Going Deeper and Climbing Higher, or Five Steps of Growth in Prayer

Simple Yet a Fine Art.

PRAYER is the simplest thing imaginable. There is nothing simpler, nor easier to do, if you want to.

A child ean pray, really pray, and fulfill all the conditions of real prayer. Yet, of course, the child never thinks of analyzing the conditions of the prayer made.

The ignorant drunken man may, penitently, kneel in the mission hall, and pray. And it is a real prayer, and will bring him forgiveness.

The busy man or woman, utterly absorbed in the daily job of providing food and roof and clothes for the home group, prays for the day’s needs. And it is real prayer. It serves all the purpose of prayer, so far as it goes, in that crowded life.

Then there’s more to be said. Praying is the very finest of fine arts. It will call into play all the strength of the strongest man.

It pulls hard upon the utmost reserves of experience and skill, of mental discipline and spirit culture, that long years have slowly, painfully, laboriously, built up.

And the man who has grown most adept in true praying, feels keenly that he has only touched the end of the fringe of the fabric of prayer. His very experience and skill and gathered knowledge of praying, make him see how much lies ahead that he has not touched yet.

So, the child, and the busy man, are encouraged to pray, and to keep on praying expectantly and gladly. And the maturest man, with reserves of scholarship and mental discipline, comes to feel deeply that here is a field of activity, calling for the best and the most there is in him.

So I want to trace very simply the steps of growth in this fine art of praying. They are steps up, and steps down.

They begin on the common level of common life. Then they dig down, and farther down, to where the foundations are built, broad and sure, for a big enduring structure.

And they climb up, and yet higher up, to where the fine subtle spirit currents dominate all life, and actually encircle the earth.

There are five of these steps. They begin down where all gather, within easy reach of any one, who will,

And they climb up and up to the heights. They climb the heights of skill, of mature years and strength, of patience, and of actual achievements in changed lives and altered circumstances.

Prayer an Act.

Prayer is an act. This is the first, the earliest, the easiest, step. In some sore need suddenly coming, a man in desperation, perhaps, kneels and pours out a ery for help. He may simply say, ‘‘Oh! God help me, help me.’’ It is a real prayer. It is heard. It makes a difference.

It is very striking that every one will pray in, an emergency. The man who never prays, will breathe out a prayer for help in some sore tug,‘ that threatens his life perhaps, or his property, or some loved one.

It may be an almost inarticulate prayer, a wordless cry out of the inmost heart. He is utterly sincere in asking for help. And this is real prayer. It is heard. It makes a difference. It is most astonishing how need, intense, tugging at one’s very vitals, will pull a man to his knees.

The blasphemous sailor will call on God if he thinks the ship is actually going down in the storm. The man shut up in a narrow blind alley, at his wit’s end, sure that all is lost, yet reaches out blindly to the God he feels must be there, though he has ignored him go long.

Prayer is an act. You kneel reverently, and ask earnestly, for something you need. You pray the best you know how, thinking maybe you don’t know how.

That is real prayer. It is heard. It makes a difference. It brings a result. It is good, only good. The impulse should be yielded to.

For there is vitality in that simple act of prayer. It will stir itself up to something more. One such act, yielded to, will bring an impulse, stronger this time, to a second act.

And that impulse, acted upon, will mean another and yet another. There comes to be a string of such acts, maybe more or less disjointed, and irregular.

Prayer a Habit.

‘And this is good, so far, for it can grow into prayer as a habit. A habit is an act repeated so often as to be done without stopping to decide to do it each time. The habit is the act repeated, and again repeated, and so repeated regularly.

And habit is one of the three commonest laws of all life, the other two being imitation and probability. Habit is the natural outgrowth of an act. What you do once you are most likely to do again, and to do more easily, and better, and with more zest.

Better not do a thing once if you don’t want to do it a second time, and then habitually. For you’re most likely to. All psychology backs this up vigorously.

Better do a thing once, and then again, if you would have it become a fixed habit. For that’s just how a habit grows.

It is almost impossible to get rid of a habit once it gets fixed. If you cut off the “‘h’’ you then have ‘‘a bit’? of it left. If you cut off both ‘ch? and ‘‘a’’ you still have a ‘‘bit,”’ cut off the ‘h?? and all of ‘‘it?? remains. Cut off the ‘i’ and half of it, and the bigger half, is still there.

It’s a blessed thing to form a good habit, and a thrice-blessed thing to get the habit of praying fixed, and fixed in firm and strong.

And yet one must quickly remember that, even if a bad habit gets a tight hold, that hold can be broken by a set will and the use of the knees. It isn’t broken easily. It may be a tough fight. Yet, in Jesus’ Name, the habit can be broken, af you will.

Men of power have always been men of habit, fixed, carefully cultivated, good habits. And men of power in prayer have been habitual in their prayer life.

If one were to call the roll here it must start back with Enoch, the man who insisted on walking the true road, even when it ran right across the traffic of the crowd, as his name means.

It would quickly take in Noah, who saved a race from self-extermination, and on through Abraham, the corner-stone of the Hebrew nation, and Moses the meek giant, and Hannah the woman who made Samuel, who in turn anointed great David, who poured out his throbbing heart in the psalms, and, and

But time would fail, and breath, too, to tell of those who have been the backbone, and the leaders, of every move for good among men.

Daniel’s three times a day comes fresh to mind, and Paul writing his epistles on his knees. And one’s heart fires kindle anew, and burn with a fresh tenderness and tensity, as one remembers our Lord Jesus’ habits of prayer.

The early morning, and the late night, and a few times all night, found him quietly off alone on his knees. The lone mountain top, the corner of the carpenter shop, the chill dawn, the midnight hour, found him pouring out his heart in prayer. The wild exuberance of the bread-filled crowd, simply sent him off for a fresh yielding to the habit of prayer.

The prayer habit comes to be the pivot of one’s life. It is not now a matter of doing, and praying for blessing on what has been done.

No, no, prayer becomes the starting point. Out of that habitual touch with our Lord, in the secret place, all the rest of one’s activities goes and grows, and becomes fragrant, gently, dewily, fragrant with his presence.

That habit can overcome every difficulty, and make everything yield to its gentle persistent wholesome touch.

The simple story is told of Hudson Taylor’s habit in this regard. The work of the China Inland Mission grew so on his hands that he found his day crowded to the limit.

It seemed impossible to get the time for quiet unhurried thoughtful prayer. Yet he well knew that prayer can no more be slighted than eating or breathing or sleeping can in one’s bodily life.

So he was led to rise in the night, when the earlier sleep had refreshed him somewhat. Then when all was quiet, he could have a full quiet hour over the Book, and on his knees.

And he was able to get the habit fixed, so he could rise rather promptly, and go asleep again at the hour’s close.

Without doubt here was the secret, on the human side, of that strong faith, that boldness in action, that gentle quietness of spirit, and that fine fragrance that marked his personality and presence.

The act of prayer can become a habit of prayer. It should. It must, if we are to know the beginnings of its real power. It would, if the Holy Spirit, the spirit of prayer, be allowed to have his way. It will, if we will.

A Mental Attitude.

But there’s another rung to this ladder. There’s a deeper foundation stone to be laid, for a higher climb. There’s richer fruitage in this orchard. There’s more water in this spring. There’s sweeter symphony in this music. There are far greater results waiting our touch, if we will.

The habit of prayer can grow into a mental attitude of prayer, and it will, if things go along without hindrance.

That simply means that one gets into the mental habit of seeing everything from the prayer angle. The sudden difficulty that springs up in your face, the problem that looms unexpectedly up before you, the obstacle that all at once blocks your pathway, — whatever it be, you instinctively see it and meet it from this point of view.

The habit of prayer says, ‘‘I have set the Lord always before my face.’’ So the instant the new difficulty, or need, or opposition, suddenly faces you, you see it in relation to him, Jesus.

That changes the proportion of things at once. The thing might be quite too much for you. But, but, now it is measured at once by the sense of his presence.

This is the meaning of the mental attitude of prayer. The habit of prayer, persisted in, grows the mental attitude of prayer.

The daily bit of time off alone, morning and night, with the door closed, and the Book open, and the knees bent, and the will bent, this starts, and it strengthens, the mental attitude. Now you instinctively see everything from this point of view.

A letter recently came in the mail, that contained a sentence, that caught me at once, and held me. It was this, in effect: ‘‘I am not doing so much speaking in prayer. It has become more like breathing. The whole bent of my mind is to him, as these difficulties press in so close.”’

It recalls the remark made by another. It was this: ‘‘I used to pray three times a day. Now, I only pray once a day, and that is all day.’? The habit had become a state of mind, even while remaining a habit.

D. L. Moody, towering above the men of his generation and century like the great giant he was, was on an Atlantic Ocean liner in a terrible storm.

The passengers, utterly terror-stricken, in a desperate panic, had gathered in groups in the dining salon to pray. It was a strange sight to watch these people gathered in from the dance halls, the smoking rooms, the drinking bars, panic-stricken, faces gone white and guttered with fright, gathered to pray.

A passenger, hurrying along one of the decks, came across Moody standing gripping the deck rail, calmly looking out over the wild sea.

‘‘You here!’’ he exclaimed in astonishment. ‘“Why aren’t you down below in the prayer meeting?’’ And the giant of faith and action very quietly said, ‘‘ I’m prayed up.”’

The desperate storm had no terrors for him. His mental attitude reflected his prayer habit. The prayer of spoken words had gone up. The ‘‘Thanks’’ knot had been tied tightly on the end. The conviction had come in his inner spirit as to the outcome. He was quiet within in the thick of the wild storm. His attitude was a real factor in the spirit currents of the storm-swept sea.

The Knees and the Will.

I had an acquaintance in Belfast, up in Ulster, who was a simple-hearted godly man, with whom prayer had become to be a mental attitude.

He was a business man of large affairs, an expert in building matters. He was called in at one time, as an expert, to give his opinion about a certain building.

It was a new building, a mill building, full of machinery. And when the steam was turned on in the engine room, the whole building shook. It endangered the lives of the operatives, and was full of the most serious possible danger.

The utmost effort had been unable to locate the trouble. And as a last resort, they had called in this gentleman, as an expert, with a good-sized check, to find the trouble.

He went through the building, carefully, eritically, but he couldn’t find the weak spot, and he didn’t find it. And he was really feeling embarrassed and confused. His reputation as an expert was at stake. And he wasn’t earning his fee. He wanted to be honest, at least.

He stood with the executives showing him about, trying to conceal his feelings of embarrassment. ‘‘Then,’’ in telling the story to an intimate circle, he said, ‘‘I said in my heart ‘Jesus, you (he used the plural like that) you know where the trouble is; I don’t. Would you tell me?’”’

It was as simple and child-like a prayer as that. Instantly his thought went to the base of a pillar near which they were standing. It was the chief pillar reaching from foundation clear up to the roof. He had examined it before. It had seemed all right.

But now his thought went so insistently, quietly, softly, but insistently to that pillar that he got down on his knees to examine the base.

Now, I suppose that must have made a difference, that getting down on his knees. For there’s a close connection between the joint of one’s knees and the joint of the will. When the knee bends it’s easier. to bend the will. Maybe some of you have discovered that.

And it is quite clear, as a matter of mere psychology, that the hinge of the eyelid is in the joint of the will. Without doubt when the will bends to the higher will the mental processes are keener, for things are getting nearer normal.

Well, this man got down on his knees. At once he saw that the pillar was not plumb on its base. The stone mason came in with a hod of mortar, and the weakness was corrected.

The man’s mental attitude reflected his habit of prayer. With no opportunity for the usual prayer, and yet in a very real emergency, his attitude of mind revealed itself in the quick involuntary inner prayer. And the answer came at once. And a decisive answer it proved to be, fully covering the need.

An English lady told personally of an incident in missionary circles in Algeria, near the city of Algiers. This friend was a voluntary missionary out there.

From another missionary she had learned the story. And this other knew personally the woman who had the experience. So the story comes just two removes from the woman directly concerned.

This woman was an Arab, brought up in the Mohammedan faith. She came under Christian influences. Slowly but surely the truth sifted in, until she accepted Christ as her personal Saviour, and openly confessed her faith.

At once her family was greatly disturbed. They coaxed and pleaded. They threatened and stormed. But she remained true, very quiet and very steady in her new faith.

Then the family did something characteristic of their people and their faith. They concocted a very subtle poison, deadly and quick in action. They mixed it in this woman’s food.

As she ate she first noticed a peculiar flavour in the food, and then quickly sensed what had been done. Already she had eaten enough to ensure the deadly result planned. She realized, as quick as a flash, that the sentence of death was already written in her body.

She knew well how the poison would work. It would make one very irritable at first, then heavy and lethargic, and then would follow quickly unconsciousness, and then death.

It is impossible to describe the feeling of terror and desperation that came at once, as she realized that her death, and a quick death, was actually a fixed thing.

She could not pray aloud. That would only add to the stormy opposition in the household. And she could not retire to privacy for prayer. That, too, was impossible.

But her mental attitude at once swung into action. It was an almost involuntary attitude of appeal to Jesus, and reckoning on him. Instantly, intensely, she began repeating one word over and over, under her breath, with increasing intensity, — ‘‘Jesus! Jesus!!”

All day long that went on, as she went about her day’s usual tasks. And the members of the household watched her with staring eyes. What was this? The poison couldn’t fail! Yet it was not working. It was failing.

All that day, all that night, that strange contest went on, and through a second day and night, and I think into the third day.

The woman, in telling the story afterwards to her missionary friend, said that she was conscious of that strange, very real, conflict going on in her body.

It was as if a wave of death surged in, and then as she repeated that name, Jesus, a wave of life rolled in. That was her way of telling the experience. And at the end of the second or third day the spirit fight was over. And she was wholly free of the influence of the poison.

The mental attitude of prayer means the whole being set in a wordless prayer. It is a tense prayer, tense beyond words. It is the gathering up of the habit into a fixed, concentrated, quietly intense, state of mind. And it is effective, quite beyond words. Prayer becomes a mental attitude.

The Life the Prayer.

Then there’s a fourth step, up and down, up in effective achievement, down into the very roots of one’s being. Prayer becomes a life.

The act, the habit, the mental attitude, persist until they tinge and colour and control, and then really make, the life what it is. And so prayer becomes a life. The two are inseparable.

One’s life is the sum of all the choices, the decisions, the preferences, the characteristics, the mental slants, the personal angles, the habits, which mark one. They not only mark, they make one what he is. These make the character which one is growing, and by which one is known among his fellows.

These various steps merge into each other, sometimes quite imperceptibly. And yet each becomes distinct in itself. And each gathers up the force of what has gone before.

Prayer as a life becomes the concentrated impact of act and habit and mental attitude. And that for which we pray, and the evil power against which our prayer is directed, feel that accumulated impact. This prayer of a life influences men. It opens a way for God to do what he wants to do. It offsets the power of Satan.

A few simple bits out of real life will help here. Two men were seated in a parlour car on the train between Philadelphia and New York.

The older of the two was at the head of one of the largest manufacturing concerns in Philadelphia. He was an earnest Christian man, warm-hearted, with a fine human touch, active in all good things, and especially active in Christian movements. It was commonly said of him, at the time of his death, by persons of all classes, ‘Oh, everybody in Philadelphia loved Mr. 2?

The younger man of the two was his son. By and by the older man arose and went forward in the train. A man sitting nearly opposite arose, stepped over, and spoke to the son. He was well dressed, indeed rather overdressed; that type of man. He was apparently somewhat affected by what he had been drinking, though he had perfect self-control, and conducted himself as a refined gentleman.

He said quietly, ‘‘Wasn’t that Mr. sitting with you?’’ The younger man said, ‘‘ Yes, it was.’’ ‘‘Well,’’ the other said very quietly, as though talking aloud to himself, ‘‘if there were more men like him there’d be fewer men like me.”’

And he returned to his seat, and sat quietly, with his chin on his chest, absorbed in his thoughts. He felt deeply, into the very vitals, the power of the other’s life.

That life became a prayer, opening a way for God into this other’s heart, shutting off at least for a time the Evil One’s power, distinctly helping his fellow up toward better things.

Prayer becomes a life. The life itself becomes a prayer, one unceasing, throbbing, potent prayer. The actual act, the daily habit, the involuntary mental attitude, are all gathered up in the life.

Some years ago, there lived a man in New York of outstanding characteristics, In many ways. He was a prosperous business man, a lay preacher of much power, and very active in humanitarian effort.

Among his many activities, he tried to help

the large numbers of homeless unfortunate men, who are down and out. He provided warm quarters for them in the winter, and had hot food and coffee served, free, every night, down in the quarter they frequented.

In his gracious way, he spoke of these crowds as ‘‘The Travellers’ Club,’’ and called himself president of the club. It was a bit of his earnest kindly way of seeking to reach their hearts.

One night he had remained at this resort until past midnight, as his wont was, talking with the men, helping to serve them with food, as they came in with unsteady step and bleared eye.

He had put on his overcoat to leave, and put his hat down on a table for a moment, as he turned for some attention to one of the men.

And one of the men, in a mischievous malicious temper, poured the coffee-grounds remaining in his cup into this gentleman’s silk hat.

Turning at that moment, taking in at one quick glance what had been done, he quietly emptied the coffee-grounds out, wiped his hat with his handkerchief, saying very quietly, in the cheeriest way:

‘‘Oh, excuse me, boys, I forgot to have a bowl ready for the coffee-grounds. We’ll do better next time.’’ And putting on his hat, with a smile, and a warm ‘‘good-night,’’ he went quietly out.

His carriage was waiting at the street door. And the coachman had barely started the horses, when a group of the men came running out.

They sprang to the horses’ heads and stopped them, and seemed bent on some mischief. Putting his head out the earriage window, the gentleman called out, ‘‘Now, now, boys, don’t go too far.’’

But the man who had poured the grounds into the hat was down on his knees, in the snow, begging his benefactor to forgive him.

It proved the turning point in his life. He was a college graduate, of marked native ability. He became a minister, and for years was graciously used in that holy calling.

The gentleman, so Christly in spirit under the insulting conduct, so gracious in word and act under such sore provocation, he was a prayer, a living prayer.

And the power of that active prayer was felt in heaven, and in the evil spirit world, and in this outcast’s heart. Prayer becomes a life.

The Man the Prayer.

It’s a scale ascending. The prayer has gone through the grammar of positive, comparative, superlative, and super-superlative. And still there’s a degree higher up yet.

The man becomes the prayer. The act, the habit, the attitude, the life, all gather up their force in the man himself. He is unconsciously the prayer, as he goes about his rounds, absorbed in the petty commonplaces of day-by-day duties.

And God, and Satan, and men, take account of this prayer, this walking breathing throbbing prayer. Its power is simply irresistible.

Do you remember Elijah on Carmel? He is prone on the ground, with his face between his knees, in intensest prayer.

It’s the final moment of three years and a half of spirit conflict and prayer. There’s a man watching the sea; Elijah’s mental faculties are keenly alert.

But nothing is said of the prayer he made. Apparently it was a wordless prayer. His speech had poured out in prayer till, in sheer intensity, language gave out. The man was the prayer.

All the pleadings and groanings, all the boldness of faith, all the insistence of assurance, were gathered up in this giant of prayer, flat on his face in the dust. The man was the prayer.

And the answer was like the prayer. Mere words were inadequate to spell out that prayer, and are wholly inadequate to tell the results, in rain, and in the nation’s after-years.

Sometimes the prayer of the heart is much too tense for words. You kneel, you pour out your prayer, the best you can. The ‘‘Thanks’’ knot is put on the end. The ‘‘ Amen”? is said.

But you don’t rise. You seem held on your knees by the very intensity of your spirit. You, you, kneeling there, wordless, silent in mere speech, you are the prayer. And an effective prayer that is, too, indescribably effective.

Do you recall that most remarkable bit Paul puts in, in writing to his as-yet-unknown-byface friends at Rome??*

He is practically saying that we are sometimes unable to put into words the prayer in our heart. It is our ‘‘infirmity’’ that the tensity of the prayer cannot always be put into human speech.

Then comes the bit I speak of. ‘‘ The Spirit himself maketh intercession with groanings which cannot be uttered; and he that searcheth the hearts knoweth what is the mind of the Spirit, that he is making intercession for the saints, according to the will of God.”’

Notice: the Holy Spirt is within the man who is praying. The man in praying is unable to find word adequate to the longing of his heart.

There he is on his knees. The worded prayer has been spoken, spoken out to the limit. Then words give out. He is silent. But the intense longing in his heart holds him on his knees. The man himself becomes the prayer.

Aye, more, he is a prayer-chamber. That intense wordless longing in his heart, that is the Holy Spirit within him, praying this man’s prayer in unutterable language. The praying is too tense for utterance in common human speech.

And the Father, and our Lord J esus, sitting up there intently listening, recognize that the Spirit, praying in the man, is praying for the very things they have planned shall be done in, and through, this man’s life.

*Romans 8:26-27.

The man on his knees is the prayer in this double sense, the man himself, and the Holy Spirit within him praying the man’s prayer.

A very simple story is told of a little child quite ill, and very weak. The mother, coming into the bedroom, noticed that the child’s hand was lying open, palm up, on the pillow, as though put there in that way purposely.

So she asked what it meant. And the child answered in effect, ‘‘ Well, you know, mother, I am very sick. I can’t think the words I want to pray. And so I put my open hand up there. Jesus will see it. And he knows what I want.’’ The child’s hand was the prayer.

I recall quite distinctly a convention of several hundred young men met for some four or five days.

A large sum of money, running into some thousands, had been subscribed for the coming year’s activities. It had been a prolonged process to reach the total needed. Then a request had come that we raise an additional thousand, for some urgent work in Japan.

It was the Saturday night session. The task of asking for the additional thousand was allotted to me. I was feeling keenly the pull on my strength of the week’s sessions.

As the address was being made presenting the need, I sat at the back of the platform, waiting my turn, too tired to think, too tired to put a prayer into words.

Then it came into my mind about this sick child’s open hand. And I put my hand out, open, palm up. That was my prayer.

It was a rather long prayer, fully a half hour long, while the speaker made the plea. It did not seem as though there could be any more money gotten. But the prayer brought the result desired.

Let us grow in — prayer. Give the simple act of kneeling in prayer a place. Let it grow into a habit of our daily round, morning and night.

And the habit thoughtfully persisted in, and thought into, and thought through, will grow that simple quiet mental attitude of prayer toward everything coming up.

And as this gets fixed in, instinctively, involuntarily, the life will become one continuous prayer. Though we’ll not be conscious of this. We’ll not be thinking about it. We’ll be absorbed with the day’s practical pull and call.

And then the man may be — a prayer? the prayer. He may gather up the prayer in his personality. The sum of his acts and habits, the bent of his mind and spirit, these take on the colouring of his prayer.

Jesus, our Lord Jesus, thou Man of the Nazareth carpenter shop, and. the midnight vigil, and the desert lone corner;

Aye, thou Man of the eager Greek inquirers, and of Lazarus’ grave, and of the darklyshadowed Gethsemane grove;

Aye, thou who ever livest to make intercession for us down here, teach us, too, to pray.

In thy Name, the one Name, the wondrous Name, Jesus’ Name, we ask. Amen.