The Open Reward of Secret Prayer

“llwu, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father ichich is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret, shall reward thee openly.”

We do not need to enter the closet in order to find the Lord. He is ever near us. But we enter it in order to escape from disturbance, and in order to regain those associations, and, it may be, to surround ourselves with those mementos which we formerly found helpful to our prayers. One who has great powers of abstraction may take refuge from surrounding bustle in the depth of his own spirit, and pass along the crowded streets in the perpetual hermitage of his own self-seclusion, undiverted and undistracted by all that is whirling round him. But few have this talent of inward sequestration — this power to make a closet of themselves; and in order to find for their thoughts a peaceful sanctuary, they must find for their persons a tranquil asylum. It little matters where or what it is. Isaac went out into the field, and Jacob plied his night-long prayer beside the running brook. Abraham planted a grove, and in the cool shadow of his oaks at Beersheba, he called on the name of the Lord. Abraham’s servant knelt down beside his camel; and it would appear, from some of his psalms, that a cave, a mountain fastness, or a cavern in the rocks, was David’s frequent oratory. Peter had chosen for his place of prayer, the quiet and airy roof of his sea-side lodging, when the messengers of Cornelius found him. It would seem that the open air — the noiseless amplitude of the “solitary place” — the hill-side, with the stars above, and the shadowy world below — the fragrant stillness of the garden when evening had dismissed the labourers, were the places where the Man of Sorrows loved to pray. It was in the old church of Ayr that John Welsh was wont, all alone, to wrestle with the anel of the covenant; and we have stood in the wild rock-cleft where Peden found frequent refuge from his persecutors, and whence he caused his cry to ascend “unto the Lord most high.” It does not need four walls and a bolted door to make a place of prayer. Retirement, and silence, and a sequestered spirit, will create it any where. By the shore of the sounding sea — in the depths of the forest — in the remoteness of the green and sunny upland, or the balmy peacefulness of the garden bower — nay, amidst the dust of the dingy ware-room, or the cobwebs of the owlet-haunted barn — in the jolting corner of the crowded stage, or the unnoticed nook of the traveller’s room, you have only to shut your eyes, and seclude your spirit, and you have created a closet there. It is a closet wherever the soul finds itself alone with God.

But, besides a still and silent place, it is important to have a stated place for prayer — “thy” closet — thy familiar and frequented place. Although places have not so much influence on us as persons, their influence is great. There are places where we would like to be when trial comes — places where we should like to be if we are to sicken and be laid aside — places where we should like to die — and places where we find it most congenial and delightful to pray. Homes of the spirit they are; places that seem to understand us and be in sympathy with us; places that have, as it were, imbibed, and do still retain, something of the joys we once tasted in them; places which make bereavement less awful, loneliness less desolate, happiness more intense, and heaven more near. When Elijah came to Sarepta, and found the son of the widow dead, he snatched the child from the bosom of the weeping mother, and carried him “to the loft where he abode, and laid him on his own bed.” And there “he cried unto the Lord, O Lord, my God! let this child’s soul come into him again.” He felt as if this loft, where he had so often prayed before, was the likeliest place for prayer now — the place where he might penetrate into Jehovah’s nearest presence, and procure an unprecedented blessing. And on this principle, perhaps, it was that David, when tidings came of the death of Absalom, hasted up to the “chamber over the gate.” His heart was breaking, and lest it should split altogether in this unutterable sorrow, he sped away to the place where he found lesser sorrows lightened; and, as he staggered up into this secret sanctuary, passionate grief began to give place to prayer, “O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!” And this is the best consecration any sanctuary or secret chamber can acquire — the consciousness that there you have met with God, and the hope instinctive that there you may meet him yet again. Happy are you if there be a house of prayer, or a private dwelling, which awakens in you, as you near it, a rush of holy feelings or happy recollections — a sanctuary round which a constant Sabbath shines, and a perpetual air of heaven reposes. And happy are you if, in your residence, there be a room — however sombre the stranger may think it — which you cannot enter without a secret comfort suffusing your spirit; a room where, in dreariest moments, you feel that you are not friendless, and in darkest days that you are not hopeless; a room in which memory has built its Peniels and Ebenezers — its memorials of ecstatic hours and answered petitions; a chamber which you abandon with regret when called to quit the dwelling, as if, in leaving it, you left the gate of heaven — the closet where you used to shut to the door and pray to your Father in secret, and feel that he was hearing you.

And here I may just notice, that apart from the open return, there is a secret reward of secret prayer. There is a peculiar and present joy in communion with God. The deepest pleasures are the purest; and of all pleasures the purest is the peace of God. To feel that he is love — to draw so near him as to forget the world — so near as to lose the love of sin — so near that all sensual delights are drowned in the river of his pleasures, and all holy joys enhanced in the brightness of his smile — to bask, for ever so brief a moment, in the light inaccessible, and rejoice with loyalty of spirit in Jehovah’s righteous sovereignty, and feel, through all recesses of the soul, the sin-supplanting flow and beatific thrills of infinite holiness and soul-transforming love — to be this, and feel this, is of all pleasures the sweetest — of all blessedness the purest and most profound. And next to this high com-

munion with God — next to this joy of passions lulled, and sins slain, and self forgotten in adoring fellowship with the Father of Lights — is their sedater comfort who can pour their griefs into their Heavenly Father’s bosom, or who feel that they have bespoken help against coming toils and trials at their Heavenly Father’s hand. To know that God is near — to know that he is trusted, honoured, loved — to feel that you are acting towards him as a reverential and affectionate child, and that he is feeling towards you as a gracious and compassionate Father — there is in this, itself, an exquisite satisfaction, a present reward.

But, besides this secret reward — this present recompence, of which the praying soul alone is conscious — there is an open reward of secret prayer promised in the text, and verified wherever secret prayer is practised.

1. And, first of all, we remark, that the answer is sometimes open when the prayer is secret. The world sees the result when it little suspects the effectual antecedent. When Jacob and Esau met — on the one side the shaggy chieftain with his four hundred swordsmen, and on the other side the limping shepherd with his caravan of children and cattle — a flock of sheep approaching a band of wolves; when the patriarch took his statf in his hand and stepped forward to meet the embattled company, and the anxious retinue awaited the issue — they saw the tear start into the rough huntsman’s eye — they saw the sword drop from Esau’s hand — they saw his brawny arms round Jacob’s neck — they saw in the red savage a sudden and unlooked-for brother. They saw the result, but they had not seen the prelude which led to it. They had not been with Jacob at the ford of Jabbok the night before. They had not viewed his agony and heard his prayer; and though they noticed the halting limb, they did not know the victory whose token it was. They saw the patriarch, the husband, and the father; but they knew not that he was a prince with God, and had gained Esau’s heart from him who has all hearts in his hand. The reconciliation was obvious, but the wrestling overnight was unknown. The reward was open, but the prayer was secret.

And so there are many benefits which a believer secures by prayer — benefits which the world envies or wonders at, but of which the world knows not the secret source. “This man — there is some charm about him, for all things succeed with him. Tinners in which others fail, he puts-to his hand to them, and instantly they take another turn — they swing right — they stand fast — they prosper well. He has some magic — for whatever be the mischief, he escapes it — whatever be the calamity, it cannot come near him. He has got the talisman which made the wearer invisible, all except his shadow. When any disaster comes down, it crushes that shadow — any blow, it divides that shadow — any trap, it only catches that shadow — his truest self gets always clear off.” You are perfectly right. It is a singular fact — a peculiar circumstance. “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High, shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold, and see the reward of the wicked. Because thou hast made the Lord, who is my refuge, even the Most High, thy habitation, there shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. Thou shalt call upon him, and he will answer thee: he will be with thee in trouble. He will deliver and honour thee.”* Prayer is the talisman. The secret of the Lord’s presence is the protecting charm. The eye of Omniscience detects his dangers, and the hand of Omnipotence clears his path, and finishes his work, and dispels or reconciles his foes. The closet secured it, but the world beholds it. The prayer was secret, but the reward is open.

Amongst these open rewards of secret prayer, we would specify presence of mind and composure of spirit. There are some persons of a calm temperament, who pass sedately through every scene, and are seldom taken by surprise. They are persons of ready wit and exhaustless resources and constant self-command. But there are others fearful and foreboding, easily stunned, and easily agi-

* Psalm xci. L 2 tated. They are perpetually apprehending a lion in the street, and go about any new undertaking with as much anxiety as would suffice for the most arduous enterprise. They will pass by the perilous house on which they are plotting a visit, or at last address themselves to the knocker with as much trepidation as if they expected something very awful to dart from behind it. And when any little incident occurs — any conjuncture requiring promptitude or dexterity — their wits, only agile in forsaking them, are sure to be out of the way. The moment is flown — the propitious instant is past — and it is only when the opportunity is gone and for ever that they perceive the very thing they should have said or done, but in their confusion it did not occur to them. For this sore evil we know no better remedy than the prescription of the text. Prayer calms and fortifies the mind, and so prepares it for the rapid incidents and sudden emergencies of the day. But it does more than this. Just as you may have noticed those who move in the highest circles, and who are accustomed to the loftiest society; they not only continue calm and collected when others are embarrassed or unhinged, but in circumstances of delicacy or distress to others, by a certain high-born address — a certain conscious felicity — they not only save themselves from awkwardness, but give a happy extrication to all around them. So there are certain persons belonging to the peerage of the faithful — men of as old a family as Enoch’s — princely natures who are wont to converse with the King of kings — men who in their walk with God have learned the happy art of possessing their own souls, and tranquillizing the souls of others. Their hearts are fixed, and when they hear of evil tidings, they not only are not themselves afraid, but their assurance comforts and composes others. And beyond all this, the man of prayer is preternaturally prompted and strengthened from above. Like the first disciples, he needs to take no thought how or what he shall say or do, for in the hour of exigency the Holy Ghost will teach him. And hence, in all high emergencies, men of prayer have surpassed themselves, and have felt that a courage, or prudence, or eloquence, was lent them, at which they themselves wondered, and which they only understood by recollecting that in their lack of wisdom they had asked of God. And so, brethren, if you would be carried bravely through scenes of affright — dexterously through scenes of difficulty — or triumphantly through scenes of awful alternative, resort to your Father in secret. When Nehemiah was enabled to put the case of his people so touchingly to the Assyrian monarch — the pathos of his statement — the unwonted kindness of the king — and the prompt concession of his prayer, were the open reward of a secret ejaculation.* And when Paul, on board the foundering ship, played such a gallant part — the prisoner superseding centurion, captain, pilot, and all — the heroic coolness, the veteran sagacity, the sublime composure which made him appear a sort of deity, were the answer to fasting and prayer. When his friends asked the great physician Boerhaave how he could possibly go through so much work from day to day, and pass tranquil through so many fretting scenes, he told them that his plan was to devote the first hour of every morning to prayer and meditation on the word of God.

* Nehemiah ii. 4 — 6.

Another open reward of secret prayer is spirituality of mind. By a spiritual mind, we do not mean a severe mind, or a sombre. We do not mean a peculiar phraseology, or an affected religionism; but we mean that state of a mind right with God, when it is all alive to the things of God — that vividness of faith when the things unseen are very solid, and that vivacity of feeling when things sacred are congenial and interesting and affecting. A spiritual mind is one to which the Bible is something better than a Dictionary, and to which the Sabbath, with its exercises, does not bring the sense of drudgery. It is a mind clear-seeing and keen-hearing; a mind of quick perceptions and prompt emotions; a mind to which the Saviour stands out a living person, and for which heaven is waiting an expected home; a mind so sensitive, that sin makes it writhe with agony, whilst it finds in holiness a true deliciousness, and in God’s conscious favour an elevating joy. Now, brethren, if you would possess such a mind, you must keep it fresh and vegete and lifesome by secret prayer. Some professors are, in this respect, deplorably wanting. Their religion is formality. Their

128 LECTURE ArI.

conversation rather quotes from past experience than utters what they now realize and feel. True piety is like the Vestal fire, which was intended to burn day and night, and never to go out, and which never did go out, so long as they remembered to replenish it day by day. The religious profession of some people is like the ashes on a rusty altar, which show that there once were warmth and light and flame, but which also show that it is long since any worshipped there. Brethren, do you, “morning by morning, pour on the oil of secret prayer, and add the fresh fuel of some Bible truth well pondered, and your fire will not go out. The altar of your heart will never subside to rust and coldness; and you will always have, at least, a little spark with which to kindle others. Or, using a homelier metaphor, religion, in the soul of a man, is like some precious thing in a vessel of ill-seasoned timber. Not only does the rough wear of this rude world sore batter it, but the burning sun of secularity, the glow of daily business, is enough to fill it full of flaws and fissures; and it is only by putting it to steep overnight in the pool of Siloah, that the chinks will close, and the cracked and leaky firkin be rendered fit for another morning’s use. But the man who abounds in secret prayer, will not only preserve his own vitality — he will carry away from God’s presence peace and joy and energy enough to make him a benefactor to others. A man mighty in prayer, is a perpetual comfort — a continual cordial in a world like this. When a prayerless professor tries to comfort the afflicted, he defeats his own well-meant efforts. When he enters the house of mourning, or sits down by the sick man’s side, it is like a traveller coming in from a frosty atmosphere to the chamber of a nervous invalid. Though enveloped in broad-cloth and fur, he brings enough of winter in his clothes to make the poor patient chatter. But the man of prayer carries with him a genial clime. Even in the dead season of the year, when frost is black and fields are iron, he carries summer in his person. “All his garments smell of myrrh and aloes and cassia,” for his closet is the ivory palace — the gay ‘conservatory where flowers of paradise are blooming all the year. There is a gladness in his coming, for he never comes alone. He carries his Saviour with him.

Then we arrive at the crowning recompence — the open reward of the Great Day. At that day no man will be saved for his prayers. It will be said to none, “You have been so holy and so devout, you have prayed so much, and laboured so hard, that on you the second death has no power.” But though it is entirely and solely for the prayers, the precious blood, and perfect righteousness of God’s dear Son, that any soul can enter heaven, there will, at that disclosing day, be a rich reward of secret prayers. When every one receives the things done in the body, eminent intercessor? will receive the final answer to the prayers of a lifetime. Of many of the petitions offered now, we know not what becomes. Some are for places far away; some for people whom we never see again; some for blessings which, if bestowed, we can never know it. But all these prayers are efficacious. If prayers of faith, they all have prevalency. They have effected something; and they are all self-registering. They go into the Book of Remembrance. They keep account of themselves, or rather God keeps it; and when the great day comes round, and the throne is set and the books are opened, it will be seen how much every Christian has prayed, what were the gifts he coveted most earnestly, and what were the petitions he urged most frequently. And strange things will come to light that day. Here is one who: wasj- ever known on earth; perhaps in all the ng.t-hand company none can recollect his n, he. He was very poor. He had no money give to the cause of Christ - hardly the two mites; — and he was very plain, simple, and unlearned. He could not express himself. But Ins name is Israel. He was a prince with God, and see how often he has prevailed. And here is another who was bed-rid many year, could not work, could not visit, could not j write-but she could pray. And see what a benefactress she has been! See this long list of affectionate intercessions for her relatives and neighbours and friends; these many supplications for the Church and the world for the unconverted, for Missions, for mourners in Zion! And see the answers! What a Dorcas she has been-though she could make no garments for the poor! What a Phoebe — though she could not stir a step! What a Priscilla-though she could expound the way

of God to few, for her prayers often did it all! And here is another. He had just escaped from Papal darkness, and was beginning to enlighten others, when he was put in prison, and after months of languishing he went up from Smithfield in his chariot of fire — a maiv 3” of Jesus Christ. He never preached. HeXcwa’s t refused the use of ink and pen. He wm,te nothing. He printed nothing. He spake1., no one, for thick dungeon-walls enclosed him. But he prayed. From the height of his sanctuary the Lord looked down; he heardtlie groaning of this prisoner; and we who sit under the light of Reformation, enjoy the answer.