How did you decide to do a book about prayer?

I had wanted to do a book about religion for many years, but I wasn’t quite sure how to approach the topic. Religion has become such a divisive issue for so many people. I hoped to do something that people of all faiths would find relevant but was also interesting to people who don’t practice a particular religion.

And prayer fits that description?

People of every religion pray in one form or another. They do it in different ways, but the impulse to pray—the desire to reach out and connect to something greater than yourself—is essentially the same. I think that impulse also exists in people who aren’t especially religious—or at least not religious in a conventional sense—and maybe even in people who don’t believe in God at all.

Are you saying that you don’t have to believe in god to pray?

Traditionalists might reject that idea, but it’s an intriguing notion. It’s certainly not necessary to believe in a personal god—Allah, Krishna, Yahweh, what have you. But what about Buddhist meditation? I’d say that‘s a form of prayer, too. The methods are different, but the intention is the same: to connect or communicate with the sacred.

Doesn’t that lead to a sort of “cafeteria spirituality”—taking bits and pieces from various religions but not completely following or understanding any one faith?

I suppose there is some risk in that, but it’s grossly exaggerated. Just because you study or even partake in another religion doesn’t mean you have betrayed your own. It would probably do us all a lot of good if we attended someone else’s church or synagogue or mosque every once in a while. And for some people, studying religion—any religion, all religions—is itself a kind of spiritual discipline. If religious people can’t open themselves up to other faiths in a spirit of understanding and brotherhood, then I think they are missing the point.

What’s your religious background?

I’m Catholic by upbringing, but I was never especially devout. Going to church as a kid felt more like a chore than a religious experience, and it was puzzling to me why some people had such strong faith and I didn’t. It seemed to come naturally to them, but I couldn’t make the leap.

Has working on this book changed your point of view?

I wouldn’t say the book changed my point of view, but it certainly helped clarify my thinking. Looking at religion from the perspective of prayer puts the emphasis on practice rather than belief. That shift in viewpoint can be extremely liberating because, at some point, you come to realize that the details of one’s belief aren’t necessarily all that significant. It’s a matter of doing the right thing instead of believing the right thing. The important issue—and this is something that all religions emphasize—is how we live and how we treat each other. Are we kind and patient with other people? Do we try to help those who are less fortunate than ourselves? Do we bring more positive than negative things into the world? It’s basic stuff really—the Golden Rule. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

You write in the introduction that we usually think of prayer as talking to God, which of course is the title of the book, but you also say that prayer isn’t limited to words.

Every religion has prayers that people read or recite or compose spontaneously, but they also recognize that the words are far less important than the feeling behind them. Just because you’re “saying prayers” doesn’t mean you’re actually praying. As Gandhi said, “It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart.” Brother David Steindl-Rast puts it another way. He says that some people experience their most prayerful moments precisely when they are not saying prayers—when they are watering their flowers, for example, or doing some other mundane chore. That’s when they truly experience the sacred. If you look at it from that point of view, then just about anything can be prayer—song, dance, meditation, whatever. Ultimately, I think, the goal is to live as though you’re whole life is a prayer. To live prayerfully or, as a Buddhist might say, to live mindfully.

You mentioned Gandhi and David Steindl-Rast. Tell us about some of the other writers in the book and why you chose them.

I chose modern writers like Karen Armstrong and Thomas Merton because I wanted the text to be completely relevant to contemporary readers. I was also looking for writers who were deeply rooted in their own faith, but who were comfortable with other religions. Mostly, I wanted writers who had a complex relationship with prayer and were wrestling with difficult questions. It’s often assumed that prayer makes life easier, that it’s a comfort, which is true for many people. On the other hand, prayer sometimes raises more questions than it answers.

Can you think of an example?

One of the classic examples is the issue of petitionary prayer. At one time or another, just about everybody asks God for something, and many people firmly believe that God answers those prayers. But you have to ask yourself: Is it really that easy to sway the creator of the universe? Just a few prayers? And why is he granting our prayers when other people who are much needier—the hungry, the poor, the sick—continue to suffer? On the other hand, what if God doesn’t grant our prayers? Is it because we are unworthy? Then why do we see people being rewarded who are—in our judgment—even less worthy than us? Are we to assume that God doesn’t care, that he is unwilling or unable to help, or that he just isn’t listening. Those are big questions. And the answers don’t come easily. One thing is clear, though—and both C. S. Lewis and Harold Kushner address this point directly in the book: Prayer isn’t magic. It’s not some kind of “gimmick” we can use to get God on our side. Otherwise, no one would ever be poor or hungry or sick, and the Red Sox would never lose. What the writers in this book are saying is that prayer works, but it works on us rather than for us. Prayer doesn’t change God, it changes us.

This isn't just a book of essays. It's a photo book, too. What can you tell us about the pictures? Who shot them, and how did you choose them?

The pictures were shot by about 50 photographers who work all over the world. They are photojournalists and travel photographers mostly—people like Mark Downey, Bob Krist, Steve McCurry, Richard Nowitz, Alison Wright, Steve Raymer. I looked at thousands of images before selecting the 100 or so photos that appear in the book. I don’t really have a formal criteria for picking one image over another. Sometimes a picture just speaks to you, and it’s not clear why. The important thing is that the pictures bring another dimension to the book. The essays engage the mind, but the images engage the heart. It’s an emotional connection, and a personal one. I’ve been told that reading the book and looking at the pictures is itself a prayerful experience. I can't imagine a better response than that.

If there is one message you would like readers to take away from this book, what is it?

If I had to choose one thing, I guess it would be “humility.” As I see it, humility is the very essence of prayer, and it's sorely lacking in much of the religious rhetoric we hear these days. By humility, I mean a recognition that we aren’t sovereign beings, and we don't have all the answers, whether we are religious or not. We need to reach out to something outside ourselves—to God, the sacred, nature, each other—maybe all those things. And, because this book tries to take a global perspective on faith, I thinks it’s vitally important to remain humble in the face of the enormous variety of religious expression and belief. You know, it's often said that every religion embodies truth in its own way, which I think is basically correct. But it’s also worthwhile to consider the flip side of that coin. Maybe all religions are also inherently flawed, not because they are intentionally false or misleading but because no system of thought no matter how ancient can fully reflect the divine. There is, I think, a great deal of benefit in realizing that one’s faith may raise more questions than answers. A few months ago, I heard the Dalai Lama give a lecture about “Peace and Reconciliation.” At the end of the talk, he took a few questions, and one of the questions was about how to find peace in the Middle East. The Dalai Lama started to give an answer, but, after a minute or two, he stopped himself and said simply “I don’t know.” That expression of humility may have been the most enlightening thing I heard all day.