Prayer Can Make You Rich

Years ago, we attended a funeral visitation for the father of a friend of ours in a Sunday School class. The deceased had had his “three score and ten” plus some extra years, and this was less a sad occasion than more of a recognition that a life well lived had ended, and a soul was now in heaven.

Draped across the open coffin was a narrow scroll of paper. It was one of the things the man was known for – his prayer list. If your name or request was on thatlist, you knew he was praying for you.

The list was over 12 feet long.

I suspect my friend’s father was one wealthy man.

Led by Tim Challies at Informing the Reforming, we’ve been reading David McIntyre’s The Hidden Life of Prayer: The Life Blood of the Christian. Today we finish the book with the final two chapters – on the riches of prayer and the reality of prayers being answered.

McIntyre cites three specific “riches” – what today we would call benefits – of prayer.

A continuous and regular prayer life leads to “a singular serenity of spirit.”

A life of prayer means we will be ruling our lives according to God’s will.

And a life of prayer will result in us having “a richer influence and a wider usefulness.”

Those are the “riches” that your time in the hidden room of prayer will lead to. They’re certainly not riches as defined by the world, even though most of us would crave a serenity of spirit and even desire influence and usefulness, regardless of whether we’re Christians or not. The world would find it alien and rather bizarre, however, to achieve those things through prayer.

And it does seem contradictory. By praying alone in a “hidden room,” you will increase your influence and usefulness?

McIntyre answers yes – and it’s because prayer places the believer in the correct position and relationship to his or her creator.

He indirectly adds a fourth source of “riches” in the final chapter – important things not only happen because of prayer, they simply won’t happen without prayer: “…every gracious work which has been accomplished within the Kingdom of God has been begun, fostered and consummated by prayer.”

I think back to that funeral service, and the 12-foot-long prayer list, and I know the man died a wealthy man indeed.

To see the discussion on these final two chapters, please visit Tim Challies at Informing the Reforming. 

I Have a Confession to Make

I grew up a Missouri Synod Lutheran in pre-Vatican II Catholic New Orleans. The city was largely Catholic then; the religious leanings of  metropolitan area were divided roughly into majority Catholic, minority Protestant, and people who lived in the French Quarter.

I was part of that minority Protestant group, although most of my friends (and neighbors) were Catholic. You couldn’t help but inhale some understanding of the Catholic faith, however. So from an early age I understand that “they” venerated Mary and we didn’t; our ministers married and their priests didn’t; nuns used rulers in the Catholic elementary schools and our public school teachers didn’t; they got a smudge on their foreheads the day after Mardi Gras and we didn’t.

However, we all celebrated Mardi Gras, and in much the same ways. But not like the people who lived in the French Quarter. Enough said.

One practice that was always a mystery to me was what at first I thought were phone booths in their churches. No, they weren’t phone booths, I was told; they were confessionals. Whenever I asked my Catholic friends what they did in confessionals, they would become nervous and uncomfortable and shrug their shoulders. “Just stuff.” “Stuff?” “Yeah, stuff.” “What kind of stuff?” “Just stuff.”

One friend finally told me that “stuff” was telling the priest all the sins they could think of.

I was shocked. “You tell the priest all your sins?”

He nodded. “And they you have to say some Hail Marys or Our Fathers, and it’s OK.”

I knew what an “Our Father” was – the Lord’s Prayer, even if Catholics said it wrong. But at my house, a Hail Mary was a football play on television.

Even as I grew older, I always thought it odd that sins had to be confessed to priests. At my church, we were long on “no mediator between you and God” but short – really short – on how to confess your sins directly to God.

Where I think the Catholics got it right was that confession is a kind of conversation – a conversation between the sinner and the Authority. For me, the Authority is still God, and He forgives, but it took a lot of understanding and study for me to learn that I had responsibilities, too.

Confession comes from a contrite heart, a contrite spirit.

Confession comes from the understanding that God wants to hear it all, even the things – especially the things – you’re least comfortable talking about.

Confession comes from the knowledge that you fall short, that you always fall short, but you still have to try, and you do try. And you pray.

And confession comes from the hope that one day, you won’t fall short, but it won’t happen in this world.

And confession is a good and right thing to do; Jesus made it a part of the Lord’s Prayer for a reason, because it is a constant reminder that forgiveness is there, made possible by the Son, and it is the Father to whom we confess.

Led by Tim Challies at Informing the Reforming, we’ve been discussing The Hidden Life of Prayer: The Life Blood of the Christian, the 1893 classic by David McIntyre. To join the discussion, please visit Tim’s site.

Acknowledging Daily Mercies? What?

Reading The Hidden Life of Prayer: The Life Blood of the Christian by David McIntyre, I ran smack into some old-fashioned language (the work was first published in 1893). As I considered the meaning of the words, I began to understand how we can lose meaning when we change language. And language has changed a lot since 1893.

McIntyre is discussing prayer, and specifically the role of praise in prayer. And this is what he writes:

“…the tribute of praise which the saints are instructed to render to the Lord may arise either (a) in the acknowledgement of daily mercies, or (b) in thanks-giving for the great redemption, or (c) in contemplation of the divine perfection.”

Here’s how a contemporary English translation might say it:

“We’re told to give praise for three possible reasons: blessings, thanks for salvation, and/or worship.”

Both mean essentially the same thing, but consider what is lost in the contemporary version.

That praise is tribute.

That we are the saints.

That we are instructed to offer.

That we should acknowledge mercies from God.

That mercies are daily.

That thanks-giving is not a noun but an action verb (it’s hyphenated).

That salvation is a “great redemption.”

That worship is a contemplation – a deep thinking.

That what we are to contemplate is a “divine perfection.” (And McIntyre capitalizes “Divine” because it is a placeholder word for God. Think how common it is for us to lowercase “he” and “him” when we refer to God.)

Reading that short passage, and thinking about it, I was rather stunned. I began to think about all the other things we do – things other than our utilitarian, socially-mediated language – that loses meaning and a sense of awe.

Because that is what McIntyre is communicating – that praise is a form of awe.

Over at Informing the Reforming, Tim Challies is leading a discussion of The Hidden Life of Prayer. Please visit the site to see what’s happening the comments.

The Three Quiets

From the time I first became a Christian, I had people telling me about the important of a quiet time – a daily and regular time of study and prayer. The best time of day, most suggested, was the early morning, before the day began, before all the pressures of daily life crowded in.

Some suggested using a devotional guide, and some the Bible. Some said you have a short prayer first, then a study time, then a longer time of prayer. Others reversed the order. Some said you should have a cup of coffee, and others said you should wait until the quiet time was over before making the coffee. Some even suggested that you could mentally extend the quiet time until you were almost in a state of continual prayer throughout the day.

I’ve tried them all, and they all work. Or they don’t. What may matter less is the process, and what may matter more is the doing it.

In The Hidden Life of Prayer: The Life-Blood of the Christian, David McIntyre amplified this idea of a quiet time, to include more than just a regular hour. He describes three aspects of a quiet prayer time, and in a way I didn’t expect. I call them “the three quiets.”

First, he says, you need a quiet place, away from distractions. Even though the book was first published in 1891, McIntyre recognized all of the kinds of things that can distract from a quiet time – and how where you have a quiet time was of crucial importance. Some people might not be able to find one readily at hand, and he suggests some imaginative improvisation if that’s what’s needed.

Second is the one we’re most familiar with – a quiet hour, a regular time of the day when you can be alone in prayer. Actually, he suggests twice a day – morning and evening.

And third, McIntyre says, is a quiet heart – likely the most truly difficult to realize. He suggests what he calls three “simple facts of faith,” to keep one’s mind focused on God: recognize our acceptance by God because Jesus died on the cross; confess and receive the enabling grace of the spirit; and direct our hearts to Scripture, to read it “as in the presence of God” to calm our mind.

The quiet time and its associated quiet place and quiet heart are a practice, a kind of spiritual discipline. The best time for me is the early morning; the best place is usually a chair that’s not too comfortable. And often the best way for me to quiet my mind and heart (with a mind still trying to figure out why I’m not still in bed) is to read the beginning of the Gospel of John, a psalm, or I Peter. Yes, I know Peter was writing to Christians likely experiencing persecution, but I find his words very calming, like “a light shining in a dark place.”

Do you have a regular quiet time, and a regular place? And how do you quiet your heart?

Over at Informing the Reforming, Tim Challies is leading a discussion of The Hidden Life of Prayer. For a book that’s more than 100 years old, it seems delightfully on target. The language is 1890s English (perhaps with a Scottish accent), but it still appropriate for all of us in 2012.

The Hidden Life of Prayer

David McIntyre (1859 – 1938) was a Scottish preacher. In 1913, he came principal of the Bible Training Institute in Glasgow. He wrote several books, but what he’s best remembered for is a small volume entitled The Hidden Life of Prayer: The Life-Blood of the Christian.

Starting today over at Informing the Reforming, Tim Challies is leading a discussion of this Christian classic. I’ve just started reading it, and I’m struck by several things, not the least of which is that the book is written for a well-read, well-educated Christian audience.

A number of years ago, we attended a church that was meeting at a local Christian school while the church building was planned and then constructed. Sundays were harum-scarum days, with teams of people moving furniture, setting up meeting spaces, putting 300 folding chairs in the gym for the worship service (and often pulling out the bleacher seats). Children and adults alike had Sunday School classes in classrooms or any usable space available.

An adult class on prayer was being offered. Praying – and praying in public – was not something that came naturally to me. I was raised a stern Lutheran; the pastor prayed while the rest of us bowed our heads. But I felt the need to go beyond passiveness, and I jumped into the class. Thinking there would be some protection from embarrassment in numbers.

Including the teacher and his wife, there were five of us in the class. I couldn’t hide in the crowd.

It turned out to be less painful than I expected. In fact, it wasn’t painful at all. I prayed aloud (in front of others!) the same way I prayed alone – like I was having a conversation with God. Just simple conversation, simple talk. Reverent, yes, but still like a conversation.

I should say that my expectation in this conversation is not that I hear a voice coming back at me. A lot of the time – most of the time – it seems a one-way conversation, with me doing all the talking. But I suspect that’s the case for most of us.

The thing about prayer, which McIntyre calls “the life-blood of the Christian,” is that it’s often a one-way conversation. And that’s the point. We bring our troubles and our joys, our needs and our pains. Yes, we’d like them all taken care of nicely (and quickly), but things rarely work out that way. Instead, we hear the silences.

But in those silences, we know we’re being heard.

To join in the discussion on The Hidden Life of Prayer, please visit Tim Challies at Informing the Reforming.