Incline Our Hearts
The Book of Common Prayer: Against the Algorithm
We live in a state of constant change, characterized by extreme individualism and loss of community, place, tradition, grounding, and coherence. Sociologist Zygmunt Bauman and others have described our modern culture as “liquid modernity.” Paul Kingsnorth has taken up the topic more recently in his provocative Against the Machine: On the Unmaking of Humanity.
Perhaps the epitome of the danger of our culture is the algorithm: the insidious use of technology, supercharged more and more by AI, to analyze and ultimately manipulate not only our online behavior, but how we see ourselves, others, and the world around us.
Through dopamine-producing, addictive loops, especially on the various forms of social media, but increasingly almost everywhere, these algorithms seek not to inform, but only to engage. Ultimately, the goal is to control and monetize our behavior.
Algorithms catch us in endless outrage cycles, pornography, schadenfreude fantasies about perceived enemies, and materialistic envy on steroids. Subjected to a continuous drip through ubiquitous screens, more and more people gradually lose any sense of liberty, agency, purpose, and self-control.
Like a circle of Dante’s hell, too many of us become shades of our former selves, drained of our humanity. The alluring light of our phone is the last thing we see before bed, and the first thing we turn to in the morning.
It is not overstating it to say that there is an aspect of the demonic in how our modern, algorithmic technology seeks out spiritual and moral weaknesses, even in children. It erodes truth, undermines virtues, manipulates our wills, and surrounds us with false idols to worship.
It is the way of sin and death. As St. Peter said, “Save yourselves from this corrupt generation” (Acts 2:40).
What if the Book of Common Prayer is not a quaint part of Anglican history, not a dusty volume on the shelf, a relic of our confirmation some years ago, or a seldom-opened piece of the furniture in pew racks in church? What if, instead, it is nothing less than a sturdy piece of the armor of God, given to us by God for our protection and defense?
The divinely inspired genius of Thomas Cranmer in the first Book of Common Prayer lay not just in the poetic beauty of its language, but in its usefulness. Though somewhat elevated and timeless in its register, the prayer book was nonetheless in the language of the people. The structure and composition of its prayers were designed to make the formerly complicated liturgical patterns of the medieval church simple and accessible enough for not only clergy but laypeople to use daily.
We need not be overly idealistic about the historical use of the Book of Common Prayer, but at its best, over time, it has been not just a compilation of the church’s public rites of worship, but a systematic approach to forming Christian disciples, a lay manual for growth in the spiritual life. As Martin Thornton wrote so beautifully:
To the seventeenth-century layman the Prayer Book was not a shiny volume to be borrowed from the shelf on entering the church and carefully replaced on leaving. It was a beloved and battered personal possession, a lifelong companion and guide, to be carried from church to kitchen, to living room, to bedside table. It was a symbol of the domestic emphasis, providing spiritual stimulus, moral guidance, meditative material and family prayer.
Our 1979 Book of Common Prayer is not perfect, and it is not the Bible. There are some clunkers in it—language and concepts that have not aged well. As a human product, and the work of a committee at that, it is periodically in need of revision.
New liturgical resources in our church, some well done and others less so, remind us that our tradition is living and breathing, open to the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, and not a museum piece behind glass. But our prayer book pattern remains, if not a map, then at least a compass: a useful tool of navigation in a confusing and ever-changing landscape. It is one way that we participate in the apostolic practices: teaching and fellowship, the breaking of bread and the prayers (Acts 2:42).
More specifically, the threefold pattern of prayer enshrined in our prayer book (Holy Eucharist, the Daily Office, and other forms of personal devotion) offers those who would use it a healthy diet of sacramental nourishment, systematic Bible reading, and theological discernment: the daily, repeatable servings of holy habits that are our faithful and joyful response to God’s abundant blessings.
Instead of the toxic individualism of the algorithm, in the prayer book pattern we find Christian community and the love of God and neighbor; instead of lies and manipulation, the truth and freedom of the Gospel; instead of liquid modernity, the rock that is Christ; instead of the endless distraction of the screen, focus on the simplicity of the written word; instead of the cold efficiency of technology, the warmth of human friendship; instead of “have it your way,” do-it-yourself spirituality, a willing obedience to the life-giving tradition.
But our prayer book spirituality is only as helpful as our willingness to use it.
If clergy, with our busy schedules and many demands, do not commit to, for example, praying the Daily Office ourselves (ideally as a service of the church open to all), and teaching our lay members how to practice it, its value will be limited.
Likewise, if we print out our Sunday liturgies in full for the benefit of newcomers, but do not also teach our people how to use the prayer book (including not only the offices and psalter, but the catechism and prayers for various occasions), its usefulness is diminished.
There is also good work to be done in helping parishioners grow in patient mindfulness and a grounded sense of competence in worship, as in the spiritual practices described by Michelle Heyne in her book In Your Holy Spirit.
Finally, clergy ought to be careful in our own use of technology, and especially social media. Our modern tools of communication can be used for good, but we are as susceptible as any to their temptations.
How much time do we spend in prayer, Bible study, and spiritual reading compared to our time on social media, including YouTube and TikTok, or gaming? Are we magnifying the Lord, or the algorithm?
