(A little something based on the 7 portions of Luke 18)

“Pray or quit,” the Lord said. I don’t pray easily–it’s an uphill effort to stop my pace, quieten my mind, and force my thoughts toward God–but I certainly do not want to weaken and quit. I will pray anyway.

Jesus told a story we call the parable of the unjust judge. Every Bible teacher I know has his own twist on this–some saying it teaches persistence, some that it is giving a reverse image of reality, that God is not like the judge, we are not like the widow, and prayer is not about breaking down God’s reluctance but laying hold of His willingness–but I know one thing for sure.

Sometimes I feel God is not listening to a thing I say. I will pray anyway.

The Lord told of two men who went up to the temple to pray, one a self-righteous Pharisee who walked up and addressed God as an equal, the other a bashful tax-collector too ashamed to come near or look up. Both were praying, but Jesus said only the one who admitted to his sin made contact with a forgiving God that day.

Sometimes I feel self-righteous and sometimes unworthy. I will pray anyway.

When the parents brought little children for Jesus to bless, the disciples were protecting Him and hurrying them away, lest the noise and hubbub disturb the Lord. He put a stop to that and held the children up as the very models of what God wanted in each of them.

I’m usually like the erring disciples, and often not very childlike. I will pray anyway.

A man we call the rich young ruler approached Jesus with the question every soulwinner lives for: ‘What must I do to inherit eternal life?’ When the Lord told him, he didn’t like the answer and went away sad. That set off a discussion among the disciples over who can be saved and who cannot. Surely, they had thought, someone so obviously blessed by the Lord as this man had a leg up on the rest of us. Turns out he didn’t and that his wealth was actually an obstacle to his faith. Who knew?

Sometimes I trust in the wrong things to make me right before God. I will pray anyway.

As that sad rich young man disappeared in the distance, the Apostle Peter brightened up. “Lord, we have left everything to follow you!” Jesus informed him that no one can outgive God, that those who leave anything at all in this life to obey Him will be amply rewarded in this life and then, in the world to come, will receive eternal life.

I’ve not left much of anything to follow Jesus. I will pray anyway.

“We’re going into Jerusalem,” Jesus told the disciples, and proceeded to inform them of the events looming just ahead. He would be arrested, mistreated, beaten, and killed. Then, on the third day, He would rise again. For days, they had been wondering what was weighing so heavily on Jesus’ mind, and now He told them. They were anticipating other things once they reached town, so they understood exactly nothing of what He had said.

I am sometimes so clueless as to the work of God in our world and His will in my life. I will pray anyway.

The piece de resistance, the climax, the treasure, of Luke 18 is the story of the healing of a man we call blind Bartimaeus. He’s a sightless, ragged beggar–which makes him a potted plant to the residents of this small city who have long since grown accustomed to seeing him in his usual place by the roadside near Jericho’s wall. Bart is in his place with his tin cup before him when he learns that somewhere in the crowd passing before him walks Jesus of Nazareth Himself. A shiver runs down his spine. He has dreamed of this moment. Always before, he heard of Jesus’ visits to Jericho after the fact. He had made up his mind that the next time the Lord came, they would meet. He had no way of knowing that the next time would be his last chance.

So, Bart rouses himself, slowly crawls to his feet and commences to calling into the air, “Jesus! Son of David! Have mercy!”

The Jerichoans standing nearby tried to quieten the beggar. Here they were trying to receive a distinguished visitor and what happens but a smelly vagrant is drawing attention to himself. But the more they tried to shush him, the louder Bart called out, “Jesus! Son of David! Over here! Have mercy on me!”

Down the road a bit, Jesus came within earshot of the yelling and heard the commotion. “Bring him to me,” He said. Now, His hosts fell all over themselves getting to Bartimaeus to lead him down the road to Jesus. Then the Lord looked at this sad spectacle of a man and said, “What do you want me to do for you?” Bart had been praying for mercy, but Jesus wanted him to get specific. Did he want money, a better begging place, training for the blind, protection from bullies? Mercy could mean anything.

“I want to receive my sight,” Bartimaeus said. And like that, Jesus said, “Receive your sight.” And he did. No dramatics, no mud in the eyes, no slap across the forehead, nothing. Just the word.

Like Bartimaeus, I need to pray. Like him, I pray too generally sometimes when I need to get specific. Unlike him, however, I have been known to quit praying when the answer did not come on my schedule or when something happened to discourage me. I know prayer is my lifeline to the Almighty, the way I touch Heaven and thus, I fail to pray to my own detriment.

Sometimes I get everything about prayer wrong. I will pray anyway.

Nothing encourages my praying like the assurance that our Lord does not require that it be done just so. “He Himself knows our frame,” the psalmist said. “He remembers that we are but dust.” (Ps. 103:14) He is under no illusions about who we are or what we are capable of. Yet, He loves us and wants our worship, imperfect though it may be and inadequate on a hundred levels.

Prayer is not about me. It is not about how qualified I am, how much understanding I have, or how worthy I have become. If God received the prayers of only the able, the faithful, or the mature, He would never listen to anything coming from this direction. As Bartimaeus knew, He is all about mercy. For that, we should get down on our knees and give thanks.

God is our Heavenly Father. He is not an unjust judge, but neither are we helpless widows in His presence. We stand before Him not as worthy but as blessed, not as adults but children, not as wealthy but obedient, not as His benefactors but as His beloved, not as those who understand but those who walk by faith.

And when I pray, I may get it all wrong. I will pray to Him anyway.

There is no time and there are no occasions when prayer is not the right thing to do, the first thing, the most important thing. I do not understand why God answers prayer, nor do I comprehend why He doesn’t. I’m grateful for every answered prayer, and try to be trusting and faithful when answers do not come. He has His own plans, own schedule, and own will–little of which I know at any given moment.

I want to love Him with all my heart, and feel that if I did, my prayers would be more effective and more accepted. Yet, what I often feel is rather a mixture of fear and respect, affection and gratitude, and that doesn’t feel much like prayer at all.

Yet, I give thanks that prayer is not about my emotions. Not about how I’m feeling today or what all I understand about this exercise.

I can think of a hundred obstacles to effective praying and ten times that many reasons why the Father should ignore my prayers sent toward His throne. Yet, He has not asked for my wisdom on this matter. So I have made a decision.

I will pray anyway.