READING:
Luke 11:9

Not transaction, but an invitation to transformation.

A Vending Machine and a New Kind of Prayer

Recently, a church group began designing a rather unusual vending machine. Not the kind where you insert coins and receive your favourite chocolate bar, but a wellbeing vending machine—part of an intergenerational project where someone can choose a small, simple gift to offer another person. A token of peace. A gesture of care. Something that could be transformational.

We live in a world shaped by transactions: give something, get something back. So when Jesus says, “Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened,” it’s tempting to hear it as a spiritual deal. Pray hard enough, and you’ll get what you want.

But Jesus is not pointing us to a vending-machine God. He’s inviting us into something far deeper: a relationship. A life where prayer reshapes us, where desire is refined, and where asking leads not just to answers, but to transformation.

Not a Transaction, But an Invitation

Too often, we hear those familiar words of Jesus as a promise of reward: ask and receive. But what if the invitation is not to success, but to surrender?

To ask, to seek, to knock—these are not techniques. They are practices of the soul. They are habits of the heart that open us to God’s presence and make space for wellbeing, healing, and peace.

In the contemplative tradition, prayer is often wordless. It’s the space where, as Thomas Keating once wrote, “our false self begins to dissolve.” The masks we wear, the projections of what we think God wants, fall away. And we meet God honestly—warts and all.

Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, puts it this way: “To pray is to be open to the possibility that your life might change; that you might be healed, or called into uncomfortable truth.” True prayer isn’t about persuading God. It’s about being drawn into God’s life, into God’s gaze. Asking becomes not the assertion of our will, but a posture of radical openness.

Turning Toward the Light

Prayer, then, is not about getting God to do what we want. It’s more like turning our face towards the sun. We pause, breathe, and allow ourselves to be seen—honestly, gently, fully. In that space, we notice what hurts, what needs letting go, or where we long to grow. We may find strength to face something we’ve avoided, or the courage to rest when we’ve been striving too long.

This kind of prayer is good for our wellbeing—not because it “fixes” us, but because it opens us. It helps us live from a deeper centre. We’re not in control—but we are held.

Have you ever watched a field of sunflowers?

In the hush of morning, their faces lift toward the east. As the day unfolds, they turn—almost imperceptibly—always following the sun. Not straining. Not striving. Just turning. Open. Trusting. Drawn by light.

Prayer can be like that.

Not always words. Not always wishes. Not the desire to change things. But a quiet turning. A stillness that shifts us gently toward the presence that is always there.

Gazing and Being Gazed Upon

St Clare of Assisi spoke of prayer as gazing—gazing upon Christ and allowing ourselves to be seen in return. Not with judgement, but with love. And in that mutual gaze, we are slowly changed.

Think of those moments when you have really gazed, not glanced, at something beautiful:

• a newborn baby, still soft from the womb;
• a mountain bathed in early light;
• a hospice nurse spending quality time with a patient

Or just a random act of kindness

You don’t have to do anything. You just are. And in the presence of such beauty, something in you softens, opens, and is made new.

To pray is to step into that kind of seeing. To allow ourselves to be gazed upon by the One who knows us deeply and loves us tenderly. The God who is not measuring us, but simply present with us.

And as we rest in that gaze, we turn, like the sunflower, toward healing, truth, and joy. Not all at once. But enough for today.

Practising Stillness

So when the noise of life swirls, when we’re tired or tangled in thought, we can find a window of stillness. We can sit, breathe, turn. And, like the sunflower, let our souls tilt towards the light.

You might try this kind of prayer this week:
Take five minutes to sit quietly.
Let the silence stretch a little.
Don’t ask for anything. Just offer yourself.
What rises? A memory? A longing? A question?

Hold it gently in the presence of God. Let yourself be drawn into the life that is always drawing near.

To ask is to come as we are: uncertain, weary, hopeful, empty-handed.

To seek is to follow the thread of longing that draws us deeper into God’s mystery.

To knock is to trust that the One who opens the door does so not reluctantly, but with joy.

Gifts of Slowness

Over time, something shifts. Our asking becomes less about outcomes and more about relationship. Our searching leads not to certainty, but to wonder. And when the door opens, we find not a prize, but Presence. The presence and peace of God.

This is not a quick fix. It is the slow formation of a heart turned toward God. A heart that learns—through silence and persistence—to desire what God desires: justice, mercy, healing, peace. Not just for ourselves, but for our neighbour and for the world.

In the intergenerational vending machine, children and elders have placed gifts like a small pottery snail—a reminder to slow down, to see life differently, to appreciate what we often rush past.

So today, perhaps we can hold onto that snail in our hearts. In our hurried prayers and busy lives, let us ask not only for what we want, but for the grace to be reshaped. Let us seek not just answers, but the God who walks beside us. And let us knock—not to force open a door, but to discover that the way to life is already opening before us.

I wonder… if you could create your own prayer vending machine—what would it contain?