The Privilege of Prayer

“Rejoice evermore. Pray without ceasing.”

“The Athenians spent their time in nothing else, but either to tell or to hear some new thing;” and whatever may have become of the Attic elegance and the Attic genius, modern society is not deficient in the Athenian curiosity. Nor do we blame it. The desire of novelty is not in itself blameworthy; but there is one form of it which we would like to see more frequent. To freshen old truths is nearly as important as to discover new ones; and instead of telling or hearing some new thing, our time would often be as advantageously occupied in thinking over, and brightening up the meaning of some old thin”-.

Few expressions in theology are older than that which speaks of the “privilege of prayer;” but nothing could be a greater novelty in the history of some who now hear me, than to find prayer an actual privilege. Am I wrong? “The privilege of prayer!” Do not some feel that the burden of prayer — the obligation, the duty, would be a truer name for it? Do not some of you feel, that to call it a privilege is just to give a pleasant name to an irksome thing? If so, instead of initiating you in a new science, that individual would do you a better service who should give you fresh light on this old truth, and make you feel, that not only has prayer power with God, but is very nearly the highest privilege of man.

Let us make a supposition.* Suppose that the individual in this kingdom who combines in himself the greatest wisdom and goodness, were accessible to you. Suppose that when any thing pressed upon you, — a difficulty from which your own sagacity could not extricate

* This was suggested by a similar idea in a Lecture of John Foster, as preserved in the MS. notes of an intelligent hearer.

H 2 you, or an undertaking which your own resources could not compass, — you had only to send him a statement of the case, and were sure, in good time, to get his best and kindest counsel, — would not you deem this a great privilege? Would not something of this sort just meet the case of many here? One is entering on a new course of occupation, and in its very outset meets with problems that fairly baffle him, but which a friend of a little more experience or perspicacity could instantly solve. Another is overtaken by a sea of troubles, — a concourse of trials which quite overwhelm him, but through which he perfectly believes that a stronger arm or a more buoyant spirit could carry him. But where shall he look for that wiser friend — that stronger arm? Suppose again, that when in sudden danger or in deep distress, there were some way by which you could make known your situation to a spirit departed. That spirit is now far wiser than he was when on earth. He has sources of knowledge that are not open to you, and he has powers not yet possessed by you. Suppose that in grief or in difficulty you could invoke him. Suppose that there were some process by which you could arrest his ear among the glorified, and in the lapse of a brief moment bring him though unseen to your side; and suppose that, to this spirit made perfect — the spirit of your departed parent, or of some one remarkable for his wisdom and sanctity — you could detail the whole matter that grieves and perplexes you, and though there should be no response from the viewless shade, you knew that he had heard you, and was away to interpose effectively on your behalf, — would you not feel much comforted and lightened? Would you not resume your own active exertions with far greater hopefulness, — assured that there would now attend them a power beyond what was proper to them, or inherent in yourself? But further, suppose that, instead of any wise or influential personage on earth or any glorified spirit in paradise, it was possible for you to secure the ear and engage the help of one of the principalities or powers in the heavenly places; some being of such bright intelligence, that he can smile at all our wisdom, and such commanding might, that he can do in a moment what would

H 3 occupy our race for a millennium; could you for an instant bespeak his attention, and gain assurance of his willingness to help, would you not feel that your object was unspeakably promoted, or your burden amazingly lightened? To have enlisted such ability and skill upon your side, — the few minutes spent in securing such superhuman help — would you not feel that they were a larger contribution towards eventual success than a lifetime of your personal efforts? But rise a step higher — an infinite step! — and suppose that it were possible to arrest the ear and secure the help of the Most High; suppose that you could, by any possibility, gain the attention of the living God, — that you could secure not the cold and distant on-looking, but the interested regard and the omnipotent interposition of Jehovah himself, — would not this be a privilege? But this is precisely what prayer is. Some have no friend of extraordinary sagacity or power to go to. The spirits of the departed cannot come to us; and neither to them nor to angels are we warranted to pray. And even though we could evoke a Samuel from the sepulchre, or bring down Gabriel from above the sky, — the blessings which are most needful for us are such as neither Samuel nor Gabriel can give, — blessings of which the treasure lies within the light inaccessible, and of which Omnipotence alone preserves the key. That Almighty hand prayer moves. That incommunicable key prayer turns. That unapproachable treasury prayer opens. The blessings which Solomon in all his glory, and Abraham in the bosom of his God, and the seraphs who overshadow the throne, — the blessings which these have not to impart, it is the privilege of prayer to procure.

But set it in another light. Imagine that there had been certain limitations on prayer. Imagine that there had only been one spot on the earth from which prayer could arise with acceptance. Imagine — by no means inconceivable, for there was once something very like it — imagine that the Lord had selected some little spot of earth — a Mount Zion or a Holy Land — and said that here, and here only, was the place to worship. Imagine that from this hallowed spot alone there had existed a passage into heaven for the prayers of earth, and that all supplications, however earnest, uttered on the profane soil of the common globe, had gone for nothing. What a resorting we should have seen to this place of only prevalency! When there occurred some conjuncture decisive of weal or woe to an individual or a family, or when a man became so anxious about his soul’s salvation that nothing could content him save light from above, we should have seen the busy trader arranging for his protracted absence, and the cautious, untravelled husbandman preparing for the perilous pilgrimage, and multitudes, on their own behalf or on behalf of others, resorting to the place where prayer is heard and answered. And imagine, further, that there had just been one day in the year when prayer was permitted; that those who arrived at the appointed place too late, found the gate of access closed for the next twelve months, and however sudden the emergency, and however extreme its exigency, that it was impossible to do any thing for it till the weary year moved round, and brought back the one propitious day: — even thus restricted, would not prayer have been felt to be a privilege worth a pilgrimage and worth a long on-waiting?

Just fancy that in our earth’s yearly revolution round the sun there was disclosed a crevice in the sky; — that on one night in the year, and on one mountain-top, there was a vista opened through the encircling vault, and a sight of dazzling glories revealed to all who gazed from the favoured summit; — and fancy that through the brilliant gap there fell a shower of gold and gems, and that this recurred regularly on the self-same evening every year — what a concourse to that Pisgah might you count upon! How many eager eyes would strain the breathless hour beforehand till the first streak of radiance betokened the bursting glory! And how many emulous hands would rush together to catdi the flaming rubies and the diamond-rain!

And just conceive — the only other supposition we shall make — that certain costly or arduous preliminaries were essential in order to successful prayer; suppose that a day’s strict abstinence, or some painful self-punishment, were exacted; or that each worshipper were required to bring in his hand some costly offering — the choicest of his flock, or a large percentage on his income. — And who would say that this was unreasonable? Would not access into God’s own presence — a favour so ineffable — would it not be wisely purchased at any price, and might not sinful “dust and ashes” marvel that after any ordeal or purifying process it was admitted near such Majesty?

But how stands the case? Prayer is not a consultation with the highest wisdom which this world can supply. It is not intercourse with an angel or a spirit made perfect. But it is an approach to the living God. It is access to the High and Holy One who inhabiteth eternity. It is detailing in the ear of Divine sympathy every sorrow. It is consulting with Divine wisdom on every difficulty. It is asking from Divine resources the supply of every want. And this not once in a lifetime, or for a few moments on a stated day of each year, but at any moment, at every time of need. Whatever be the day of your distress, it is a day when prayer is allowable. Whatever be the time of your calamity, it is a time when prayer is available. However early in the morning you seek the gate of access, you find it already open; and however deep the midnight moment when you find yourself in the sudden arms of death, the winged prayer can bring an instant Saviour neai And this wheresoever you are. It needs not that you ascend some special Pisgah or Moriah. It needs not that you should enter some awful shrine, or put off your shoes on some holy ground. Could a memento be reared on every spot from which an acceptable prayer has passed away, and on which a prompt answer has come down, we should find Jehovah-shammah — “the Lord hath been here” — inscribed on many a cottage hearth and many a dungeon floor. We should find it not only in Jerusalem’s proud temple and David’s cedar galleries, but in the fisherman’s cottage by the brink of Gennesaret, and in the upper chamber where Pentecost began. And whether it be the field ‘where Isaac went to meditate, or the rocky knoll where Jacob lay clown to sleep, or the brook where Israel wrestled, or the den where Daniel gazed on the hungry lions and the lions gazed on him, or the hill- sides where the Man of Sorrows prayed all night, we should still discern the prints of the ladder’s feet let down from heaven — the landing-place of mercies because the starting-point of prayers. And all this whatsoever you are. It needs no saint, no proficient in piety, no adept in eloquent language, no dignitary of earthly rank. It needs but a simple Hannah, or a lisping Samuel. It needs but a blind beggar, or a loathsome lazar. It needs but a penitent publican, or a dying thief. And it needs no sharp ordeal, no costly passport, no painful expiation to bring you to the mercy-seat; or rather, I should say, it needs the costliest of all; but the blood of atonement — the Saviour’s merit — the name of Jesus — priceless as they are, cost the sinner nothing. They are freely put at his disposal, and instantly and constantly he may use them. This access to God in every place, at every moment, without any price or any personal merit, is it not a privilege?

And yet in this old truth, I am anxious, before we part, that you should find a new significance; and, therefore, to make it somewhat more specific, let me apply it to a few cases, probably all represented here.

1. “Is any among you afflicted? Let him pray.” “In agony nature is no atheist. The mind which knows not where to fly, flies to God.”* And to spring into the arms of Omnipotence, to find refuge in the bosom of Mercy, is to weep no longer. The drowning man whose last sensation was the weltering brine; who felt the seething flood go over him, and as he settled down among the trailing weeds, the memory of home darted like a death-shot through his heart and put an end to other anguish; — when that rescued man opens his eyes beneath some friendly roof, and instead of the watery winding-sheet, and the crawling gulf- monsters, finds himself on a couch of warm comfort, his chamber glowing with the cheerful faggot, a friendly face ready to greet his first waking, and sees through the window the ship that is waiting to bear him back to his native isle, — it may be true that he had treasures in the foundering vessel, and that some curious or precious things he was carrying home may never be fished up from the devouring deep, — but how different his lot from the poor castaway, whom the billows have landed on a desolate rock, and

* Hannah More on Prayer, p. 153.

who, creeping about in his dripping rags, can find no food but the limpets, no fuel but the crackling wrack, no hovel to shelter him, and no sail to waft him away! Both have been wrecked, and both have lost their all; but in the joy of his rescue the one forgets his povertyr, and in his wretched asylum from the waves the other recognises nothing but a prison and a tomb. Precisely similar is the case of the afflicted man who prays, and of him who, when afflicted, cannot pray — the man whom the billows land on the desolate rock of world - liness or atheism, and the man who, from the stun of drowning waters, wakes up in the pavilion of God’s own presence. Both may have suffered equal losses. Both may have left a treasure in the deep. Both may have been washed empty-handed ashore. But the man of prayer is like the man who comes to himself in the asylum of the friendly home. The bliss of pleasant fellowship with God abates or banishes the grief of recent loss. On the lee -shore, which has shattered his frail bark, he is astonished to lift up his eyes and find himself the inmate of a beloved friend and a familiar dwelling. He knows that he will land safe at last, and is happy even now. “Is any among you afflicted? Let him pray.”

2. Is any among you perplexed? “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.”

There is an instructive Greek story which tells of a noble youth who had a more than mortal guide. The Prince was frank and manly and docile; but on account of his inexperience often found himself in straits, through which his own sagacity could not steer him. On such occasions, when in danger of falling into designing hands, or commiting himself to disastrous counsels, or when actually involved in distresses from which he could not extricate himself, this faithful friend was sure to speed to his rescue. Whatever was the scene of anxiety and affright, he had only to bethink himself of his kind and sagacious counsellor, and that moment Mentor was beside him. What Homer dreamed, the Gospel verifies. It tells that, veiled from our view only by the curtain of this corporeal, but nearer to us than that flesh and blood which hides us from our truest selves, there is an ever-present friend who needs only to be remembered in order to prove a present help. It tells us that amidst all our embarrassments and sorrows, grief is never so near but deliverance is nearer still. And it tells us that the confusion and blundering, the foolish bargains and infatuated proceedings which often make us so affronted or indignant at ourselves, might all have been avoided had we timeously resorted to that wonderful Counsellor who encompasses all our ways. In other words, the Bible assures us that, however much we may suffer from the deficiency of our talents and the darkness of our understandings, we suffer still more from not taking advantage of that Wisdom from above who can enlighten our darkness and elevate all our powers. No man, by taking thought, can add a faculty to his mind, any more than he can add a feature to his countenance or a cubit to his stature. But the man who has learned to pray, can, at the throne of grace, procure what really is the enhancement of his intellect, and the augmentation of his faculties — that Divine wisdom which will either supersede or supplement his own.

His must be a very easy calling who has never felt the need of more skill and prudence — more wisdom than is indigenous to himself. Take the most common instances. You are a father or a mother — perhaps a widowed father or a widowed mother. There are your childi-en rising around you. Allowing that their minds are ever so susceptible and plastic, how important are your every movement and entire demeanour in their bearing on them! A single inconsistency, the most trivial inadvertency, coming with all the sanction of a parent’s example, how influential for evil is it sure to be! How possible for a father, by mere inconsiderateness, to perpetuate his own worst qualities in the persons of many survivors; and, just because they loved him so well, and copied him so closely, how possible is it to transmit in his children’s characters the facsimile of his worser self — the image of his frivolity, or peevishness, or indolence! Nay, how possible is it to convert a child into the perennial monument of a few occasional follies — to prolong, in its habitual character, the sayings and doings of a few unguarded moments! Then, again, there may be among these children more puzzling problems — some who are neither affectionate nor docile — who are not likely, by a mere moral imbibition, to take in the good influences with which they are surrounded — problems in whose management more than patience and tenderness is needful — refractory, selfish, or peculiar natures, on which nothing but the decisive measures of a deep-seeing sagacity — the bold strokes of a forceful nature — can make any permanent impression. Whosoever occupies a station of moral influence — a station where his labour lies, amongst the most perilous materials with which man can intermeddle — the affections and dispositions — the wills of other people — must have amazing self-reliance, or a deplorable callousness, if he is not frequently crushed down by the solemnity of his position. It was by one in such a position that a most considerate and magnanimous prayer was offered — a prayer whose spirit every parent, and teacher, and pastor should emulate, just as a similar answer is what every parent, and teacher, and pastor who offers it is encouraged to expect: — “In Gibeon the Lord appeared to Solomon in a dream by night: and God said, Ask what I shall give thee.’ And Solomon said, Thou hast showed unto thy servant David my father great mercy, according as he walked before thee in truth and in righteousness, and in uprightness of heart with thee: and thou hast kept for him this great kindness, that thou hast given him a son to sit on his throne as it is this day. And now, O Lord my God, thou hast made thy servant king instead of David my father; and I am but a little child: I know not how to go out or come in. And thy servant is in the midst of thy people which thou hast chosen — a great people, that cannot be numbered nor counted for multitude. Give, therefore, thy servant an understanding heart to judge thy people, that I may discern between good and bad: for who is able to judge this thy so great a people?’ And the speech pleased the Lord that Solomon had asked this thing. And God said unto him, ‘Because thou hast asked this thing, and hast not asked for thyself long life; neither hast asked riches for thyself, nor hast asked the life of thine enemies; but hast asked for thyself understanding to discern judgment; behold, I have done according to thy words: lo! I have given thee a wise and understanding heart, so that there was none like thee before thee, neither after thee shall any arise like unto thee. And I have also given thee that which thou hast not asked, both riches and honour.’”*

3. Is any among you embarked in an important undertaking? “Commit thy way unto the Lord, and He shall bring it to pass. In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy steps.” Some feel as if it were presumption to implore God’s blessing on their daily toils and secular callings. They feel as if spiritual mercies were the only proper themes for prayer, and as if it were a desecration of Jehovah’s presence-chamber to carry thither matters so mean as our worldly undertakings and every-day concerns. And assuredly, if a man were to make nothing else than his worldly welfare the subject of his supplications, it would be much the same with him as with those sordid spirits who had no other use for the Temple than to make it a market-place for the sale of doves and oxen; and

»] Kings iii. 5 — 13.

“Let not that earthly-minded man think that he shall receive any thing of the Lord.” But if you be in the habit of resorting to the throne of grace for spiritual mercies, to that throne you naturally and lawfully resort for temporal mercies also. And, indeed, no undertaking or employment of a Christian can be altogether secular. The mere fact that it is his, gives it a certain sacredness, and identifies it with the interests of God’s kingdom on earth. It is not a matter of no moment whether a servvant who makes profession of religion shall fulfil the duties of his station no better than others who make no profession. It is not a matter of no religious moment whether a student professing piety shall not be more industrious and successful than one who scoffs at the Bible. And it is not a matter of no consequence whether the business transactions and household arrangements and personal exertions of Christian professors shall not surpass the usual style of the worldly. And so far as the glory of God and the honour of the Divine Redeemer are implicated, it is incumbent on every believer to bespeak from above that help which will make him more than a conqueror even in his worldly calling. But more than this: there is nothing which can be momentous to a child of God which is not also interesting to his Heavenly Father. A gentle parent is not only ready to snatch his child from the fire, but to relieve him from lesser miseries. He is not only willing to give him an ample education or provide for his distant well-being; but if there be nothing wrong in it, he is ready to indulge even his least desires — ready to help him in his most trivial pursuits. And so, the petition, “Our Father, who art in heaven — give us this day our daily bread,” is to teach us that nothing affects the welfare or comfort of his feeblest child, but it is ready to receive the consideration of his Heavenly Father, and so is a fit subject for prayer. And just as the Lord is ready to hear prayer in such cases, so it is the wisdom of every one to lighten his own labour and secure his own success by timely supplication. Jacob’s prayer did more to propitiate Esau than Jacob’s present. Eliezer’s petition, as he knelt by the camel’s side, did more to prosper his embassy than his own and his master’s precautions. And Hezekiah’s intercession rescued Jerusalem when its walls were tottering, and nothing but the. arm of Jehovah could lay the invader low. We know not the secret history of this world’s mightiest transactions and its proudest monuments; but from the little that we know, we can affirm that the men who have prospered best are the men who have taken time to pray. It was to prayer that Henry IV. of France ascribed his crown, and Gustavus owed his victories. The father of the modern fine arts was wont, before he began any new composition, to invoke His inspiration, who in other days taught Aholiab; and the Goliath of English literature felt that he studied successfully when he had prayed earnestly. And what Michael Angelo and Milton and Johnson found so helpful to their mighty genius cannot hinder us. You have read in our own history of that hero who, when an overwhelming force was in full pursuit, and all his followers were urging him to more rapid flight, coolly dismounted in order to repair a flaw in his horse’s harness. Whilst busied with the broken buckle, the distant cloud swept down in nearer thunder; but just as the prancing hoofs and eager spears were ready to dash down on him, the flaw was mended, the clasp was fastened, the steed was mounted, and like a swooping falcon he had vanished from their view. The broken buckle would have left him on the field a dismounted and inglorious prisoner. The timely delay sent him in safety back to his huzzaing

comrades. There is in daily life the same luckless precipitancy, and the same profitable delay. The man who, from his prayerless waking, bounces off into the business of the day, however good his talents and great his diligence, is only galloping on a steed harnessed with a broken buckle, and must not marvel if in his hottest haste, or most hazardous leap, he be left inglorious in the dust; and though it may occasion some little delay beforehand, his neighbour is wiser who sets all in order before the march begins.

4. But covet most earnestly the best gifts. Is any among you in earnest about his soul, but distressed by reason of darkness? “If ye being evil know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him?” If any one be in the outset of his religious inquiries, he will feel a special lack. The subjects to which his thoughts are now turned are novel. Till now, he has not paid much attention to them; and now, when they have become urgent, he feels foreign in the midst of them. He takes up the Bible, but it is altogether so peculiar, the truths it handles are so far out of the ordinary way of his thinking, and its very style is so alien to his ordinary style of expression, that he feels much as a person might be supposed to feel who had somehow been transported to another planet, and not only saw forms of existence there totally different from any thing which his fancy had ever conceived, but who had not been long among them till he began to surmise that he was not competent to understand them thoroughly. He has not been long in this new world till he begins to suspect that more than five senses are needed here. He notices appearances which indicate that matters are transpiring which his ear cannot detect, and into which his eye cannot penetrate. He finds himself in a world of deepest interest, but a world of distressing mystery. Enough comes within his cognisance to make him wish that he was able to know it all; but enough to convince him that its most characteristic things are those which he does not know, and has not the means for finding out. Or, to use a more obvious illustration: Most persons in the outset of their spiritual enlightenment, are in the case of the blind man at Bethsaida when his sight was half restored. He looked up and saw men like trees walking. He saw that he was in a world of light, and verdure, and vivacity; but it was all a jumble of leafy men, &nd walking trees — a medley of light and motion. He had no clear perceptions — no sharp and definite ideas. But — another touch of the same miraculous finger! — he looked again, and the men walked and the trees stood still, the boats gleamed over Gennesaret, and Bethsaida smiled back to the summer sky. At the commencement of a religious inquiry, the man finds himself in a region of deep interest, but withal, a region of dim outlines and flickering obscurity. His notions run into one another, and he has rather a confused impression of the extent of the landscape, than a clear perception of any one object in it. Like the man who confounded walking people with growing trees, he is apt to confound one doctrine with another. He mistakes faith for the Saviour. He blends together the Gospel and the Law, and thinks that there must be a change in himself before he is entitled to believe in Christ for salvation. And if, at this stage, friendly counsellors come in with their distinctions and explanations, they answer much the same purpose as a neighbour who should have endeavoured to expound the landscape to the half-enlightened Galilean. After all his well-meant efforts, the scene would still have showed a chaos of glimmering colours and dancing blotches, and nothing but another touch of the omnipotent hand could project the whole into splendid distinctness. And, just as in the case of the dim-seeing Galilean, it was not so much a sunshine as a ghost of light which saluted his eye-balls — so, in the outset of a spiritual earnestness, it is not the warm and radiant Gospel which glads the exploring vision, but a cold and hazy version of it. It is not a Gospel over which the love of God sheds its flood of endearment, but a Gospel in a mist — a Gospel of conflicting attributes and ambiguous meaning — a Gospel of

k 2 dim love and doubtful kindness. And it is not till a power from on high imparts clearer perceptions and intenser vision that, like the joyful scenes which rushed on the fullyopened eyes of the Bethsaidan, the scheme of mercy stands out in assuring distinctness, and then melts in upon the soul in its genial beauty and overwhelming glories.

Now, my friends, if any of you are in this case — if you have for some time wished a clear theology and a soul-satisfying religion, this is the way to get it. You have, perhaps, sought it in books and in sermons. Perhaps you have sought it in the Bible, and in close thinking, and yet you have not found it. Seek it “from above.” Seek it in prayer. Don’t shut the Bible and forsake the sanctuary. Don’t fling away the book, or cease to reflect and meditate, but seek the wisdom from on high. It is not plainer preaching — certainly it is not a clearer Bible that you need; but it is a clearer eyesight — a power of sharper discernment, and a more perspicacious insight in yourself. This “opening of your eyes” — this exaltation of your faculties, God alone can give. But he will give it. You lack wisdom. Ask it of

God. With your reading, hearing, meditation, mingle prayer; and, in the brightening of your views, and the strengthening of your faith, you will find that God is sending out his light and truth, and by the illumination of his own Spirit, is making you wiser than all your teachers.