As part of my ongoing research into how digital and interactive media intersect with spiritual and liturgical experiences, I recently took a closer look at contemporary prayer apps. In particular, I explored Hallow, one of the most prominent Catholic prayer apps internationally, as well as the Austrian project einfach beten. Both platforms aim to support spiritual practice through digital means—yet they approach this goal in very different ways.
At first glance, Hallow stands out through its highly polished design. The visual language feels modern, minimal, and clearly targeted at a younger audience. Navigation is intuitive, typography is clean, and the overall aesthetic would not immediately be associated with religious or church-related content. From a purely interface-driven perspective, this neutrality is a strength: it lowers the threshold for entry and avoids overt religious symbolism that might deter hesitant users.
However, the longer I spent with the platform, the more ambivalent my perception became. The absence of real people is striking. Instead, the app relies heavily on illustrations—human figures without faces, stylized and distant. While this may be a deliberate attempt to remain inclusive or universal, it also creates a sense of emotional detachment. The interface feels curated but strangely cold, almost sterile. In some moments, this abstraction even felt unsettling, as if spirituality were being removed from lived human experience and translated into a controlled, aestheticized environment.
A major limitation of Hallow is its strict access model. Without registering—and, in many cases, subscribing—very little content is available. This raises questions about accessibility and inclusivity. Prayer, traditionally understood as a freely accessible spiritual practice, becomes gated behind logins, data collection, and payment models. As several critical articles point out, this creates tension between spiritual support and commercial interests. When prayer becomes a product, the line between guidance and manipulation becomes blurred.
These concerns are echoed in media coverage questioning whether Hallow functions primarily as a spiritual companion or as a tool of subtle influence. The use of persuasive design strategies—such as streaks, reminders, and emotionally framed audio content—can foster dependency rather than reflection. From an interaction design standpoint, this raises ethical questions: When does “supporting spiritual practice” turn into behavioral steering?
In contrast, einfach beten presents a very different approach. Visually, the platform is far less refined. The design feels dated and lacks the clarity and appeal of more contemporary apps. However, what it lacks in aesthetic sophistication, it partially compensates for through openness. Access to audio prayers is fast and uncomplicated, and users can engage with content without immediate registration. This simplicity aligns more closely with traditional understandings of prayer as something accessible, personal, and non-exclusive.
That said, einfach beten also reveals the challenges of translating spiritual practice into digital form. The lack of thoughtful interaction design limits engagement, especially for users accustomed to high-quality digital experiences. While the content may be meaningful, the interface does little to invite reflection or sustained use. This highlights a central tension: accessibility alone does not guarantee meaningful interaction.
Comparing these two platforms has been highly relevant for my master’s thesis. Both apps demonstrate that digital tools can support spiritual practices—but they also show how easily technology can reshape, frame, or even distort them. Neither solution feels fully convincing. One prioritizes design and branding at the risk of commercialization and emotional distance; the other prioritizes content while neglecting experiential quality.
For my research, this comparison reinforces the importance of critical, reflective interaction design in religious contexts. Digital tools should not aim to replace liturgical or spiritual experiences, nor should they instrumentalize them. Instead, they should create spaces that allow for openness, ambiguity, and personal interpretation—qualities that are central to spiritual experience but often difficult to translate into digital systems.
Ultimately, prayer apps reveal less about technology itself and more about the values embedded in their design decisions. They force us to ask: What does it mean to “support” spirituality digitally? Who defines what a good spiritual experience looks like? And how much control should technology exert over practices that are deeply personal and reflective by nature?
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