I have not given up on thoughts and I have not given up on prayers.

Nevertheless, I am, like many, a bit suspicious of "thoughts and prayers."

I know what prayer does in and to me.

It shakes me, stirs me, and moves me to action.

It creates a gnawing in my soul that only God's peace can calm, but seldom without activating me in some way.

It causes me to experience the anguish of the weeping and the oppressed, the fear of the fearful, the hunger of the malnourished, the abandonment of the homeless, and sorrow of those who weep.

It causes me to devalue what I have held most dear of this world's possessions, titles, and honors. It reorders my thinking. It calls me to a higher order and a deeper commitment. It says, "Invest here," and "Leave that behind."

It cries for justice, truth, and proclamation of the liberating good news of the kingdom of God through my own lips and actions.

It plunges me into uncomfortable dialogue, uncertain waters, uncharted territories of profound questions, and unwanted conflict with my own cherished presuppositions.

Prayer does all that and never lets me forget.

I cannot forget historical affronts to human dignity nor contemporary atrocities.

Prayer does the opposite for me than what some hope it will do for them. It masks nothing and keeps me from ever growing numb to the pain of the world.

If I am numb to that pain, then I never understand the moment that besets us, a moment of mourning and a moment of calling. As with any calling, their is opportunity. For that reason, we also retain hope in the midst of the lament. God is, after all, present with us and present with those who hurt.

So, if we think our thoughts and pray our prayers and, if we do so deeply, we will act and we will never be lulled into complacency.