A friend recently confessed that not only had he never prayed, he had never found an adequate opportunity to do so. Why bother, he asked, to resort to empty words to a God who is at best noncommittal and at worst uncaring?

I gave him an appreciative nod. There had been times in my life when I suspected God to be both, but in the end the opposite had always held to be true. But his words struck me. Prayer was much a part of my life even in my darkest days. Not praying, no matter how far the distance between myself and God, was never an option.

I’d always assumed there were many in the world who never lifted their voice to heaven. I’d just never known one.

I figured I prayed about seven times a day. Not bad, really, until I started thinking about some of the things I prayed both for and about. Asking for God to watch over my loved ones is a lot different than asking Him to let the Yanks win and the Sox lose. I asked for both over the weekend.

And while asking Him to make my headache go away is maybe an okay thing, asking Him to give the person who caused my headache sudden and uncontrollable diarrhea probably wasn’t.

It all got me thinking not only about how and when I pray, but how and when others do the same. Prayer is something many of us take for granted. I doubt we pause enough to consider the gravity of actually speaking to the Creator of the universe.

Prayer is serious stuff. Fascinating, too. Nothing says more about us than how we talk to God. So I decided to take last Sunday and observe both family and friends in a sort of super secret prayer survey. I wanted to know who got it just right, who didn’t quite, and why.

Church seemed like a logical starting point. Lots of people pray in church. I listened to the Sunday School teacher, the pastor, and an usher pray with both an eloquence and spirit that I could aspire to but never quite accomplish. Eloquence has never been my strong suit. Me often don’t talk like that pretty.

Lunch with my wife’s family, however, seemed more promising. There are a lot of things country folk can do better than others, and talking to God is among them. Country prayers are not as flowery as church prayers. There are plenty of ain’ts and gonnas. It’s not praying, it’s prayin’. Big difference.

So we prayed for the hands that cooked the food and the ground that grew it. For the rain that would make the corn grow and the closeness of family. That prayer was nice. Homey. But it still wasn’t quite…right. Something was missing.

Bedtime found my family gathered around my daughter’s bed, knees to floor. And though I normally assume the traditional pose of head bowed and hands folded, I cheated that night. I kept my eyes and ears open as my children prayed. Together.

“Thanks, Jesus,” my son said, “for all the cool stuff You showed me today.”

“And,” said my daughter, “for the green grass. It’s my favorite color.”

“Thanks for the macaroni, because I love macaroni,” added my son.

“I didn’t like the broccoli,” my daughter said. “Can you please do something about that?”

“You made pretty clouds tonight.”

“I love you, God.”

“I love you too, God.”

“We both love you.”

Then, together: “Amen.”

I walked outside a while later to make sure the stars were still there and say goodnight to God. I’ve always liked praying outside. For some strange reason, I’ve always thought my words could go through a ceiling of clouds much easier than a ceiling of plaster.

I’ll be honest. Prayer has always been a little confusing to me. Like the people at church, I’ve tried to be eloquent and flowery. Like the people I shared lunch with, I’ve tried to be folksy and homey. And like my children, I’ve tried to keep things simple.

It isn’t always easy to put thoughts and feelings to words, no matter to whom we’re talking.

I guess in the end it isn’t so much what we say to God as it is the heart with which it’s said. What we can’t explain, He knows. What we can’t say quite right He knows exactly.

And sometimes, many times, a prayer needs no words at all.

Which is why that night, there beneath the stars, I simply looked to heaven and smiled.

A friend recently confessed that not only had he never prayed, he had never found an adequate opportunity to do so. Why bother, he asked, to resort to empty words to a God who is at best noncommittal and at worst uncaring?

I gave him an appreciative nod. There had been times in my life when I suspected God to be both, but in the end the opposite had always held to be true. But his words struck me. Prayer was much a part of my life even in my darkest days. Not praying, no matter how far the distance between myself and God, was never an option.

I’d always assumed there were many in the world who never lifted their voice to heaven. I’d just never known one.

I figured I prayed about seven times a day. Not bad, really, until I started thinking about some of the things I prayed both for and about. Asking for God to watch over my loved ones is a lot different than asking Him to let the Yanks win and the Sox lose. I asked for both over the weekend.

And while asking Him to make my headache go away is maybe an okay thing, asking Him to give the person who caused my headache sudden and uncontrollable diarrhea probably wasn’t.

It all got me thinking not only about how and when I pray, but how and when others do the same. Prayer is something many of us take for granted. I doubt we pause enough to consider the gravity of actually speaking to the Creator of the universe.

Prayer is serious stuff. Fascinating, too. Nothing says more about us than how we talk to God. So I decided to take last Sunday and observe both family and friends in a sort of super secret prayer survey. I wanted to know who got it just right, who didn’t quite, and why.

Church seemed like a logical starting point. Lots of people pray in church. I listened to the Sunday School teacher, the pastor, and an usher pray with both an eloquence and spirit that I could aspire to but never quite accomplish. Eloquence has never been my strong suit. Me often don’t talk like that pretty.

Lunch with my wife’s family, however, seemed more promising. There are a lot of things country folk can do better than others, and talking to God is among them. Country prayers are not as flowery as church prayers. There are plenty of ain’ts and gonnas. It’s not praying, it’s prayin’. Big difference.

So we prayed for the hands that cooked the food and the ground that grew it. For the rain that would make the corn grow and the closeness of family. That prayer was nice. Homey. But it still wasn’t quite…right. Something was missing.

Bedtime found my family gathered around my daughter’s bed, knees to floor. And though I normally assume the traditional pose of head bowed and hands folded, I cheated that night. I kept my eyes and ears open as my children prayed. Together.

“Thanks, Jesus,” my son said, “for all the cool stuff You showed me today.”

“And,” said my daughter, “for the green grass. It’s my favorite color.”

“Thanks for the macaroni, because I love macaroni,” added my son.

“I didn’t like the broccoli,” my daughter said. “Can you please do something about that?”

“You made pretty clouds tonight.”

“I love you, God.”

“I love you too, God.”

“We both love you.”

Then, together: “Amen.”

I walked outside a while later to make sure the stars were still there and say goodnight to God. I’ve always liked praying outside. For some strange reason, I’ve always thought my words could go through a ceiling of clouds much easier than a ceiling of plaster.

I’ll be honest. Prayer has always been a little confusing to me. Like the people at church, I’ve tried to be eloquent and flowery. Like the people I shared lunch with, I’ve tried to be folksy and homey. And like my children, I’ve tried to keep things simple.

It isn’t always easy to put thoughts and feelings to words, no matter to whom we’re talking.

I guess in the end it isn’t so much what we say to God as it is the heart with which it’s said. What we can’t explain, He knows. What we can’t say quite right He knows exactly.

And sometimes, many times, a prayer needs no words at all.

Which is why that night, there beneath the stars, I simply looked to heaven and smiled.

On July 23, the NASCAR Nationwide series stopped in Nashville, Tennessee. It was an evening that promised all-you-can-handle-and-some-you-can’t action, the sort of reckless redneckery of screaming engines and burning rubber that has made racing one of the most popular sports in America.

With all it’s modern equipment and cutting-edge technology, NASCAR is nonetheless steeped in tradition. Its roots run all the way back to Prohibition, and its drivers are for the most part good ol’ country boys. And every race begins with a prayer.

That night in Tennessee, the honor of providing the invocation fell on the shoulders of Pastor Joe Nelms, a Nashville local. With heads bowed, hats doffed, and cameras on, Pastor Joe took the microphone and prayed this:

What happened afterwards was the sort of media deluge that could only happen in the age of YouTube and social media. Pastor Joe Nelms became an overnight celebrity. ESPN had a field day. Newspapers, news channels, blogs, radio. All carried the prayer, all had the same question—Why?

Here’s what Pastor Nelms said in one interview:

“I want[ed] to get somebody’s attention, so that’s been our desire every time we’ve been up there, to try to make an impact on the fans and give them something they’ll remember, and maybe they’ll go home on a Friday night or a Saturday night and say, ‘Maybe I ought to get up and go to church in the morning.'”

And really, what better way to do that than to give thanks to mighty machines, GM performance technology, Sunoco racing fuel, Goodyear tires, and his smokin’ hot wife?

Now you’d probably be right in saying I caught wind of this and thought right off that Joe Nelms had just uttered a prayer the likes of which hadn’t been heard since Jesus Himself taught us to ask for our daily bread and to deliver us from evil. And why not? I wouldn’t consider myself a NASCAR guy, though I suspect I fit their target demographic of country-livin’, Levi-wearin’, tobacco-spittin’, jacked-up-Chevy drivin’ men.

But you know what? That’s not how I reacted. That’s not how I reacted at all.

And while I can appreciate the good Reverend’s intentions, I gotta say I was more than a little saddened. I was raised to take prayer sincerely. I close my eyes and bow my head with the knowledge that I am about to utter my feeble voice to the Lord of all creation, the Holy One who made not just me, but the farthest star and the tiniest atom. And more than that, He HEARS me. And more than even THAT, He cares about what I say, knows my words even before I speak them. Even before I think them.

It’s serious business, praying. And while I’m sure you realize God has a sense of humor—have you taken a look around lately?—I’m sure you also realize there is a time and a place. On bended knee is neither.

We live in a time when mockery of God is accepted, even cool. How many times a day do you hear, “Oh my God”? How many times do you get a text that contains OMG? How many times have you heard “Goddammit” on the television lately?

Plenty, I’d imagine, if you’re like me.

But we want to be cool. That’s the thing. We know our task is the Christian walk, but it’s a straight walk, a rigid one, so why not strut a little? Why not? If we dumb down God to make Him more accessible to people, more believable, more Jesus-would-have-a-beer-with-me, then is that such a bad thing?

Sometimes I think yes. It is.

God is not cool. I think we’d do well to remember that. I think we’d do well to keep close the treasured wisdom that He is big and holy and we are small and not. And I think it’s a good guess that what we often mistake as His laughter are really His tears.

Honestly—what did you think of that? Did you chuckle? Laugh? Or did you think something along the lines of, What the heck was that? Because I figure I’m either really, really right on this one, or really, really wrong.