Faith and Practice | Reveds's Blog

In his 1849 book Thoughts on Public Prayer, Samuel Miller made a statement that might raise an eyebrow for modern Presbyterians. Reflecting on the Lord’s Prayer, he wrote:

“As this prayer was given before the New Testament Church was set up, so it is strictly adapted to the old, rather than the new economy. The kingdom of Christ, which had long been an object of intense desire to the pious, had not yet been set up. And, therefore, the first petition in this prayer is—Thy kingdom come! It is, therefore, strictly speaking, not a prayer entirely appropriate to the New Testament Church.”¹

At first glance, that sounds almost shocking. Surely, of all prayers, the Lord’s Prayer belongs to every age of the Church! But Miller wasn’t denying its beauty or truth. He was making a different point—one worth revisiting in our own day.

Miller’s Concern: Free Prayer over Formalism

Samuel Miller, one of the founding professors of Princeton Seminary, lived at a time when Presbyterians were defining themselves against Anglican and Episcopal worship practices. Many in the Presbyterian Church of the early 19th century feared that the use of fixed liturgies or written prayers would smother the spiritual vitality of the Church and quench the liberty of the Spirit in worship.

For Miller, the Lord’s Prayer was given as a pattern, not a prescription. It was a divinely inspired guide to the kinds of petitions that should fill every believer’s prayer—adoration, submission, dependence, repentance, and praise. But he believed it was never meant to be repeated mechanically as a “strict and permanent form.”²

In his view, to make the Lord’s Prayer a set piece of public worship was to miss its point. Christ, Miller argued, gave it to teach how to pray, not what words to say. He saw the danger of turning what was meant to awaken the heart into a formula that could dull it. In that sense, his comments about the “Old” and “New” economies were less about covenant theology and more about spiritual posture.

The Broader Reformed Tradition

Here, however, Miller stands somewhat apart from the main current of Reformed thought.

John Calvin, for instance, not only called the Lord’s Prayer “the form of prayer which he himself prescribed for us,”³ but also included it weekly in Geneva’s liturgy.⁴ Calvin saw in the prayer a timeless summary of the believer’s desires before God—at once simple enough for a child and profound enough to guide the mature.

The Westminster Divines, in their Directory for the Public Worship of God (1645), called it “a most comprehensive prayer” and “recommended it to be used in the prayers of the Church.”⁵ They wrote:

“And because the prayer which Christ taught his disciples is not only a pattern of prayer, but itself a most comprehensive prayer, we recommend it also to be used in the prayers of the Church.”⁶

So while Presbyterians have historically avoided requiring its use, they have certainly commended it. The Reformed tradition has long seen no contradiction between free prayer and the faithful use of forms. The danger lies not in structure, but in formalism—the lifeless repetition of words that never reach the heart.

An American Emphasis

Miller’s wariness reflects the spirit of his time: a young, revival-shaped American Presbyterianism, deeply suspicious of anything that might feel “Popish” or imposed. His emphasis on extemporaneous prayer was meant to protect what he saw as the heart of Presbyterian piety—prayer led by the Spirit, born out of Scripture, and shaped by conviction rather than conformity.

There is something admirable in that concern. The church of every age needs to be warned against heartless ritual. Yet in pressing his point, Miller drew a sharper line between the Lord’s Prayer and the New Testament Church than either Calvin or the Westminster Assembly would have drawn. His argument against prescribed liturgies led him to read the Lord’s Prayer through a polemical lens—something to be explained away rather than received and rejoiced in.

A Better Balance

A more balanced Reformed approach sees the Lord’s Prayer as both model and form—a perfect outline for all our prayers, and a fitting prayer in itself. When prayed thoughtfully and faithfully, it teaches us to seek God’s glory, submit to His will, depend on His provision, and rest in His forgiveness.

When we pray “Thy kingdom come,” we are not asking for something that has not yet begun, but for the ongoing advance and final consummation of Christ’s reign—the destruction of sin and Satan’s power, the spread of the gospel, the renewal of the world. This is precisely how the Westminster Larger Catechism (Q. 191) interprets it:

“In the second petition (which is, Thy kingdom come) acknowledging ourselves and all mankind to be by nature under the dominion of sin and Satan, we pray that the kingdom of sin and Satan may be destroyed, the gospel propagated throughout the world, the Jews called, the fullness of the Gentiles brought in; that the Church may be furnished with all gospel officers and ordinances, purged from corruption, countenanced and maintained by the civil magistrate; that the ordinances of Christ may be purely dispensed, and made effectual to the converting of those that are yet in their sins, and the confirming, comforting, and building up of those that are already converted; that Christ would rule in our hearts here, and hasten the coming of his kingdom of glory.”⁷

That’s not the language of an outdated prayer—it’s the living voice of a New Testament people who know the King and long for His coming.

Holding Form and Freedom Together

Perhaps the best way to read Miller today is sympathetically but not slavishly. He reminds us that prayer must never become empty habit—that words, even the best of words, can be spoken without faith. But the Reformed tradition as a whole reminds us that form and freedom need not be enemies.

When the Lord’s Prayer is recited in corporate worship, or whispered by a believer at the close of the day, it does not quench the Spirit—it gives voice to the very things the Spirit teaches us to long for. The problem is never with the words, but with the heart that speaks them.

Conclusion

Samuel Miller reminds us that true prayer must come from the heart. The Reformed tradition reminds us that even the most familiar words can be filled with life when prayed in the Spirit.

Perhaps the best response is not to choose between Miller and Calvin, but to hold both together—to pray freely, sincerely, and biblically… and to find that Christ’s own words still lead us best when we say them as our own.

“Lord, teach us to pray.”

And He still does.

Footnotes

Samuel Miller, Thoughts on Public Prayer (Philadelphia: Presbyterian Board of Publication, 1849), 122–123.
Ibid., 124–125.
John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, trans. Henry Beveridge (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2008), 3.20.34.
John Calvin, The Form of Prayers and Manner of Ministering the Sacraments according to the Use of the Ancient Church (Geneva, 1542).
The Directory for the Public Worship of God (1645), Preface and “Of Publick Prayer before the Sermon.”
Ibid.
The Westminster Larger Catechism (1648), Q.191.

“What we now behold through faith, we shall one day behold by sight.”

Four funerals in one month. Each service different, each story unique, yet all drawing our eyes to the same unshakable truth: “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord” (Rev. 14:13).

There’s something about standing by so many graves in such a short span that presses eternity close. You can almost feel the thinness of the veil between what is seen and what is unseen. Death has a way of clarifying what we truly believe about life, about faith, and about Christ Himself.

In the midst of these weeks, I found myself returning to John Owen’s The Glory of Christ. Near the end of his own life, Owen wrote with a depth of faith that could only come from a man who had spent years beholding Christ through suffering, loss, and grace. In one section, he reflects on what it means to behold the glory of Christ now by faith and, one day, by sight.

“How little a portion is it that we know of him! … How imperfect are our conceptions of him! … Constantly, steadily, and clearly to behold his glory in this life we are not able; for we walk by faith, and not by sight.”

Even the greatest saints see but dimly. The most faithful believer, the most mature theologian, the most devoted worshipper—all of us, Owen says, behold the glory of Christ “but in part.” Our sight is real, but limited. We see His glory revealed in Scripture, in the Gospel, in the sacraments, in the beauty of His providence—but it is a mediated sight, filtered through faith. We see, as Paul says, “through a glass, darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12).

Still, what grace it is that we see at all! “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (2 Cor. 4:6). That light—the light of faith—is not the full radiance of heaven, but it is true light nonetheless. It’s the dawn before the day. And it sustains us.

Owen continues:

“Such, I say, is the sight of the glory of Christ which we have in this world by faith. It is dark,—it is but in part. It is but weak, transient, imperfect, partial. It is but little that we can at any time discover of it; it is but a little while that we can abide in the contemplation of what we do discover.”

What a humble and honest description of our walk with Christ. We glimpse His glory in prayer, in worship, in His Word—but the distractions of life, the weariness of the flesh, the weakness of the mind often obscure our view. Faith catches sight of Him, but cannot yet fully hold Him.

And yet, for all its imperfection, that sight of Christ by faith is the very life of the believer. It’s what keeps us pressing on. It’s what sustains the sorrowing heart at the graveside. We live by faith, yes—but it is faith in a Christ we truly know, and whose glory we already taste.

But Owen doesn’t stop there. He lifts our eyes beyond the veil.

“Vision, or the sight which we shall have of the glory of Christ in heaven, is immediate, direct, intuitive; and therefore steady, even, and constant… We shall see him as he is—not as now, in an imperfect description of him.”

What we behold now by faith, we will one day behold by sight. No more dim glass, no more fading light. No longer the mediated glory of the Gospel page, but the immediate glory of the Person Himself. “We shall see him as he is” (1 John 3:2).

That, for Owen—and for every Christian—is the blessed hope. The light of faith will give way to the light of glory. And that glory will not merely surround us; it will transform us. Owen describes it this way:

“In heaven there shall be a superadded light of glory… and in the first instance of its operation, it perfectly transforms the soul into the image and likeness of Christ.”

This is what death means for those who are in Christ. The body may be sown in weakness, but the soul rises in glory. Faith gives way to sight; sight gives way to likeness. The believer’s first true vision of Christ is also the moment he becomes fully like Him.

I have thought often of that in recent weeks. Each saint we have laid to rest now fully beholds what we only see through a glass dimly. They no longer walk by faith—they see. They no longer catch faint glimpses of the Savior—they gaze upon Him directly, fully, eternally. And that sight, Owen says, is not fleeting or fragile. It is steady, even, constant.

We, meanwhile, remain for a time in this world of partial light. Our faith falters; our sight dims. But we live in hope, knowing that the light of faith is but the first glow of a coming dawn. One day, the darkness will pass, the veil will lift, and we will behold Him as He is.

And in that moment, all the funerals, all the tears, all the aching separation will dissolve in the brilliance of His glory.

SDG

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“A Model, Not a Formula”: Samuel Miller and the Lord’s Prayer