I’ve been on a journey all my life to discover the secret of prayer. When I read others’ stories, they don’t match mine. I shift between guilt (not enough) to apathy and forgetfulness, from rote to relationship, from works to worry, from self-condemnation to self-awareness.
I’m reading the biography of Rees Howells who discovered that prayers were best made when they were God-directed. For example: don’t pray for healing unless God directs me to. Yet I do pray for healing of my every ache and pain as well as for everyone in my life who is suffering. But I don’t really expect Him to heal, or I’m so surprised when He does.
Today, Lord, I want to listen, wait, and ask for what is on Your heart. I want to be a prayer warrior.
“Hmmm,” says Jesus. “What does a warrior do?”
Well, he fights—fights for truth, fights against an enemy, defends himself, defends the weak. The weapons of warfare are spiritual, not physical. I know I’m supposed to just stand once I’m fully armed. So I guess the first step is to make sure I’m fully armed. You’re faithful to point out the chinks in my armor. And I know how to stand . . .
“But . . . ?”
But I don’t know how to use words. I don’t know what to say or what to pray for.
“Then why don’t you repeat after me?”
Huh?
“Like when you learned your ABCs or the prayer I gave the disciples or The Lord Rebuke You prayer or . . .”
So it’s that simple? Repeat after You? I can do that. Okay, I’m listening.
“Dear Lord,” He begins.
Wait a minute! You’re sitting right here with me. Why do I need to address You? When I’m talking to my husband, and he’s the only one in the room, I don’t have to say his name to get his attention—unless he’s not listening of course. Do I need to start “Dear Lord” every time?
He laughs. “No, of course not,” He teases. “I was just seeing if you were paying attention.”
Very funny. Ok, try again. I’m listening.
“Hi, Karen.”
Hi, Lord.
I wait. He seems to be thinking. (God has to think? Doesn’t He always know exactly what to say?)
“Okay, repeat after Me:
I, Karen, do solemnly swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me, God.”
This is not funny! What kind of prayer is that!?
“I like honesty. I want you to tell yourself the truth as well as to Me.”
Okay, I’m all in.
“Good. Now tell Me the truth. What’s in your heart?”
Well . . . I’m worried that . . .
“Choose your words. Take your time—and be honest.”
Okay . . . I’m worried that I’ll be judged for how little I pray.
“You mean little in chronos time?”
I suppose.
“Who’s keeping track?”
I suppose I am, for one.
“And?”
And . . . I feel guilty if I neglect to pray, to ask for favors, to cover people with the prayer of protection, to intercede for their needs.
“Intercede . . . ooooh that’s a big word.”
You’re teasing me. (I’m feeling petulant.)
“What do you want, Karen?”
What do I want? What do I really want? I want a heart that is so connected and in tune with You that conversation (prayer) flows as naturally and comfortably as breathing. I want every thought I think and every breath I take to be in sync with Yours. I want our conversation to feel natural, not formal; intimate, not forced or stilted.When I pray for people, I feel like I’m straining to think up stuff to say, but I’m not always sure what to say or if that’s what their true need is.I also want to know how often I should pray for someone. Expectations are daily, and somehow if I miss a day, I believe it’s my fault if they fail or are vulnerable to Satan’s attacks. How’s that for being honest?
“That’s better. What else?”
There’s more?
“Oh, yes. Dig a little deeper.”
It’s about me, isn’t it? It’s about pride. What if someone should discover what a fraud I am? That I don’t spend x number of hours a day on my knees. Or I can’t say with sincerity, “I prayed for you today.” How would that feel? Shameful? Embarrassing? Guilty? Or, since we’re being honest here, how I look compared to so-and-so. How sick is that?
“Anything else?”
Oh, I think that’s enough shame for the moment.
“Okay, what do you want to do about it?”
Me? I thought it was Your job to lift shame and give me truth and offer something in its place.
“Why should I? I didn’t put it there!”
Then who did? Oops . . . I guess I did. Help me, Lord, please. I want to give it up. I really do. But self-shame and blame is too heavy a brick to lift by myself.
(He hands me a sledgehammer.)
I smash the brick into smaller pieces, small enough for me to carry. What to do with them, though? It seems we’re building a brick wall for some sort of dwelling. I’m not sure I understand the significance yet, but brick now feels useful—like it’s serving a purpose.
Oh! I see it now . . . I think we’re building a house of prayer. Okay . . . but still not sure about this.
“There’s more to come,” He says. “For now, let’s stop and get a bite of lunch.”
This morning, when I asked God how best to pray for my friend Suzie, He gave me this visual.
Jesus scooped me up on His white horse, and we flew over to Suzie’s heart castle. I was dismayed to look down and see the devastation. The enemy had penetrated in spite of the thick stone walls around the property. The castle and the grounds had been burned and blackened, and only the charred remains of the beautiful oak trees dotted the landscape.
“So where is Suzie?” I cried.
“Listen,” He said.
And then I heard it. Cries of anguish came from the direction of the one standing turret. I knew then that Suzie was trapped inside, fighting for her life. She had barred and locked the door from the inside, fully armed, on high alert. The enemy troops surrounded the walls and were gleefully gloating, not paying much attention except to their own shenanigans. They knew they were helpless to penetrate the turret, but they didn’t care. They knew that eventually Suzie would run out of food and water, and their mission of destruction would be accomplished.
My inclination was to rush in with a flaming sword and rescue the damsel in distress, but I knew Jesus far too well than to make plans without him. Besides, He had told me I didn’t need to bring any weapons with me because I had Him; and as long as I stayed close to Him, I’d be okay. I looked at Jesus to see what He would do.
We glided over the walls and landed softly in front of the turret. I laughed in glee as the enemy hordes scattered like rats to the edges of the compound. What will He do next, I wondered. Will He knock, inform her that all is well, and that would be that?
Instead, we slid off the horse, and He sat by the door and pulled out a bag of marbles. “Care to play?” He asked.
What!? Really? Well, okay, I trust He knows what He’s doing.
I glanced up to see a shadow cross the window above us.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“She’s noticing the quiet,” He whispered.
I listened. The screeching of the devils around us had stopped, but no sound of birds could be heard or rustling in the trees. Just silence.
Okay, that’s good, I thought. What’s next?
“She needs to know that she’s safe before she will put down her weapons, stop fighting, and rest,” He said. (He had read my thoughts, of course.)
“So why don’t we just go on in and rescue her?” I asked. “You can go through walls.”
“I could . . . but it might scare her, and she’d pick the weapons back up if she hears noises on the stairs. I want her to learn to trust Me. I’m not like the destroyer who’s out to get her. But she doesn’t know that yet.”
“But she might starve to death while You wait for her!” I exclaimed.
He smiled. “Don’t worry, Little One. She’s been starving a long time already. That’s why she called for my help.”
“Then why don’t You help her?” I asked.
“I will . . . as soon as she opens the door and lets Me in.”
“But . . . ?”
“But what?”
The question died on my lips. I already knew the answer. I had learned firsthand the lesson of waiting—when I’m ready . . . when the Kairos time is right . . . at the appointed time, all shall be well.
“Thank You, Jesus, for letting me come with You today. I asked You to help her because I knew You would. But it’s always fun to watch You work. What’s next?”
“Wait and see the salvation of the Lord.”
And so we continued to play marbles on the soft dirt. Then Jesus began to whistle a tune—a lovely melody. (I love it when Jesus sings over me. I hoped it would reach Suzie’s ears so she could hear it too.)
And that’s when we heard the sobbing. Deep, wrenching sobs of pain coming from within the turret walls.
“Now, Jesus?” I looked to see what He would do. I wanted to rush in and scoop her in my arms and tell her all would be well.
He just shook His head, silent, and I knew I was expected to stay still and remain quiet. We both looked up at the same time. A shadow and then a tousled head appeared in the window. She glanced furtively about trying to determine where the sound was coming from. But all she could see was the desolation below in her garden. We were too close to the door for her to see us from that angle.
And so we waited. But it didn’t take long. We heard the sound of footsteps on the spiral stairs, closer and closer to the door. I held my breath. What would she do next? I glanced at Jesus. A little smile played about his lips. I could hear her breathing heavily on the other side of the door, waiting for something. Jesus paused for one beat, then two, and then very softly knocked on the door. “Suzie? It’s Me. Jesus. It’s okay. It’s safe to come out now. You are safe with Me.”
“How do I know it’s You?” she demanded. I’ve been tricked before.
“Tell you what,” He replied. “Why don’t you open the window in your front door and peek outside. Don’t open the door itself until you know it’s Me and not the enemy.”
“Yes, but the last time I did that, I saw what I thought was an angel of light. But when I opened the door, all hell broke loose.”
“Good point,” He countered. “Did you use the Demon Test first?”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I know how much you love My words. You can trust them. They are life and they are true. Remember where I instructed John to write, ‘By this you know the Spirit of God: Every spirit that confesses that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is of God, and every spirit that does not confess that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is not of God” (I John 4:2-3)?’ Ask Me to say these words. The demons are incapable of saying them you know.”
“Okay . . . let me think about that . . . okay, yes, I do trust Your written words. So . . . whoever you are, say those words!”
“Jesus Christ is come in the flesh.”
Slowly and cautiously, the window swung open, and Suzie peered out. Jesus winked at her and smiled. “Good job!” He exclaimed.
And then He nodded over to the black spirits at the perimeter of the compound. Try making them say those words.
“Tell me ‘Jesus Christ is come in the flesh’!” she yelled in their direction.
Some of them smirked; others cringed; but they all looked away, silent.
Jesus waited.
“But what if I open this door and they come rushing back here?”
Silently, Jesus held up His flaming sword so she could see the words written on it:
And take . . . the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God (Eph. 6.17). For the word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart (Heb. 4:12).
“They really don’t like My sword.” He grinned.
And then I smiled because I knew what was coming. I’d seen it hundreds of times. I heard the bolts scraping open. Slowly the door swung inward, and Suzie stepped out into the bright sunshine. She blinked, trying to adjust her eyes. And I saw Jesus sheath the sword and stretch out His hand in invitation. She hesitated. She still wasn’t sure she could trust Him. Maybe He was mad at her. Maybe He was going to whip out that sword to cut her in two. The thought was still very scary.
He lowered His arm. “Care to sit down and play marbles with us?” He asked.
“Marbles!? Are you mad?’ she said. “This place is in shambles; my kingdom is decimated, and you want to play marbles?! Aren’t you going to fix this place? That’s why I prayed to You, you know. You let this happen. Where were You when I was being attacked by the enemy? Where were You when my grandma’s life was cut short? You didn’t care that my parents divorced and left me to fend for myself.”
“Who are you really mad at, Suzie?” He asked gently.
“I’m mad at myself! I’m mad that I trusted you; I’m mad that I trusted other people and they betrayed me. But I’m mad at You too.”
Suddenly she stopped. I could see the fear in her eyes. She had just told off the King of the Universe. Would He strike her down for such insolence and disrespect? He’d done it before. She’d read about it when he disciplined the Israelites. Would He react to her the same way? She shrank back into herself, still on high alert, ready to bolt back into the turret and slam the door if necessary.
Instead, He waited, saying nothing.
When He didn’t make a move, she whispered, “Don’t you care!?” I could hear the silent scream behind the question.
“Yes, I care very much,” He replied. “I cared so much that I died for you so that you could be set free . . . if you want it.”
“Of course I want it,” she retorted. “But You didn’t do anything to stop it. And You didn’t come when I called.”
He waited, silent and patient.
“Well!? Aren’t you going to do something?”
“I’d love to, Suzie. But first, would you be willing to hand your anger to Me? I’m big enough to take it, you know. You’ve been carrying this for so long. How has it helped you? What has your anger done for you?”
“It’s kept me quite safe, thank you.”
He glanced up at the turret. “Sure, sure . . . quite safe . . . and starving.”
“Tell you what,” He added.” How about we do an exchange? You give me your anger, and I’ll give you some bread.”
By this time, Suzie knew her blood sugar was crashing, and she couldn’t keep up the tirade for much longer. Meekly, she handed over the fireball she’d been clutching under her arm, and He produced a warm, fresh-out-of-the-oven slice of bread, thickly slathered with melted butter and raspberry jam. Quickly she wolfed it down and then drank deeply from the bottled water He handed her. It tasted like nothing she’d experienced before—cool and warm at the same time, fizzy, like little sparkles of light dancing on her tongue. And she remembered those ancient words, “I am the Bread of Life; I will give you springs of Living Water.”
Suddenly, she knew she wanted more. More where this came from.
“Jesus?”
“Yes, my child?”
“Thank You.”
There was more, much more, to this story to come I knew. The kingdom had yet to be rebuilt and restored. But I knew there was time, plenty of time, because I knew that God’s timing is always perfect. For now, it was good to know that Suzie was with Jesus, getting to know Him and learning His ways, and would be pouring out all of her pain in the days ahead. It had been a good day.
I have a long list of worries I need to shed NOW! The word responsibility is a balloon banner over my head with strings attached to each of my concerns. With hands cramping from their tight grip, occasionally one string escapes my grasp, and I scramble to grab it without letting go of the others. If I let them all go, does this mean I’m not a responsible person?
But near burnout, I wish I could let them all go. I want to be a kid again where I’m free to explore, and my meals miraculously appear on the table, and play is my most serious activity.
Suddenly the wind catches the balloons, and up, up, up, into the air I go. But now I’m in trouble if let go. My muscles are burning. I want off this ride!
“Look up,” says Jesus. I see He’s holding the responsibility banner, and I’m on a puppet stage. He’s responsible for the “responsible.” That takes the pressure off decision-making, but I’m still not satisfied. He created me with free will, and I don’t want to be a puppet. I don’t want His job as director of the play, nor can I be in the audience. What am I supposed to do?
“Let go of the strings,” He says. Willing to surrender at last, I unclench my fists and drop my arms. I do not fall. I do not collapse. I let go of worry and make life-giving choices.
When a person is ready to face his pain, it’s like giving a thirsty man a drink. But when there’s resistance, you can stand there all day with the cup in your hand, and he won’t reach out to take it. Telling a story sometimes helps when I’m trying to persuade someone to seek healing for emotional wounds.
I have also used stories in an inner healing prayer session with a client with DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder). When there’s resistance, a story can soften the bud and open the flower.
The disciples asked Jesus why He spoke in parables.
He replied, “You’ve been given insight into God’s kingdom. You know how it works. Not everybody has this gift, this insight; it hasn’t been given to them. Whenever someone has a ready heart for this, the insights and understandings flow freely. But if there is no readiness, any trace of receptivity soon disappears. That’s why I tell stories: to create readiness, to nudge the people toward receptive insight. In their present state they can stare till doomsday and not see it, listen till they’re blue in the face and not get it. Matthew 13:11-13 (The Message)
Jesus’ solution (according to The Message) was to tell stories. Those who wanted to hear truth “got it.” Those who didn’t, well, maybe it piqued their curiosity a little. In any case, it got their attention and got them to listen. Which part of the sermon do we remember the longest? The story of course! Even a daydreaming child in the pew will sit up and take notice when a story is told.
While processing some grief issues this week over another person’s unreceptive heart, God told me to write a story to present to this person to see if it would open a discussion. And it did.
The Bible instructs us to keep our vows; however, some vows are unhealthy and must be broken “I’ll never do that again!” or “I’ll build a wall to protect my heart” can be detrimental to our healing journey.
When I was in junior high, my ambition was to become a missionary nurse—just like my mom. But one day, one of my teachers whom I highly respected asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. When I told him, he replied, “Well, you should consider becoming a doctor instead. You have good enough grades.”
To please my teacher, for the next six years I informed everyone I was going to become a missionary doctor, and I began to look into med schools. Very quickly, I realized I really had no passion or even the slightest interest in studying the medical field. And so I floundered, trying to figure out who I was. Consequently, I made a vow never to become a counselor. I did not want to be responsible for guiding someone incorrectly in their life choices. How ironic that I am now pursuing a Master’s in Pastoral Counseling!
Today I read:
Personally I am satisfied about you, my brethren, that you yourselves are rich in goodness, amply filled with all [spiritual] knowledge and competent to admonish andcounsel andinstruct one another also. (Romans 15:14 Amp, Emphasis added):
Note the order:
First comes goodness
Then comes knowledge
Next competency
And finally comes the act of counseling.
Character precedes knowledge. Practice comes before proficiency. I have no business counseling others if I don’t begin with character; and without training, counseling others can be dangerous. In Job 38:2 God asks, “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?” I wonder if I’ll make a good counselor?
A 2023 Update. Technically, I kept my vow since I became in inner healing prayer minister instead of a counselor. However, breaking that vow would have been acceptable as it was made from a place of emotion and wrong motives. Better not to make an unhealthy vow or promise than to have to break it later.
Prejudice is an adverse opinion or leaning formed without just grounds or before sufficient knowledge. (Webster’s Dictionary)
From my 2005 Journal.
I had a dream last night in which a professor told me I had an issue with prejudice. I denied it—but part of me recognizes the truth.
Prejudice has a negative connotation, but prejudice simply means “pre-judging.” We live most of life that way. Before I sit in a chair, I pre-judge that it will hold me up. Why? Because I’ve had prior knowledge and experience with chairs. What happens when we pre-judge people, however? The problem comes when we attribute one characteristic to an entire race, not allowing for individual differences.
What’s the relationship between pre-judging, expectations, and anticipation? When does it become negative, wrong, sinful, unproductive, or damaging? In a court of law, to pre-judge is to declare guilty or not guilty without prior or proper trial. What would be the opposite? No judgment at all? Or . . . judgment after the fact instead of before? How is it possible to avoid pre-judgment of people?
Isn’t prejudice merely a trigger? Reduced to that, it would be easy to detect and feel one’s own prejudice—because there is emotion involved. There are or can be good triggers, can’t there? Or is that suspect too? Pre-judging what Christmas will be like can set you up for disappointment.
A 2022 Perspective: I went through a lengthy period where the Lord worked on my heart about my judgmental attitude. Obviously, I’m not perfect in this area, but looking back, I can see how very far I’ve come.
I’m not sure where or when in my spiritual journey (from the pulpit?) I picked up the notion that we were supposed to strive to do the list of Fruits of the Spirit. “Look over this list,” they’d say. “Which one do you lack? Work at this one today. Be more (“more” is unquantifiable) loving, put on a joyful countenance, exercise patience or self-control.” Shame for failing in any area became a natural by-product of this teaching.
But one day I began to ponder the nature of fruit, and then, thankfully, I heard (from the pulpit?) a correct interpretation of this verse. Spiritual fruit is not a to-do list but rather a by-product, a result of abiding in the Spirit, of being attached to the vine, of mind renewal. I can choose to exhibit the fruits by determination and self-effort, and that is not a bad thing. I can choose not to punch my friend in the face if I’m mad at her. But how much easier and freeing to have these qualities flow out of me naturally, graciously, without effort as a result of inner healing prayer and mind renewal. Even “abiding in the vine” is no longer a grit-my-teeth, work-at-it endeavor. Rather, it is a natural by-product of connecting all parts of my heart to the Lord.
GUILT is like treading on a sandy beach leaving visible footprints. SHAME tries to smooth sand over the prints, but as you walk away, you create more footprints.
GRACE is God sending His wind (the Holy Spirit) and blowing across the sand, erasing all the prints. And even if you fail again, the wind continues to blow.
But how much better to scramble up onto a rock where no footprints can imprint, and no guilt and shame exist.
At my missionary boarding school, I was taught it was a sin to hate. Therefore, if we hated someone, we’d piously say, “Oh, I don’t hate her; I just strongly dislike her!” As if we didn’t say the words, we were not guilty of the deed.
This week the Spirit of God confronted my self-righteousness with a memory where I carried hatred in my heart. As I released that emotion, years of bondage slipped away, and I felt free. Nobody but Jesus knew that sin was there. And nobody but Jesus and the person who prayed with me for deliverance knows it’s gone. But will others sense a change in me? I don’t know. I feel the change, and I know that something is different.
Going for an Oral Interpretation major in college, I once performed a reading with a powerful visual about standing atop a cliff, desperately trying to stop people from going over the edge (presumably to hell). The point was to urge believers to evangelize. I even know one missionary who went overseas because of this visual. But all I ever felt was guilt, helplessness, and powerlessness.
As I sit with my emotions, I notice there are danger signs at the edge of the cliff. In fact, there are warning signs before the danger signs. I’m praying desperately for people to open their eyes and take notice, and if I take my eyes off the scene, I’ll miss someone. Still I feel helpless. I have to DO something. If I sit down to rest, I’ll get stampeded! Where do responsibility and trust intersect?
Jesus says, “Back away from the edge of the cliff, find a bench, sit there and wait. Offer cold drinks and sandwiches to the weary travelers. Invite; don’t panic. Invite them to rest with me and talk. Tell them about the cliff and encourage them to share the news with the other travelers on their path. And if while I’m talking to one, and another passes by, I can just wave and smile. And if I need to sleep for a while, I can ask Jesus (or an angel) to tap me on the shoulder when I need to wake up and pay attention. Whew! That feels better.
In the Pursuit of Peace 