Walker Percy once observed that modern man “has forgotten not only what he believes but also why he believes it.” That forgetfulness shows itself whenever prayer is mocked in the wake of tragedy. C. S. Lewis reminded us that “prayer is not about changing God, but about changing me.” Those two insights frame what our age must recover: prayer is not superstition or sentimentality. It is the defiant act of faith that gives hope when the world offers none.
So when tragedy strikes, let the scoffers laugh. We will pray.
After the recent school shooting, some scoffed: “After all, the children who were shot were praying.” The sneer is as cruel as it is shallow. Such mockery reveals not only an ignorance of prayer but also a poverty of spirit. Yet even for such scoffers we pray, as our Lord commanded.
Prayer is often misunderstood. Many imagine it to be a transaction — an attempt to bargain with God or manipulate His will. When the outcome is not what they demanded, they dismiss prayer as useless. But prayer is no barter. Prayer is transformative. It shapes the soul, steels faith, and anchors the believer in the storm.
Through prayer, believers declare in defiant hope, “I will yet praise Him.” Prayer gives us eyes to see beyond the immediate horror to the eternal promise of God’s steadfast love. Evil may burn hot, grief may sting sharp, and scoffers may jeer at Christians who sing doxologies in the dark — but prayer remains.
The Apostle Paul exhorted the church to be “praying at all times in the Spirit, with all prayer and supplication … with all perseverance” (Eph. 6:18 ESV). To pray is not to retreat from reality but to engage it at the deepest level, with weapons not of this world but of the Spirit.
Prayer is not passive resignation. It is active defiance of evil. It is Job, crushed and mocked, yet saying, “Though he slay me, I will hope in him” (Job 13:15). It is the weeping Shunammite woman who laid her dead child before the prophet Elisha. It is Christ Himself, nailed to the cross by the very creatures He formed, praying, “Father, forgive them.”
At the heart of prayer is transformation. The Roman centurion at the crucifixion did not see a failed revolutionary; through the eyes of faith, he prayed the first doxology of the Church: “Surely this was the Son of God.”
This is why prayer provokes mockery: it is the language of a kingdom not of this world. To the materialist, prayer seems futile; to the believer, prayer is breath itself.
In moments of national grief, prayer is not escapism but engagement. It refuses to yield to despair. It insists that evil does not have the last word. The dragon may roar, its claws may churn the waters, but it cannot prevail against the Word of God and the prayers of His people.
So when tragedy strikes, let the scoffers laugh. We will pray. We will sing doxologies in the darkness. We will lift our voices to heaven, not because prayer guarantees our escape from suffering, but because prayer guarantees the presence of God in suffering.
That presence is our hope, our strength, and our victory.
And so, for those who scoff, I say this: “We will keep you in our thoughts and prayers.” And I could not be more serious. I do so even now.
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