Standing on My Knees (eBook)

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Lord, teach us how to pray…

Well done, you.

Hearty congratulations, because you, sturdy soul that you are, have plucked a book off the shelf that includes the word “prayer” in its subtitle. This was brave of you: I normally run from books about prayer myself. I’m usually overwhelmed by the heady mixture of inspiration and intimidation that mugs me in turn whenever I read about prayer.

The books on prayer that both thrill and terrify me are often well written, carefully researched, meticulously punctuated, and peppered with multitudinous Bible references. They include accounts of epic answers to prayer that should nudge me into praying more than I do, and are stacked with breathless sentences that end with exclamation marks (as in breathless sentences that end with exclamation marks!!). I don’t usually doubt the authenticity of the sensational stories that are recounted, although those who insist that they regularly bump into angels before breakfast do make me wonder.

But my main problem is that books about prayer are usually written by people who are quite good at praying. It makes perfect sense, but is so unhelpful. Want a book about swimming? Hire Michael Phelps, not me. I’ve never even mastered the front crawl – it’s a challenge of coordination. It’s useful if the author of a cookery book can actually fry an egg, or even crack it open without breaking the yolk. Usually, I can’t. Books should be written by those who have a good grasp of their subject. But when it comes to prayer, some “experts” don’t equip me, but edge me into paralysis instead. I get a few pages in, thrill to a few dramatic stories!!, and then feel like a twenty-five-stone arthritic in a Manchester United shirt, playing against David Beckham at Wembley. It’s not a good feeling.

The intimidation reaches dangerous levels when the book talks about any kind of extended prayer. By extended, I mean anything over fifteen minutes or so. Even as I use the phrase extended time of prayer, I blush with shame. Years ago, as an excited pastor desperately in search of some exclamation marks, I joined three other ministers in a misguided effort to provoke God into doing something scintillating. We solemnly informed our bemused spouses that we were going to lock ourselves away in a room, where we would continuously pray and fast for days, even weeks, if necessary, until we saw some kind of spiritual breakthrough. I’m not exactly sure how we were going to know that the much-desired breakthrough had been achieved, but our lack of thoughtful preparation was eclipsed by our enthusiasm. Like most eclipses, it didn’t last long. The “marathon” actually endured for about three hours, by which time I was ready for a cheese and tomato sandwich and a comfortable bed. I blush deeper red as I remember that it was I who announced in a sonorous, “I’ve had a revelation” voice that I “sensed” that our prayer time had achieved what was needed, which was probably driven by my previously mentioned need for Cheddar. I smile when I recall how utterly relieved the other three erstwhile intercessors were, absolutely delighted to disperse and head home, job done. Our spouses welcomed us with feigned surprise.

Others who have done so much better with lengthy seasons of prayer don’t always help me. In researching for this book, I pored over the biographical details of one jolly chap who followed Jesus a hundred years before anything was on television, who passed his days in thrilled solitude, and who was in the habit of crawling into a hollow log for weeks of uninterrupted intercession. This story of log burrowing was supposed to cheer me up and encourage me to head for the woods myself, but instead, I felt profoundly discouraged. I know I wouldn’t last thirty minutes in the bowels of an intercessory tree, and the only “deep ministry” that would result would be the woodlice investigating my underwear. Start talking casually about “the devotional life”, and I get that weary feeling that I experienced when my school report included the comment scrawled in angry red ink: “C+. Could do better.”

Just the other day, I discovered William Penn’s description of the Quaker leader George Fox. It was both awe-inspiring and daunting.

There is no doubting the huge heart of Fox. His life provides rich inspiration for those who want to go beyond superficiality and trite spirituality and find a deeper walk with God. But then I read the description of him again, and am intimidated by Fox’s consistent self-discipline. I ponder his “fewness and fullness” of words and immediately know that all too often chatter gushes out of my mouth with the speed and control of Niagara Falls. And his weighty spirit? Mine is sometimes so lean, I think it’s been to Weight Watchers.

I write daily Bible reading notes, but wonder if I would read the Bible daily if I didn’t write the notes. Every year on New Year’s Eve I enter into solemn vows that include planning to read my Bible right through, and then I invariably come unstuck in the gall bladders of Leviticus or the family trees of Chronicles and Kings. I’m currently developing a Read through the Bible in 300 years course…

Writers of books about prayer often live in an emotional, spiritual land called Utter Certainty. This bold, superlative location is a doubtless zone; awkward questions about pain, suffering, and why my car broke down last month (just after I’d abandoned my roadside assistance insurance) have no place there. I do have occasional day trips to Utter Certainty, and it’s a luxurious resort: I’d like to move in and set up home permanently. Fog is banished in that endlessly summery place, and every detail of the landscape is drawn in bold, solid lines. I would like to make Utter Certainty my home.

But then there are some days – more than I’d like to admit – when I find myself meandering off, like a sheep, to camp out for a while on the chilly, bleak moors of an inhospitable location called Where on earth am I and, by the way, where has God gone? It’s as far away from Utter Certainty as Hawaii is from the Antarctic. In Certainty, the paths are solid underfoot, and well signposted, but in Where on earth, crumbling, unmarked paths snake across impossibly high cliff edges, where just one slip would mean a fatal fall. There are treacherous quicksands that threaten to suck me under for ever, and familiar landmarks disappear in the swirling mists. It’s a place that’s about as warm and friendly as the set of The Hound of the Baskervilles. I stumble on, hoping to spot a welcome light to lead me home. The bitter cold snaps at my fingers and toes, and I long for a guide – or God – to get me out of that wasteland.

Ironically, as I begin this book, I am currently on one such camping trip. I am in two locations at once: in Where on earth am I and, by the way, where has God gone? and also parked in the innards of a large British Airways jet which is aimed at America. I shall shortly be dispensing large chunks of biblical teaching to some assorted gatherings of nice Christian people. The fact that they have invited me to fly over for a chat creates massive pressure. Theirs is a special event, which means that I need to say something special. Even as I tap away, I am being whisked through the sky at 500 miles per hour, my trajectory carefully navigated by computers, enabling Nigel the pilot to announce the time of our projected touchdown to within a minute or two, even though we are still 3,000 miles from our destination.

But the laws of physics and the precision genius of computer chips do not govern my emotional and spiritual condition. Right now, while wrestling with a bland Chicken Caesar salad at 36,000 feet, I feel less certain about my own ability to do anything useful for Jesus. I’m not sure who I doubt more – him or me.

I look around the cabin, survey the backs of the heads of my fellow passengers, and suddenly feel unsettled about my faith. What do they do to cause this spiritual nervous tic? Simple. They unnerve me because of their normality. They sit and nurse their plastic cups and appear to have no concerns about holiness or morality, about the meaning and purpose of life or the life-exploding eruption that breaks upon a person when they discover that there is a Creator alive and well at the heart of the universe. I see no signs of fretfulness on their faces because of the niggling impotence of the church that professes Christ’s name so boldly but sometimes witnesses to his life so pathetically. No, they just sit there, investigating their peanuts, living another hour without apparent depth or significance, mesmerized by just existing. For a moment, I envy them, and feel that to believe all of the time is too much like hard work. I wriggle here in my torturous airline seat, silently wrestling with a few of the deeper questions of life. Why do the good...