Last week, I wrote about a prayer assignment I’m creating for a class I’m teaching.

I wrote about public prayer in “God. We Need You.”: A Year of Prayer in a Hospital Chapel

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When I started as a hospital chaplain, I didn’t write out my prayers. I’m from a tradition that is more spontaneous. But somewhere along the line, I realized that I wasn’t very coherent in my spontaneous prayers. 

Because I’m a hospital chaplain.

And on any given Sunday morning, before the service I’ve talked to a family expecting their loved one to die before the day is over. I’ve responded to the Emergency Department where a person heading to church ran off the road. I’ve been part of a search for family for someone who has no one close. I know that before the day is over, my colleagues and I will witness death.

So I started writing my prayers.

Public pastoral prayer isn’t a scholarly pursuit. It stands in a humble, holy place in the presence of God and the people. The person leading the prayers of the people is giving voice to the deepest needs and desires of a group of people who felt those things but couldn’t name them. The person leading the prayers is giving them permission to feel those needs and desires. The person leading the prayers is revealing some of the brokenness of being human.

In our chapel services, we use the Revised Common Lectionary to determine the Biblical texts for each week. And we follow the liturgical year, starting with the first Sunday of Advent. The structure connects our services to the services people may be missing in their home church, if they have one. And for those who have no congregation and are in the hospital for an average of four days, it still gives a structure.

Every Saturday, I look at the texts and I think about the death and illness and injury that have been present in the rooms of our hospital, in the lives of the people I’ve talked with and prayed with. In my own life.

Every Saturday, I take a pen or a keyboard, and I start to talk with God about what I and others feel, what I and others confess, what I and others ought to know about God but don’t actually believe.

As I talk with God on Saturday, I am aware that I don’t know what will be happening when I read these words at 10:30 on Sunday morning in a hospital chapel. Death, stillbirth, heart attack have all happened early on Sunday mornings. And so, I do my best to be honest. To remember promises instead of platitudes. To be trusting. To acknowledge doubt. To ask for peace that is miraculous because it doesn’t make any sense in these moments. To lament and confess and draw close.

Every Saturday, after I talk with God as I write, I put the prayer in my notes for Sunday, and I put it in a blog post at 300wordsaday.com, to be shared early Sunday morning with a group of faithful readers. Because public pastoral prayer needs to be heard and joined by people. And there are online friends who will keep me honest.

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Some of those prayers are collected in:

“God. We Need You.”: A Year of Prayer in a Hospital Chapel

 “God. We Still Need You”: A Year of Pandemic Prayer and Practice from a Hospital Chaplain.