A couple weeks ago, I wasn’t expecting to see anything unusual at the Marriott Center on the campus of Brigham Young University as students gathered for devotional.
Then I did.
There she stood at the podium, a student with arms crossed tightly over her chest, head bowed as she began to pray before hundreds of her peers. It caught my attention—not what she prayed, but how.
Later in the service, another young man prayed. Same thing—arms folded, head down.
Later in the week, a student blessed our meal in that exact stance.
And another the next day.
Every time—arms crossed.
That’s when I realized this wasn’t just an individual habit. It was a pattern.
I never really thought much about posture in prayer. Not until recently. But the more I pay attention, the more I realize that it’s actually kind of fascinating.
Obviously, there are a variety of stances across the faith: kneeling, standing, bowing, clasping hands, or even raising them in supplication.
Early Christians apparently prayed with their eyes open and arms outstretched, a posture reflecting openness and dependence on God.
Honestly, I’m a bit envious. I think that’s beautiful. Open arms, lifted gaze, like a child waiting to be plucked up by their parent. A physical stance of a love-based and bold approach.
By comparison, the modern practices of my fellow evangelical Protestants—clasped hands, bowed head, and sometimes kneeling—are a far cry from that ancient form.
Granted, no one’s arguing that these developments make evangelical prayer illegitimate because prayer isn’t predicated on physical posture—it’s the posture of one’s heart that matters most.
And yet, when I observe the way some members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints often fold their arms across their chests in prayer, I find myself curious. Not in a “this is wrong” kind of way—just curious. And not because the practice is historically novel (so is clasping hands) but because of what it might unintentionally communicate: a sense of self-soothing or an unspoken hesitation.
To be fair, people cross their arms for many reasons—comfort, concentration, even a sense of self-discipline. So context is key. When approaching an authority figure, the gesture can signal unease or submission. When confessing a mistake, it might suggest defensiveness. In prayer, we draw near to God. Could crossed arms subtly reflect a sense of reservation rather than bold approach?
It reminds me of when my daughter crosses her arms in my presence. Often, it signals guardedness—maybe she’s done something wrong and feels the need to protect herself. Her posture, whether consciously or not, creates a barrier between herself and her father.
That stirs something in me.
Makes me pause.
If the act of prayer is an approach to our Heavenly Father, why assume a posture that suggests guardedness over grace?
To my knowledge, there is no scriptural mandate in the Latter-day Saint canon that prescribes this folded-arm posture. (Maybe I missed something, but I looked and I couldn’t find anything.) Nor have I seen it modeled by their leadership. It appears to be a cultural habit rather than a doctrinally significant practice. And if it’s merely cultural, perhaps it’s worth reconsidering in light of the theological reality of prayer—the assurance of grace rather than the anticipation of judgment.
Or maybe that’s the issue—does grace’s assurance feel distant?
To be clear, I’m not suggesting that Latter-day Saints consciously pray from a place of shame. Nor do I find Mormonism to be a wholly graceless religion. But is it possible that certain traditions, especially unexamined ones, can sometimes obscure it?
Most likely, this posture isn’t consciously meant to express guardedness at all. Crossed arms probably don’t cross most people’s minds. In fact, when I asked them about the posture, I got shrugged shoulders in response. Some folks tell me it’s to still the hands of children. That’s understandable—evangelicals clasp hands for the same reason. But what I don’t quite get is this: why carry on the habit into adulthood, when hands no longer need stilling?
Some might say I’m reading too much into this.
Maybe.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
But this isn’t about one posture being better than another. It’s about asking how our habits reflect our understanding of the gospel.
Posture, like any habit, can subtly influence how we perceive our standing before God. If posture really does matter—and I think it does—then maybe it’s worth asking: how does the way we position our bodies in prayer shape how we see our relationship with God?
Hebrews 4:16 reminds us: “Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.” That’s the invitation—not to come hesitantly, as if we’re waiting to be corrected, but boldly. Confidently. Like children running into the arms of a loving Father.
I think the ancient Christians understood that better than we often do. They knew that the freedom of prayer isn’t guarded or careful—it’s open.
Welcoming.
Resting in the full assurance of grace.
Unfolded arms.
A heart, and body, open before God.