The Prayer Hood - Christianity Today

For the last fifteen years, our church has regularly opened its doors and sent 150 to 200 prayer warriors onto the streets. Our mission: to call on the power of God and to bring hope to a discouraged community.

Interactive prayers

Our method involves groups of three people praying spontaneously and conversationally on a subject. There are no amens and no prolonged speeches.

I tell my people, “Look, I’m not spiritual enough to concentrate while the guy next to me goes on for ten minutes. And I know you’re not, so let’s not pretend we are.” So each person keeps his prayers short. Just like a conversation, there’s back-and-forth but the subject stays focused.

When we’re out on the street, we pray for what we see as we walk: “Lord, we pray for that school. Help those kids, Lord.”

“Bring the kids to you, Jesus. Tear down the walls in their hearts, and bring them to you.”

“And the teachers, Lord. Give them patience. Give them wisdom. Help them love the kids.”

“Keep them safe, Jesus.”

Or it might focus on the people we interact with:

“Father, we lift up Mo, here, in Jesus’ name. Fill his life with you.”

“Give him peace, O God. Take away that fear, and let him know you’re with him.”

Levels of prayer

On a typical night of prayer meeting, we take prayer to the street in one of three ways. Each involves progressively more vulnerability.

1. Prayer en masse. The safest and least intimidating type of prayer we do is the mass march. We group together in threes so we can walk together along the sidewalk, and all of us head out in one long line, walking and praying. For the most part, urban people are used to seeing strange things, so there isn’t much reaction.

Sometimes someone will call out, “Hey, who are you guys?” and a triplet or two will peel off to explain what we’re up to. Sometimes cars will slow down to see what we’re protesting, looking for picket signs. We don’t march for causes or publicity, but to cover the community in prayer.

We once had someone get upset and call their alderman, who in turn called the police, who in turn drove by to question us. But we just peeled off a triplet to talk with the officer, and the rest kept on marching.

2. Squadrons. Our second approach is slightly more intimidating for our marchers, but it also allows us to focus our prayers on key areas. Before we leave the church, we break the group into squads of 10 to 15 triplets and send various squads out in specific directions.

We usually send a squad each of the four directions: north, south, east, and west. But we also send squads to any area where prayer may be specifically needed. Maybe there’s been some drug traffic. Or maybe there’s a false religion gaining a foothold on a certain block. We’ve even contacted the police to find out the “hot-zones” and concentrated prayer there.

3. Def con three. The third way we march is the most intimidating, but also allows the most opportunity for direct community impact. On the nights we engage in “Level 3” prayer, I ask for prayer captains to come forward and line up along the front of the church.

Our captains are people who have been through all three kinds of prayer and are confident enough to lead a triplet. They have a real passion for praying for the people on the street. We don’t have a formal training program; I don’t keep a list. I just call for the volunteer captains and they come.

Once 50 or so captains have gathered at the front of the church, I announce, “Each of these people needs two partners. If you’re willing, please come and join them now.” Then I send the triplets out.

Each triplet then moves as an individual team, praying for whatever people they encounter. Especially in the summer, the thing to do in the hot inner city is to sit out on the front porch to keep cool. That gives our triplets the perfect opportunity to walk up and say, “We’re a prayer team from Armitage Baptist Church. All we want is to be able to pray for our neighbors in the community. Is there some way we can pray for you?”

These aren’t evangelism teams, although sometimes conversations about faith do develop. These aren’t service teams, though opportunities do arise. We don’t knock on doors or pass out literature; we’re there to pray. And to let the people know there’s someone who cares.

A variant approach developed during the 1980s when the OA gang dominated our area. We created a prayer patrol of three or four teams of two men each. These were men with street saavy, men who knew the language and weren’t intimidated easily.

Normally when a gang hangs out on a corner, nobody goes near them. Once a young man puts on the colors, the only adult that may ever speak to him again is a police detective. With the gang watching every car, keeping an eye out for drive-bys, our prayer patrols would slow down and find a place to park. Then the patrol would do the unheard of: walk right up and start talking to the gang.

“I’m Al, this is Moses, and we’re from Armitage Baptist. We’re the prayer patrol. How ya’ doin’? Is there anything we can pray about with you? Baby sick? Brother in jail? Can we pray for you?”

These patrolmen then put their hands on the shoulders of these lost kids and prayed for them. In time, the gangs got to know and respect our prayer patrols.

The OAs had called our block their headquarters for 20 years. Today, the OAs are gone. The gang was overcome by the power of prayer.

Praying under fire

People still get killed in my neighborhood. A 13-year-old kid gets gunned down at night, and the cops show up to clean up the mess and ask a few questions, but nobody knows anything. Nobody gets arrested. It creates a lonely, helpless, and hopeless atmosphere to live in. People think, Nobody cares, and nothing will change.

The night the Chicago Bulls won the NBA championship in 1993, a young kid—I think his name was Julio—was caught up in the crowd leaving the arena. The Imperial Gangsters were out that night, making sure no rival gangs were blending in the crowd to cross their turf. I don’t know if Julio was wearing the wrong colors or what, but somewhere in the midst of those sports fans, the Imperial Gangsters dragged him down and stabbed him to death. Nobody saw a thing.

The following Wednesday, I announced we were going on a prayer march. The church responded to the tragedy, and even offered a reward for information leading to Julio’s killers.

It wasn’t the first time, or the last, that we got involved with a young man’s slaying. When a kid gets shot in our neighborhood, we hold a prayer service on the exact spot where the kid died. We’ve had as many as 350 people show up for one of these.

We walk up and down the street, letting people know they’re not alone and forgotten. We ask if there’s anything we can pray with them about.

After getting in touch with the neighborhood, we hold a brief prayer vigil. The people are there—around the corner, in the alley, up in their windows—listening. We sing a few songs, offer a few pointed prayers for parents, the police, the gang members. Someone stands up in the back of a pickup truck and shares a five-minute gospel presentation. Then we wrap it up and go on.

My neighborhood is still a rough place. But after 15 years of praying and marching, fear is giving way to hope.

Charles Lyons pastors Armitage Baptist Church in Chicago, Illinois.