Legalism

Legalism

There was a man named Nicodemus who was one of the Pharisees and an important Jewish leader. One night Nicodemus came to Jesus and said, "Teacher, we know you are a teacher sent from God, because no one can do the miracles you do unless God is with him."

Jesus answered, "I tell you the truth, unless one is born again, he cannot be in God's kingdom."

Nicodemus said, "But if a person is already old, how can he be born again? He cannot enter his mother's body again. So how can a person be born a second time?"

But Jesus answered, "I tell you the truth, unless one is born from water and the Spirit, he cannot enter God's kingdom. Human life comes from human parents, but spiritual life comes from the Spirit. Don't be surprised when I tell you, 'You must all be born again.' The wind blows where it wants to and you hear the sound of it, but you don't know where the wind comes from or where it is going. It is the same with every person who is born from the Spirit."

Nicodemus asked, "How can this happen?"

Jesus said, "You are an important teacher in Israel, and you don't understand these things? I tell you the truth, we talk about what we know, and we tell about what we have seen, but you don't accept what we tell you. I have told you about things here on earth, and you do not believe me. So you will not believe me if I tell you about things of heaven. The only one who has ever gone up to heaven is the One who came down from heaven – the Son of Man.

"Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, the Son of Man must also be lifted up. So that everyone who believes can have eternal life in him.

"God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son so that whoever believes in him may not be lost, but have eternal life. God did not send his Son into the world to judge the world guilty, but to save the world through him. People who believe in God's Son are not judged guilty. Those who do not believe have already been judged guilty, because they have not believed in God's one and only Son. They are judged by this fact: The Light has come into the world, but they did not want light. They wanted darkness, because they were doing evil things. All who do evil hate the light and will not come to the light, because it will show all the evil things they do. But those who follow the true way come to the light, and it shows that the things they do were done through God." (John 3:1-21)

Farmers know that even the most fertile ground will remain barren if they don’t sew some seed, weeds excepted. Apparently, Nicodemus didn't know that. He thought the soil could bear fruit without planting any seeds. He was big on the farmer's part of the equation, but a little short on the seed's part. He was a legalist. And that’s how a legalist thinks – a legalist prepares the soil but forgets the seed.

Granted, Nicodemus came about his legalism honestly. He was a Pharisee, and Pharisees taught that faith was an outside job. What you wore, how you acted, the title you carried, the sound and length of your prayers, the size of your offering – all these were the Pharisees' measures of spirituality. Had they been farmers, let’s say, they would have had the most attractive acreage in the region – painted silos and sparkling equipment. The fences would have been whitewashed and clean. The soil turned over and watered. Had they been farmers they’d have spent hours at the diner discussing the theory of farming. Is it best to fertilize before or after a rain? Do you fallow a field every other year or every third year? Should a farmer wear overalls or jeans? Cowboy hats or baseball caps?

The Pharisees had a problem, however. For all their discussion about the right techniques, they grew very little fruit. In fact, one untrained Galilean had borne more fruit in a few short months than all the Pharisees had in an entire generation, combined. This made them jealous, angry and condescending. And they dealt with Jesus by ignoring his results and insulting his methods. Eventually, they just had him murdered. Nicodemus was an exception. He was curious about the way people listened to Jesus – they listened to Jesus as if he were the only one with the truth; as if he were a prophet.

Nicodemus was stirred by what he saw Jesus do. Like the time Jesus stormed into the temple and overturned the tables of the moneychangers. Nicodemus once knew that kind of passion, but that was a long time ago – before the titles, before the robes, before all the rules. Nicodemus was drawn to the carpenter, but he couldn’t be seen with him because Nicodemus was a member of the Jewish high court, the Sanhedrin. As a result, he couldn’t approach Jesus in the day time, so Nicodemus went to meet him at night. He went in darkness. Appropriate, since legalism offers no light.

Nicodemus starts off the discussion with courtesies: "Teacher, we know you are a teacher sent from God, because no one can do the miracles you do unless God is with him." (v. 2) Jesus disregards the niceties and responds, "I tell you the truth, unless one is born again, he cannot be in God's kingdom." (v. 3) No chitchat. No idle talk. Straight to the heart of the problem. Jesus knows the heart of the legalist is hard, and you can't crack it with a bunch of fluff. You need a chisel, instead. So Jesus hammers away: You can't help the blind by turning up the light, Nicodemus. You can't help the deaf by turning up the music, Nicodemus. You can't change the inside by decorating the outside, Nicodemus. You can't grow fruit without seed, Nicodemus. You must be born again. Whack! Whack! Whack!

The meeting between Jesus and Nicodemus was more than just an encounter between two religious figures. It was a collision between two philosophies; two opposing views on salvation. Nicodemus thought that the person does the work; Jesus says that God does the work. Nicodemus thought it was a trade-off. Jesus said it’s a gift. Nicodemus thought it was man's job to earn it. Jesus said that it was man's job to accept it.

Actually, these two views encompass all views. The world’s religions can be placed in one of two camps: legalism or grace. Humankind does it, or God does it. Salvation as a wage based on deeds done – or salvation as a gift based on Christ's death. A legalist believes the supreme force behind salvation is “you.” If you look right, speak right, and belong to the right segment of the right group, you will be saved. Thus, the brunt of responsibility doesn't lie with God; it rests in you. The result? The outside sparkles. The talk is good. But look closely because something’s missing. Joy.

Because in the place of joy is fear that you won't do enough; arrogance that you have done enough; and failure wondering if you’ve made a mistake of eternal proportions. Legalism’s a dark world. But you wouldn’t know that looking at Nicodemus. He doesn’t appear to be hurting. He's got clout. He's got friends. He studies the Bible. But if you’ve known the crush of legalism, you know that it’s the slow and gradual suffocation of the Spirit. Legalism is just enough religion to keep you, but not enough to nourish you. So you gradually starve. And your teachers don't know where to go for food, so you starve together. Your diet is rules and standards. No vitamins. No taste. Just bland, predictable religion.

Reminds me of a friend of mine. When he was about eight years old he was part of a boys' choir. They met two nights a week for two hours. They wore blazers and sang at banquets. They even went on the road. Their instructor was an ex-drill sergeant, and before he ran a boys' choir he ran a boot camp. Apparently, some of the camp spilled over into the choir because every evening, during rehearsals, the choir took a marching break. Yeah, they’d go outside and march in formation. He gave the commands, and the choir did the turns. "Hut, two, three, four. Hut, two, three, four." At first, my friend didn't question the practice because he was frightened of the former sergeant. Finally, he summoned up enough courage to ask a choir buddy to explain the marching thing. "Why are we doing this?" "I don't know," was the response. "Well, where are we going?" "I don't know that either," was the reply. No one did. For two years my friend marched two nights every week, but no one knew where they were going and no one knew why. They just knew that if they wanted to sing in the choir they’d better stay in step. That's legalism.

It's rigid. It's uniform. It's mechanical – and it's not from God. The truth is that legalism doesn't need God. Legalism is the search for innocence — not forgiveness. It's a systematic process of defending self, explaining self, exalting self, and justifying self. Legalists are obsessed with self – not God. Legalism turns my opinion into your burden – there’s only room for one opinion in this boat, so guess who’s wrong? It turns my opinion into your boundary – your opposing opinion makes me question not only your right to have fellowship with me, but your salvation, too. It turns my opinion into your obligation – Christians have got to toe the company line. Your job isn't to think, it's to march. So, if you want to be in the group, you’d better stay in step and don't ask any questions.

Nicodemus certainly knew how to march since he was usually at the head of the parade. But Nicodemus really wanted to sing, instead. He knew there was something more, but he didn't know where to find it. So he went to Jesus, but he went at night because he feared the displeasure of his peers. Oh yeah, legalism does that, too: it puts the fear of man in you. It makes you approval-hungry. You become keenly aware of what others will say and think, and you do what it takes to please them. Conformity is not very fun, but it's safe. The uniform doesn't fit but it's approved, so you wear it. You don't know why you’re marching or where you’re going – but who are you to ask any questions? So you stay in step and plod down the path of least resistance. And if you dare explore another trail, you’d better do it at night, just like Nicodemus. So, he snuck through the shadows and crept through the streets until he stood in the presence of Christ. And in the conversation, Nicodemus, the renowned teacher of the law, spoke only three times: once to compliment and twice to question. Because after a lifetime of weighing the jots and tittles of Scripture in his scale of logic, the scholar suddenly becomes silent as Jesus opens the gate, and the light of grace floods the catacombs of Nicodemus’ heart.

Jesus begins by revealing the source of spirituality: "Human life comes from human parents, but spiritual life comes from the Spirit." (v. 6) Spiritual life is not a human endeavor; it’s rooted in, and orchestrated by the Holy Spirit. Every spiritual achievement is created and energized by God. Spirituality, Jesus says, doesn’t come from church attendance, or good deeds, or correct doctrine, but from heaven itself. Those words, alone, must have blown Nicodemus’ mind. But Jesus was just getting warmed up. "The wind blows where it wants to and you hear the sound of it, but you don't know where the wind comes from or where it is going. It is the same with every person who is born from the Spirit." (v. 8)

Have you ever had a gust of wind come to you for help? Or, have you ever seen a wind-storm on the side of the road catching its breath? No, you haven't. The wind doesn't seek our aid. Wind doesn't even reveal its destiny. It's silent and invisible, and so is the Spirit. And by now Nicodemus is getting edgy, because that kind of light is too bright for his eyes. Religious teachers like to control and manage; they define and outline. Structure and clarity are the friend of the preacher. But they aren't always the protocol of God. Salvation is God's business. Grace is his idea, his work, and his expense. He offers it to whom he desires, when he desires. Our job in the process is to inform the people, not screen them.

So the question must have been written all over Nicodemus' face. Why would God do this? What could possibly motivate him to offer such a gift? And what Jesus told Nicodemus he could never have imagined. The motive behind the gift of new birth? Love. "God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son so that whoever believes in him may not be lost, but have eternal life." (v. 16)

Nicodemus had never heard those kinds of words before. Never. He’d had lots of discussions about salvation, but this is the first time where no rules were given. No system was offered. No code or ritual. "Everyone who believes can have eternal life in him," Jesus told him. Could God really be that generous? Even in the darkness of night, the amazement must have been noticeable on Nicodemus' face. Everyone who believes can have eternal life. Not "everyone who achieves." Not "everyone who succeeds." Not "everyone who agrees." But "everyone who believes."

Note how God liberated this legalist. Like a master farmer, he shoveled away the crusty soil until a moist, fertile spot was found, and there he planted a seed, a seed of grace. And did it bear fruit? Well, read for yourself:

Nicodemus, who earlier had come to Jesus at night, went with Joseph. He brought about seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes. These two men took Jesus' body and wrapped it with the spices in pieces of linen cloth, which is how Jewish people bury the dead. In the place where Jesus was crucified, there was a garden. In the garden was a new tomb that had never been used before. The men laid Jesus in that tomb. (John 19:39-42)

Strange how a man like Nicodemus can go full circle in the kingdom. The one who'd come at night now appears in the day. The one who crept through the shadows to meet Jesus now comes to the cross to serve him. And the one who'd received the seed of grace now plants the greatest seed of all – the seed of eternal life that sprung from the tomb of the risen Savior.

I guess there’s help for legalists after all. Thank God.

Grace,

Randy

Stand

Stand

Some time later came one of the Jewish feast-days and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. There is in Jerusalem near the sheep-gate a pool surrounded by five arches, which has the Hebrew name of Bethzatha (the Pool of Bethesda). Under these arches a great many sick people were in the habit of lying; some of them were blind, some lame, and some had withered limbs. (They used to wait there for the “moving of the water,” for at certain times an angel used to come down into the pool and disturb the water, and then the first person who stepped into the water after the disturbance would be healed of whatever he was suffering from.) One particular man had been there ill for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there on his back — knowing that he had been like that for a long time, he said to him, “Do you want to get well again?” “Sir,” replied the sick man, “I just haven’t got anybody to put me into the pool when the water is all stirred up. While I’m trying to get there somebody else gets down into it first.”

“Get up,” said Jesus, “pick up your bed and walk!” At once the man recovered, picked up his bed and walked. (John 5:1-9)

This story didn't make a lot of sense to me at first. It's about a man who barely has enough faith to stand, but Jesus treats him like he’s an Abraham who put his son on a sacrificial altar for God. Maybe martyrs and apostles deserve that kind of honor, but not some pauper who doesn't even know Jesus when he sees him. Or, at least that’s what I thought. I thought the story was too good to be true. Then I realized that the story isn't just about some invalid in Jerusalem. It’s actually a story about me, and maybe you, too. Because that man isn't some nameless disabled person. He has a name – it’s mine. He has a face – maybe it’s yours. And he has a problem – just like us.

Jesus encounters the man near a large pool north of the temple in Jerusalem. It's 360 feet long, 130 feet wide, and 75 feet deep. A colonnade with five porches overlooked this body of water. It was a monument to wealth and prosperity, but its occupants were the sick and the diseased. It's called Bethesda. But it could be called “Central Park,” or “Metropolitan Hospital,” or “Joe's Bar & Grill,” for that matter. It could be the homeless huddled beneath a freeway overpass. It could be any collection of hurting people. An underwater spring caused the pool to bubble occasionally, but the hurt and hopeless believed that the bubbles were caused by the dipping of angels' wings. They also believed that the first person to touch the water after the angel did would be healed. Did healing actually occur? I don't know. But I know that crowds of invalids came to give it a try because what’d they have to lose?

Picture a battleground strewn with wounded bodies, and you see Bethesda. Imagine a nursing home overcrowded and under-staffed, and you see the pool. Picture the orphans in Bangladesh, or the abandoned in New Delhi and you’ll see what people saw when they passed Bethesda. And as they passed, what’d they hear? Probably an endless wave of groans. What did they witness? A football-sized field of faceless need. And what’d they do? Most walked past, ignoring the suffering. But not Jesus.

Jesus is in Jerusalem for a feast. He’s alone this time. He's not there to teach the disciples, or to draw a crowd. The people need him – so he’s there. Picture that. Jesus walking among the suffering. And what’s he thinking? When an infected hand touches his ankle, what does he do? When a blind child stumbles into Jesus' path, does he reach down to catch him or her? When a wrinkled hand extends for alms, how does Jesus respond? And whether the watering hole is Bethesda or Joe’s Bar & Grill, how does God feel when people hurt? Well, just watch him walk.

It’s worth re-telling this story just to know that he even came. He didn't have to. Surely there were more sanitary crowds in Jerusalem. Certainly there were more enjoyable activities that Jesus could have done while he was in town. After all, this is the Passover feast. It's an exciting time to be in Jerusalem. People have come hundreds of miles to meet God at the temple. Little did they know that God was wandering through a hospital ward. Little did they know that God was walking slowly, stepping carefully between the lame and the blind and the infirmed. Little did they know that the strong young carpenter who surveyed this ragged landscape of pain was God in the flesh. "When they suffered, he suffered also," Isaiah wrote. (Isa. 63:9) And on this day, Jesus must have suffered a lot.

On this particular day Jesus must have sighed heavily as he walked along the poolside of Bethesda. And he sighs when he comes to me and you because there we are, filling the white space between the letters of verse 5: "A man was lying there who had been sick for thirty-eight years." Now, maybe you don't like being described that way. Maybe you'd rather see yourself with the courage of a David, or the devotion of a Mary. We all would. But before you and I can be like them, we’ve got to come to grips with the fact that we’re like the paralytic – invalids out of options. Can't walk. Can't work. Can't care for ourselves. Can't even roll down the bank to the pool to cash in on the angel water. We’re powerless. We’re flat on our backs, and we’ve been this way for longer than we can remember.

Granted, maybe you walk bolt upright, have 20/20 vision and can't imagine what you and this forty-something invalid have in common. How could he be you? What do we possibly have in common with that guy? Simple. Our predicament. The predicament? It’s described in Hebrews 12:14: "Anyone whose life is not holy will never see the Lord." That's our predicament – only the holy will see God. Holiness is a prerequisite to heaven. Perfection is a requirement for eternity. I wish it weren't so, and most of the time we act like it isn't. We act like those who are "decent" will see God. We suggest that those who try hard enough will see God. We act as if we're good if we never do anything too bad, and that goodness is enough to qualify us for heaven. Sounds right to us, but it doesn't sound right to God.

God sets the standard. And the standard’s pretty high. "You must be perfect, just as your Father in heaven is perfect." (Matt. 5:48) You see, in God's plan, God is the standard for perfection. We don't get to compare ourselves to others; they’re just as messed up as we are. The goal is to be like Him; anything less is inadequate. That's why we’re like the invalid. We’re paralyzed. We’re trapped. We’re stuck and we have no solution for our predicament. That's you and me lying on the ground. That's us – wounded and weary. When it comes to healing our spiritual condition, we don't have a chance. We might as well be told to pole-vault the Grand Canyon. We don't have what it takes to heal ourselves. Our only hope is that God will do for us what he did for the man at Bethesda – that he will step out of the temple and step into our hospital ward of hurt and helplessness. Which is exactly what he’s done.

Read Paul's description of what God has done for me and you: "When you were spiritually dead because of your sins and because you were not free from the power of your sinful self, God made you alive with Christ, and he forgave all our sins. He canceled the debt, which listed all the rules we failed to follow. He took away that record with its rules and nailed it to the cross. God stripped the spiritual rulers and powers of their authority. With the cross, he won the victory and showed the world that they were powerless." (Col. 2:13-15)

And as you look at what God’s done, who’s doing the work here? You or God? Who’s active? You or God? Who’s doing the saving? You or God? Who’s the one with strength? And who is the one paralyzed? Just look at our condition: "When you were spiritually dead … and … you were not free." The invalid was better off than we are. At least he was alive. Paul says that if you and I are outside of Christ then we’re dead. Spiritually dead. Corpses. Lifeless. Dead. And what can a dead person do? Not much.

But look at what God can do with the spiritually dead. "God made you alive." "God forgave." "He canceled the debt." "He took away that record." "God stripped the spiritual rulers." "He won the victory." "[He] showed the world." Again, the question is: Who’s active in this imagery? You and I – or God? Who’s trapped and who comes to the rescue? God’s thrown life jackets to every generation.

Look at Jonah in the belly of the fish. For three days God’s left him there. For three days Jonah pondered his choices. And for three days he’d come to the same conclusion: he didn’t have one. From where he sits there’s only two exits, and neither are very appealing. But then again, neither is Jonah. He blew it as a preacher. He was a flop as a fugitive. At best he's a coward, and at worst a traitor. So Jonah does the only thing he can: he prays. He says nothing about how good he is, but a lot about how good God is. He doesn't even ask for help, but that’s exactly what he gets. Because before he can say “Amen,” the fish belches and Jonah lands face first on the beach with a renewed conviction to preach to the lost.

Or, look at Daniel in the lions' den; his prospects aren't much better than Jonah's. Jonah had been swallowed, and Daniel is about to be dinner. Flat on his back with the lions' faces so close he can smell their breath. The biggest one puts a paw on Daniel's chest and leans down to take the first bite and . . . nothing. The lion's lips are snarling, but his mouth isn't opening. That's when Daniel hears the snickering in the corner of the lion’s den. He doesn't know who the fellow is, but he sure is bright and he sure is having fun. In his hands is a roll of bailing wire, and on his face is one of those gotcha-while-you-weren't-watching expressions.

How about Joseph in the pit, which was nothing but a chalky hole in a hot desert? The lid has been pulled over the top and the wool has been pulled over his eyes. Those are his brothers up there, laughing and eating as if they’d done nothing more than tell their little brother to get lost. Those are his brothers, the ones who have every intention of leaving him to spend his days with the spiders and the snakes, and then die in the pit. Like Jonah and Daniel, Joseph is trapped. He’s out of options. There’s no exit. There’s no hope. But because Jacob's boys were as greedy as they were mean, Joseph’s sold to some southbound gypsies and he changes history. Though the road to the palace takes a detour through a prison, it ends up at the throne. And Joseph eventually stands before his brothers – this time with their asking him for his help. And he’s wise enough to give them what they ask, and not what they deserve.

Or, look at Barabbas on death row. The final appeal has been heard. The execution has been scheduled. Barabbas passes the time playing solitaire in his cell. He's resigned to the fact that the end’s near. He doesn't appeal, implore or demand. The decision’s been made, and Barabbas is going to die. Like Jonah, Daniel and Joseph, it's all over but the crying. And like Jonah, Daniel and Joseph, the time to cry never comes. The steps of the warden echo in the hallway and Barabbas thinks he's bringing handcuffs and a final cigarette. Wrong. The warden is bringing his street clothes, instead. And Barabbas leaves the prison a free man because someone he'd probably never met took his place.

And those are just a few of the stories in the Bible. One near-death experience after another. Just when the neck is on the chopping block, just when the noose is around the neck, Calvary comes. Angels pound on Lot's door (Genesis 19); the whirlwind speaks to Job's hurt (Job 38-42); the Jordan purges Naaman's plague (2 Kings 50); the Red Sea parts and the people are saved (Exodus 14); an angel appears in Peter's cell (Acts 12). God's efforts are strongest when our efforts are useless.

So, go back to Bethesda with me for a moment. Before Jesus heals the man, he asks him a question: "Do you want to be well?" It seems like a silly question – of course he’d want to be healed. But maybe the man had grown accustomed to his disability, preferring the pain he knew to the terror of what he hadn’t known for almost 40 years. But that’s faith – it’s confidence in the things we hope for, and the conviction that what we don’t see really exists. (Heb. 11:1). "Sir, there is no one to help me get into the pool when the water starts moving. While I am coming to the water, someone else always gets in before me." (v. 7) So, is this guy complaining? Is he feeling sorry for himself ? Or, is he just stating the facts? Who knows. But before we think about it too much, look what happens next: "'Stand up. Pick up your mat and walk.' And immediately the man was well; he picked up his mat and began to walk."

I wish we would do that; I wish we would take Jesus at his word. I wish that we would learn that when he says something, it happens. What is this paralysis that so confines us? What’s this stubborn unwillingness to be healed? When Jesus tells us to stand, let's stand. When he says we're forgiven, let's unload the guilt. When he says we're valuable, let's believe him. When he says we're eternal, let's bury our fear. When he says we're provided for, let's stop worrying. When he says, "Stand up," let's do it.

It reminds me of the story of the Private who ran after the runaway horse of Napoleon. When he brought the animal back to the emperor, Napoleon thanked him by saying, "Thank you, Captain." With one word the Private had been promoted. When the emperor said it, the Private believed it. He went to the quartermaster, selected a new uniform, and put it on. He went to the officers' quarters and selected a bunk. He went to the officers' mess and had a meal. Because the emperor said it, he believed it. The Private had been changed with a word. He was promoted. Would that we would do the same.

Is Bethesda your story? Maybe so. All the elements are the same. A gentle stranger has stepped into your hurting world and offered you a hand. Take it. Stand up and be healed.

Grace,

Randy

Pray

^Pray

When they returned to the other disciples, they saw a large crowd surrounding them, and some teachers of religious law were arguing with them. When the crowd saw Jesus, they were overwhelmed with awe, and they ran to greet him.

“What is all this arguing about?” Jesus asked.

One of the men in the crowd spoke up and said, “Teacher, I brought my son so you could heal him. He is possessed by an evil spirit that won’t let him talk. And whenever this spirit seizes him, it throws him violently to the ground. Then he foams at the mouth and grinds his teeth and becomes rigid. So I asked your disciples to cast out the evil spirit, but they couldn’t do it.”

Jesus said to them, “You faithless people! How long must I be with you? How long must I put up with you? Bring the boy to me.”

So they brought the boy. But when the evil spirit saw Jesus, it threw the child into a violent convulsion, and he fell to the ground, writhing and foaming at the mouth.

“How long has this been happening?” Jesus asked the boy’s father.

He replied, “Since he was a little boy. The spirit often throws him into the fire or into water, trying to kill him. Have mercy on us and help us, if you can.”

“What do you mean, ‘If I can’?” Jesus asked. “Anything is possible if a person believes.”

The father instantly cried out, “I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!”

When Jesus saw that the crowd of onlookers was growing, he rebuked the evil spirit. “Listen, you spirit that makes this boy unable to hear and speak,” he said. “I command you to come out of this child and never enter him again!”

Then the spirit screamed and threw the boy into another violent convulsion and left him. The boy appeared to be dead. A murmur ran through the crowd as people said, “He’s dead.” But Jesus took him by the hand and helped him to his feet, and he stood up.

Afterward, when Jesus was alone in the house with his disciples, they asked him, “Why couldn’t we cast out that evil spirit?”

Jesus replied, “This kind can be cast out only by prayer.” (Mark 9:14-29)

Some people pray like a jet fighter – their words are smooth, sleek, high and mighty. Their prayers seem to reverberate in the clouds, sending sonic booms throughout the heavens. Others, like me, are more like a crop duster. We’re not flashy, we fly low, we cover the same ground over and over and, frankly, sometimes it’s a challenge just to crank up the engine.

I think many of us are like that, and that most of our prayer lives could probably use a tune-up. Some prayer lives lack consistency. They're either a desert or an oasis. Long, arid, dry spells interrupted by brief plunges into the waters of communion with God. We go for days or weeks without consistent prayer, but then something happens – we hear a sermon, read a book, experience a tragedy – something leads us to pray, so we dive in. We submerge ourselves in prayer and leave refreshed and renewed. But as the journey resumes, our prayers don't seem to travel so well.

Others need some sincerity. Their prayers are a little hollow, memorized and rigid. More liturgy than life. More form over substance. And though they’re daily, they’re dull. Still others lack, well ..… honesty. We honestly wonder if prayer makes a difference because why on earth would God in heaven want to talk to me? I mean, if God knows everything, who am I to tell him anything? And if God’s in control, who am I to do anything?

If you, like me, struggle with your prayer life, I've got just the guy for you. You’ll like him. He's not a saint, or some knobby-kneed apostle. He’s not a prophet whose middle name is “Meditation,” or a too-holy-to-be-you reminder of how far you need to go in your prayer life. He's just the opposite, actually. He’s a fellow crop duster. He’s a parent with a sick son in desperate need of a miracle. And this guy’s prayer isn't much of a prayer, but the answer certainly is. And the result reminds us that the power is not in the prayer; it's in the one who hears it.

This dad prayed out of desperation. His son, his only son (Luke 9:38), was demon-possessed. Not only was he a deaf mute and an epileptic, he was also possessed by an evil spirit. And ever since the boy was young, the demon had thrown him in fires and water of any source. Imagine the pain of that father. Other dads watched their children grow and mature; he could only watch his child suffer. While others were teaching their sons an occupation, he was just trying to keep his son alive. What a challenge. And he couldn't leave his son alone for a minute because who knew when the next attack would come? The dad had to remain on call, on alert twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He was desperate and tired, and his prayer reflected both: "If you can do anything for him, please have pity on us and help us."

Listen to that prayer. Does that sound courageous to you? Confident? Strong? Hardly. One word would have made a lot of difference. Instead of “if,” what if he'd said “since”? "Since you can do anything for him, please have pity on us and help us." But that's not what he said. He said “If.” The Greek is even more emphatic. The Greek tense implies doubt. It's as if the man was saying, "This one's probably above your pay grade, Jesus, but if you can . . . ."

A classic crop-duster approach. More meek than mighty. More timid than towering. More like a crippled lamb coming to a shepherd, than a proud lion roaring in the jungle. And if his prayer sounds like yours, then don't be discouraged because that's where prayer starts. It begins as a yearning. An honest appeal. Ordinary people staring at their personal Mount Everest. No pretense. No boasting. No posturing. Just prayer. Feeble prayer, but prayer nevertheless.

Sometimes we’re tempted to wait to pray until we know how to pray. Even the disciples asked Jesus how to pray. But we've heard the prayers of the spiritually mature, and we know we don’t measure up. Not by a long-shot. We've read of the rigors of the religiously disciplined, and we’re absolutely convinced that we've got a long way to go. And since we'd rather not pray than pray poorly, we just don't pray. Or, we pray infrequently. So, we just wait until we learn how to pray.

Good thing this man didn't make that same mistake. He wasn't much of a prayer, mind you, and his prayer wasn't much of a prayer at all. The guy even admits it: "I do believe," he quickly responded, just "help me to believe more." (Mark 9:24) That kind of prayer certainly isn't destined for a worship manual. No Psalm will ever be written about that one. His was a simple prayer. In a word? “Help.”

No incantation. No chant. No flowery language. Fewer than ten words. But Jesus responded. And he didn’t respond because of the eloquence of the man, but to his pain, instead. Now mind you, Jesus had a bunch of reasons why he could have simply ignored this man's feeble request.

For one thing, Jesus was just returning from the mountain, the Mount of Transfiguration. While there his face had changed and his clothes had become as bright as a flash of lightning. (Luke 9:29) A roaring radiance had poured out from him. The burdens of earth were replaced with the splendors of heaven. Moses and Elijah came, and angels encouraged the gathered. He was transfigured. And while the journey up that mountain was exhilarating, the journey down was downright disheartening.

For instance, look at the chaos that greets him as he returns. The disciples and the religious leaders are arguing. A crowd of bystanders is gawking. A boy, who has suffered his entire life, is on public display. And a father who'd come for help is despondent and confused as to why no one can do anything about it. No wonder Jesus says, "You people have no faith. How long must I stay with you? How long must I put up with you?" (v. 19) Never has the difference between heaven and earth been so stark. Never has the arena of prayer been so poor. Because where’s the faith in this picture? The disciples have failed, the scribes are amused, the demon is victorious, and the father is desperate. You'd be hard-pressed to find a needle of belief in that haystack.

Maybe that’s true for you, too. Maybe you’re hard-pressed to find the needle in your own haystack of a life. Your world seems a long way from heaven: a noisy house with screaming kids instead of singing angels; problems so overwhelming that you can't even begin to remember the last time when you didn't wake up to those particular demons. And yet out of the din of doubt comes your timid voice, "If you can do anything for me . . . ."

But does that kind of prayer really make a difference? Well, let Mark answer that question. “When Jesus saw that a crowd was quickly gathering, he ordered the evil spirit, saying, ‘You spirit that makes people unable to hear or speak, I command you to come out of this boy and never enter him again.’ The evil spirit screamed and caused the boy to fall on the ground again. Then the spirit came out. The boy looked as if he was dead, and many people said, ‘He is dead!’ But Jesus took hold of the boy's hand and helped him to stand up.” (Mark 9:25-27)

This troubled the disciples, because as soon as they got away from the crowds they asked Jesus, "Why couldn't we force that evil spirit out?" And Jesus’ answer? "That kind of spirit can only be forced out by prayer." But what prayer? What’s Jesus talking about? Whose prayer made the difference?

Was it the prayer of the apostles? No, they didn't pray. Jesus had just confirmed that. Well, maybe it was the prayers of the religious know-it-alls. Maybe they went to the temple and interceded for the boy. No. The scribes didn't pray either. Who needs prayer when you’re busy interpreting and enforcing God’s law? Well, then, it must have been the crowd. Perhaps they held a prayer vigil for the child. Nope. The people didn't pray, either. They never bent a knee. They were too busy gawking at the freak show. Then what prayer could possibly have led Jesus to deliver the demon? Well, there’s only one prayer in the story, right? It's the honest prayer of a hurting man. And since God is moved by our hurt rather than our eloquence, he responded. That's what fathers do.

That's exactly what Jim Redmond did. His son Derek, a twenty-six-year-old Briton, was favored to win the 400 meter race in the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. With 120 meters to go in his semifinal heat, a fiery pain suddenly seared through Derek’s right leg. He crumpled to the track with a torn hamstring. As the medical attendants were approaching, Derek fought to his feet. "It was animal instinct," he would later say. He set out hopping and pushing away the coaches in a desperate attempt to finish the race. When he reached the final turn, a big man pushed through the crowd. He was wearing a t-shirt that read "Have you hugged your foot today?" and a hat that challenged anyone who cared to "Just Do It." The man was Jim Redmond, Derek's father.

"You don't have to do this," he told his weeping son. "Yes, I do," Derek declared. "Well, then," Jim said, "we're going to finish this race together." And they did. Jim wrapped Derek's arm around his shoulder and helped him hobble to the finish line. Fighting off security men, and with the son's head – at times – buried in his father's shoulder, they stayed in Derek's lane to the very end. The crowd clapped, then stood, then cheered, and then wept as the father and son finished the race – together.

Now, what in the world made Jim do that? What made a dad leave the stands, race past security like a mad man, fend off coaches and then medical attendants just so that he could meet his son on the track in a race he had already lost? Was it the strength of his child? No, it was the pain of his child. His son was hurt and fighting just to finish the race. So the father came to help him finish. And God does the same.

Your prayers may be awkward. Your attempts may be feeble. Your words may be few. They may lack confidence, much less courage. But since the power of prayer is in the one who hears it and not in the one who says it, your prayers – my prayers – do make a difference.

So, just do it. Pray.

Grace,

Randy