Keller opens the book by observing that the library on prayer falls apart into two shelves that don’t understand each other. One describes peaceful rest in God’s love, the other the struggle for God’s kingdom — often without any sense of closeness at all. His question isn’t which is better. His question is why the choice ever arose in the first place.
The first explanation is uncomfortably ordinary: people simply experience different things. Some don’t respond to God emotionally and can’t keep their attention up for more than a few minutes. For others the experience of God’s presence is standard and natural. Each then writes about prayer out of what they know.
Austin Phelps built The Still Hour (New England, 19th century) squarely on the premise that a sense of God’s absence should be the norm for the praying Christian. Donald Bloesch, in The Struggle of Prayer, then rejected the teaching that the highest goal of prayer is personal union — in his view it turns prayer into “an end in itself”.
The second explanation is confessional: the Catholic tradition aims at wordless union, the Protestant one at a clear verbal response to what God has said through Scripture. Bloesch takes this as proof that the Bible alone is enough.
“Is the highest form of prayer serene adoration or assertive petition?” Keller answers by rejecting the question: asked like this, it expects an either/or answer — and that assumption is pretty unlikely.
His main evidence is historical. Anyone who reads the greatest old authors on prayer — Augustine, Luther, Calvin — finds that they fit into neither camp. And even Hans Urs von Balthasar, a Catholic theologian from the contemplative side, warned believers not to turn too far inward.
In the end Keller grants Bloesch one point: beware of a contemplation that stresses the infinite being of God within me and loses his sovereignty over me. But he doesn’t conclude from it “so, words only”.
This is where the apparent contradiction unravels. Keller doesn’t throw contemplation out — he puts it at the end of daily prayer. What he rejects isn’t wordless rest but the route by which some want to get there.
For Keller, contemplation is fruit, not method. First you fill your mind with the text, then you pray the text through — and then it may happen that the words fall away and you simply rest, wordless, with the God you have just been looking at.
So he rejects three things, not contemplation itself: contemplation as technique (emptying the mind, a mantra word — anything that promises a state on demand), the apophatic goal (getting beyond words and truths to a contentless union, i.e. bypassing the Word and Christ’s mediation) and a two-storey spirituality in which contemplatives are an elite on a higher level.
That it isn’t experience itself he objects to is given away by the second chapter, where he approvingly quotes John Murray on “intelligent mysticism”. He recommends reading the medieval mystics with appreciation, but also with a good dose of caution, and takes over Carl Trueman’s rule: don’t reject their ambition, just join it to sound theology.
Most precise is Luther’s remark, which Keller made the last slot of his daily pattern: when the Holy Spirit begins to preach to you, stop the routine and listen.
This distinction unties the whole knot. Wordlessness is fine — Teresa’s quiet, Pascal’s night, Keller’s contemplation at the end of daily prayer. Contentlessness is not. And because from the outside both look the same (both are silent), they easily get lumped together.
Pascal’s Memorial is the best proof of this, only from the opposite side to the one a critic of mysticism would expect: that night surpasses words in intensity, but its content is saturated with revelation — “God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob — not of the philosophers and scholars”. In it Pascal explicitly rejects precisely the god that contentless union gravitates towards.
And with Teresa, Keller distances himself from something she never taught. The mantra-like word isn’t hers — it comes from The Cloud of Unknowing and above all from modern centering prayer. Teresa, on the contrary, defended staying with Christ’s humanity against advisers who wanted to leave it behind in “advanced” prayer, and in The Interior Castle she all but mocks self-induced stupor.
So a real difference remains, just a different one than it seemed: it’s not a dispute about method but about the map. Teresa draws the mansions as the normal trajectory of serious prayer; Keller refuses to draw a map and leaves the experiences as gifts that can’t be planned. A dispute about the framework, not about the technique of an empty mind.
“Contemplative prayer neither can nor should be self-contemplation, but rather reverent attention to and listening to that Not-I, above all the Word of God.”
That’s exactly why Keller quotes a Catholic: the critique of self-contemplation isn’t a Protestant invention and doesn’t divide the traditions into two sides of a barricade.
“I know not otherwise how to express it… a sense of the soul lying in the dust and of being full of Christ alone.”
A preacher of Reformed Protestantism describes an hour of tears and union. Keller doesn’t sweep it under the rug — he explains it like this: the God of the Bible is not identical with me, but neither is he too far from me.
Edwards’s hour of tears is real — but in itself it isn’t the norm. Keller writes that an encounter with God ranges “from a mild, gentle warming to an explosive illumination” and that it doesn’t have to be something you write down and think about for the rest of your life. The distinguishing mark is something other than the strength of the experience: that attitudes, feelings and actions are transformed.
And he warns against the opposite direction too — choosing a way of praying according to what reliably produces the desired feeling: “We must not decide how to pray based on which kinds of prayer most effectively produce the experiences and feelings we want.” We pray in response to God himself.
Keller: Prayer, ch. 11 As Encounter: Seeking His Face (p. 168) · ch. 4 Conversing with God (p. 60)
Keller admits he only started praying seriously in his fifties — after the terrorist attacks, his wife’s illness and his own cancer diagnosis. Until then he had preached about prayer. That is why his book is not an expert’s manual but the notes of a latecomer.
Kathy Keller put it to her husband bluntly: if a doctor gave you a medicine you had to take every evening or you would be dead within a year, you would not miss a single dose. And prayer is exactly that medicine.
Prayer without Scripture shrinks into a monologue about my own worries. That is why Keller never starts with “what should I say”, but with “what has he just said to me”.
How much we pray must never be decided by how much we feel like it. The feeling comes during prayer, not before it.
Keller’s whole book rests on a single pair: awe (God is infinitely greater, holy, other) and intimacy (and yet he knows me by name and I have access to him). Prayer is the place where both are true at once.
If only awe is left, I pray out of politeness to someone far away. If only intimacy is left, I am talking to a God I have adjusted to my own image.
Keller notices that one pole does not diminish the other — it makes it bigger. The more it dawns on me who God is, the more astonishing it is that he says to me: “come closer”.
Keller rejects prayer as a technique for quieting down. Prayer is an answer — and you can only answer something that has been said. That is why Scripture and prayer never stand side by side for him like two items on a list.
Between them he puts meditation: I read the text until the information turns into something that concerns me. Only then do I have something to say — and I say it in his own words.
This bridge also explains why prayer so often “does not work”: usually we have simply skipped the middle step. There is no way round meditation.
The most practical thing Keller passes on is not his own. It is the method Martin Luther wrote down in 1535 for his barber — Master Peter, who had asked him how to pray.
You take one short text you have just read and go through it four times: what it teaches me about God, what I give thanks for, what it convicts me of, what I therefore ask for. Luther called it a garland of four strands plaited from a single verse.
The beauty of it is that prayer then never starts from zero. You do not have to invent what to say — you are simply answering, and in four directions that stop you getting stuck on requests alone.
And Luther adds one honest note: if the Holy Spirit starts preaching to you in the middle of it, drop the method and listen. The garland is only a support, not an altar.
For years the Kellers prayed together every evening — and each on their own in the morning. Not because it was some lofty practice, but because one day they simply divided it up the way you divide up a medicine.
Not a chapter — a paragraph, a psalm, a few verses. As much as you can carry slowly.
Read it again until something stops you. That spot is today’s topic of conversation.
Instruction, thanks, confession, petition — out loud, one sentence each is fine.
Close the day with a psalm — and if you have someone to do it with, out loud together.
“Prayer is the only way in to real self-knowledge.”
In front of other people I pose, in front of myself I make excuses. In front of God both stop working — and Keller argues that this is exactly why we dodge prayer so elegantly.
“We must not decide how much we are going to pray on the basis of how much we feel like it.”
For him prayer is not a mood but relational work — and like every relationship it grows out of repetition, not inspiration. Awe and intimacy are the fruit, not the ticket in.
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