asked Jesus to do was to teach them to pray. His answer was, “He said to them, “When you pray, say: ‘Father, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come…’”(Luke 11:2). It was to give them a prayer, a liturgy. Say this: ___________

Then we move to the early Church. We see the Apostles praying at fixed times. The Didache(proper title The Teaching of the Apostles) a late first century Christian text sets that at three times per day. Blackwell comments on this, “Corporate identity – By praying the same words at the same times, believers shared in a rhythm that bound the scattered church into one.”²

As prayer is central to the life of God’s people, the question is not whether we pray, but how that prayer is sustained.

Left to ourselves, prayer becomes irregular, reactive, and often shallow. We pray when we feel the need, when we are in crisis, or when emotion rises—but rarely with consistency or depth. Even when desire is present, it is not enough to carry a life of prayer over time.

Liturgy exists because human beings are not self-sustaining in devotion. We forget. We drift. We lose focus. What begins with sincerity often fades into silence.

Liturgy answers this not by replacing sincerity, but by giving it structure. It provides words when we have none, and it orders our prayer when our inner life is disordered. It does not assume that we are always spiritually strong; rather, it carries us precisely when we are weak.

In this sense, liturgy is not a constraint on prayer—it is the condition that makes a life of prayer possible.

Liturgy does not simply organize prayer—it forms the one who prays.

Human beings are shaped by repetition. What we return to daily, what we say with our mouths, and what we rehearse in our minds does not remain external to us; over time, it becomes part of us. In this sense, liturgy works not only at the level of expression, but at the level of formation.

When the Psalms are prayed regularly, they begin to reframe how we see the world. They teach us to bring everything before God—joy and sorrow, clarity and confusion, faith and doubt. They give language not only for praise, but for repentance, lament, and trust. Over time, they train the heart to respond to life in a way that is ordered toward God.

Liturgy also forms humility. To pray fixed words is to submit to a pattern we did not create. It resists the instinct to make prayer revolve around our immediate thoughts or preferences. Instead of constantly speaking from ourselves, we learn to receive—to enter into a tradition of prayer that precedes us and will outlast us.

It also forms attention. In a world marked by distraction, returning to the same prayers at fixed times trains the mind to become still, to focus, and to remain present. What begins as discipline gradually becomes disposition; the act of returning becomes a habit of awareness.

Finally, liturgy forms endurance. Because it does not depend on mood or inspiration, it teaches us to remain in prayer even when we feel nothing. In doing so, it deepens faith—not as a passing emotion, but as a steady orientation of the soul.

Over time, the one who prays the liturgy is changed by it. The words that were once external become internal; the patterns that were once practiced become natural. Prayer is no longer something one struggles to begin, but something one has been quietly shaped into.

Extemporaneous Prayer:

While liturgy provides structure, Scripture also gives clear witness to spontaneous, responsive prayer—prayer that arises in the moment, shaped by circumstance, need, and relationship.

Throughout the biblical narrative, we see individuals cry out to God in their own words. In the Psalms, alongside those likely used liturgically, there are deeply personal expressions:
David’s cries of repentance (Psalm 51), his prayers in distress (Psalm 13), and his spontaneous praise (Psalm 18). These are not abstract forms, but immediate responses to lived experience.

In the Gospels, this continues. The tax collector in Luke 18:13 simply prays, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
Blind Bartimaeus cries out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” (Mark 10:47).
These are not composed liturgies, but direct, urgent appeals—brief, unstructured, and deeply personal.

The early Church reflects this same dynamic. While they gathered at fixed times for prayer (Acts 3:1), we also see spontaneous prayer arising in response to events. In Acts 4, after being threatened, the believers lift their voices together in a prayer shaped by Scripture, yet freely expressed in the moment.

If we are not intentionally formed by prayer, we will be unintentionally formed by everything else.

This interplay between fixed and spontaneous prayer is reflected in the Didache. While it prescribes set prayers—most notably instructing believers to pray the Lord’s Prayer three times daily—it also allows for freedom within that structure.

In its instructions regarding the Eucharist, it notes that those who “give thanks” (often understood as those speaking prophetically in prayer) are permitted to pray according to their ability. This suggests that alongside received forms, there remained space for Spirit-led, extemporaneous expression—prayer that builds upon, rather than replaces, the liturgical foundation.

In this way, spontaneity is not opposed to structure, but lives within it.

Later Christian writers continue to affirm the place of extemporaneous prayer, not as a replacement for ordered prayer, but as its natural companion.

E. M. Bounds emphasized the necessity of earnest, personal prayer, describing it as the living breath of faith. His writings consistently call believers to deep, heartfelt communion with God—not merely through recited forms, but through direct engagement of the heart.

Similarly, Andrew Murray stressed the relational nature of prayer. For Murray, prayer is not only learned through instruction, but cultivated through ongoing, personal interaction with God—speaking, listening, and responding in real time.

Yet neither stands in contradiction to liturgical prayer. Rather, both assume a life already oriented toward God, within which spontaneous prayer becomes the natural expression of that relationship.

Extemporaneous prayer remains essential. It is the language of immediacy—the prayer offered in the moment of need, gratitude, confusion, or intercession. It allows the believer to respond to God personally, rather than only through received forms.

But it is often misunderstood. When treated as the primary or only form of prayer, it carries a weight it cannot sustain. It depends heavily on emotion, clarity of thought, and spiritual energy—things that fluctuate daily. As a result, many find that what begins as sincere quickly becomes inconsistent or shallow.

Placed within the framework of liturgy, however, extemporaneous prayer is freed from this burden. It no longer has to sustain the entire life of prayer. Instead, it becomes what it was always meant to be: a spontaneous expression of relationship.

The structure of liturgy ensures that prayer continues even when words fail. Within that stability, extemporaneous prayer can arise naturally—without pressure, without performance, and without the need to carry more than it was designed to bear.

In this way, it does not compete with liturgy, but completes it. It gives voice to the particular, the immediate, and the personal—while remaining rooted in a life of prayer that is already being carried, ordered, and sustained.

Extemporaneous prayer is most authentic not when it stands alone, but when it flows from a life already shaped by prayer.

Abiding Prayer

Beyond both structured and spontaneous prayer, Scripture points to something deeper: a continual turning of the heart toward God.

This is captured in the Hebrew word הגה (hagah)—a word often translated “meditate,” but whose meaning is richer and more physical. It carries the sense of murmuring, whispering, or quietly repeating—like a sound that continues under the breath. It is not merely thinking about something, but returning to it again and again, giving it voice until it settles into the inner life.

We see this in passages such as Joshua 1:8, where the instruction is not simply to know the Law, but to keep it upon the lips, returning to it continually. Likewise in Psalm 1, the blessed person is one who turns the words of God over within themselves day and night. The image is not of occasional reflection, but of steady, repeated return.

In this way, prayer begins to move beyond set times and particular moments. What is spoken at appointed hours, and what is expressed in response to life, begins to echo throughout the day. Words once external become internal; what was practiced intentionally becomes present continually.

This pattern did not disappear after the biblical period. Among the early חסידים הראשונים (Chassidim Rishonim), we find descriptions of those who would prepare themselves for prayer with extended inward focus, lingering before and after formal prayer in a posture of attentiveness to God. Prayer did not begin and end with words alone, but extended into a sustained orientation of the heart.

Within the Qumran community, we see a similar impulse. Alongside their structured liturgies, there is evidence of continual reflection upon the words of Scripture—an ongoing engagement that shaped both thought and identity. The words of the covenant were not confined to moments of recitation, but were meant to dwell within the community at all times.

In early Jewish mystical streams, particularly those that would later develop into Merkavah traditions, there is a growing focus on the Divine Name—held, repeated, and attended to with great care. While these traditions develop in distinct ways, they reflect a shared instinct: that the continual return to sacred words anchors the heart in the presence of God.

This trajectory carries forward into early Christianity. Among the Desert Fathers, we find the practice of short, repeated prayers—simple invocations that could be carried throughout the day. These were not meant to replace structured prayer, but to extend it—to ensure that the turning toward God did not cease when formal prayer ended.

Abiding prayer is not bound to fixed times, nor is it dependent on circumstance. It is the quiet persistence of turning—again and again—toward God.

It often takes the form of brief words or phrases, drawn from Scripture or the life of the Church, repeated gently and attentively. Over time, these words begin to accompany the rhythms of daily life—walking, working, waiting—until they are no longer something one must consciously initiate, but something that continues almost of its own accord.

This is not mechanical repetition, but relational constancy. The goal is not the words themselves, but what they sustain: a continual awareness of God’s presence. The words serve as an anchor, returning the heart when it drifts, steadying it when it is scattered.

In this way, abiding prayer becomes the thread that runs through the whole of life. Liturgy establishes the rhythm. Extemporaneous prayer gives voice to the moment. But abiding prayer carries that movement forward, so that the life of prayer is no longer confined to particular times, but begins to permeate all things.

At times, this form of prayer may appear to be the simple repetition of a short phrase—
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me,”
or, “Lord, I believe; heal my unbelief.”

These phrases themselves reflect a pattern found throughout the history of prayer. In the Gospels, we hear the cry, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.” In time, the Church received these words and gave them fuller expression in the light of the Gospel: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.”

In the same way, the prayer, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief,” may be taken up and given fuller voice: “Lord, I believe; heal my unbelief.” What was first spoken as a cry of need becomes, in prayer, a continual petition for transformation.

Yet this must be rightly understood. When Jesus warns against “multiplying words,” He does so in reference to those who think they will be heard because of their many words (Matthew 6:7). The issue is not repetition itself, but the belief that persistence of speech compels a response.

This form of prayer rests on the opposite assumption. It is not spoken in order to force an answer, but in faith that God hears, and is already at work. Each return is not an attempt to make prayer effective, but a participation in what God is already doing.

In this sense, the repetition is not about saying the same thing again, but about coming back again.

Each return becomes formative. What begins as intentional gradually becomes natural; what is spoken outwardly begins to take root inwardly. Over time, this continual turning shapes the inner life—quietly reordering desires, steadying the mind, and drawing the person more deeply into communion with God.

Seen rightly, this is not empty repetition, but a steady work of healing. Each turning loosens the grip of distraction, self-reliance, and unbelief, and orients the heart again toward trust, dependence, and love.

Each repetition, then, is not a renewed attempt to be heard, but another step along the path of transformation—toward maturity, “to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ” (Ephesians 4:13).

In this way, abiding prayer participates in that growth. It is not merely the repetition of words, but the gradual conforming of the person—mind, heart, and will—into the likeness of Christ, through sustained attention to Him.

Taken together, these three modes of prayer form a coherent life of prayer. What is established through liturgy, expressed in extemporaneous prayer, and carried forward through continual turning becomes, over time, a steady habit of the soul.

This is how the call to “pray without ceasing” begins to take shape—not as an impossible ideal, but as a practiced reality. The rhythm of fixed prayer anchors the day. Spontaneous prayer gives voice to the moment. And continual return keeps the heart oriented toward God in all things.

Over time, this way of prayer cultivates a quiet awareness of God’s presence—not only in moments of clarity or intensity, but often more deeply in the ordinary, and even in the valleys of life than on its mountaintops.

What begins as something we do at certain times becomes something we carry. And what we carry, over time, begins to shape who we are—until abiding in the presence of God is no longer an effort, but a way of being.

1. Community Scroll 1QS, Songs of the Sabbath 4Q400-407; 11Q17, Thanksgiving Hymns 1QH, Daily Prayers 4Q503 ↩︎
2. Benjamin Blakewell; Apostolic Fathers. Didache: The Teaching of the Twelve Apostles : The Forgotten Manual of the Early Church for Understanding First-Century Christian Life and Worship.(Bilingual English-Greek Edition) (p. 25). ↩︎