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Time to Listen
They were within walking distance of each other, these breakfast places. But they were worlds apart. Both served the homeless population of Washington, D.C.
At one, the doors opened to a few hundred hungry people each morning. Those first in line took their tray and found a seat on the far end of the room. They filled in the tables, one long row at a time. No exceptions. Most knew the drill. It was an orderly, cold process. By the time the tables filled on the near side, they were emptying on the far side. Volunteers wiped them clean, preparing for the next wave of people off the streets.
At the other place, only a few dozen folks walked sleepily through the doors at the start of any given day. Here, they could choose any empty seat. No need to rush. This wasn’t simply hurry up, eat, and be on your way now. This was a prayer breakfast, the place I first heard someone pray, “Thank you, Lord, for waking us up this morning!!!”
Before the food came off the stove in the kitchen, the preachers preached. Sometimes there were songs. Sometimes these men and women – with no home and no worldly possessions other than what they could carry – stood up to offer their personal testimony to almighty God. Every now and then, one of them offered a silent testimony to anyone who would see, as they read again from the ragged pages of a Bible they knew as well as the streets they called home.
The ones who chose to go here could have chosen the place just a few streets over, the hurry up, eat, and be on your way place. But they didn’t. They chose this place. It wasn’t unlike any congregation, though. As the preachers preached some folks hung on every word, waiting for the Holy Spirit to shake an “Amen!” from their soul. Others fought hard to keep their eyes open. Others stole glances at the clock, squirming in their seat.
The preacher man with the Jamaican accent, he was my favorite. I remember him going on and on for 45 minutes one morning, and I was sorry he stopped.
Another preacher man there … Well, I was usually sorry he started. One morning, I heard him stand before God’s children from the streets and tell them, “If you pray hard enough for a Cadillac you will get it.”
I didn’t shout Amen. His words took my breath away.
I imagined what those who had chosen this place over the other, the ones who were seeking not just physical nourishment but spiritual nourishment as well, might think about such a bizarre claim.
“I’ve got no place to go when I leave here, no guarantee I’ll get a bed in the shelter tonight, nothing to break these chains of poverty … And God is giving some people a Cadillac when they pray? What’s wrong with me? What have I done to God? Why won’t He answer my prayers? Why won’t He break these chains? I don’t want a Cadillac. I just want to go to bed tonight and not to be afraid to close my eyes.”
My heart hurt that day for the ones who weren’t drifting off, for the ones who weren’t squirming in their seats and looking toward the kitchen.
How could they walk out those doors believing God was walking alongside them into the unknown of another day and not cruising the streets in someone else’s new Cadillac?
The preacher man said it. But just because he said it doesn’t mean it was right.
Even as I remember the outrage I felt on that day, I also remember the foolish prayers I’ve prayed over the course of my life – prayers that were veiled attempts to manipulate God into giving me what I wanted because I knew what was best for me, prayers that were desperate attempts to convince God that I or someone I loved deserved His intervention in some trivial matter.
Sometimes, I wonder what our prayer lives would be like if God gave each of us a limited number of prayers to last us a lifetime. It sounds like a plot for a movie.
Instead, the Apostle Paul urges us to pray without ceasing, which doesn’t mean we should fall out of bed onto our knees every morning and pray until it’s time to crawl back into bed at night. Yes, we should be intentional about dedicated prayer time, when we bare our souls to the One who created it, when we listen in silence for the answers we seek, when we offer prayers on the behalf of others. But I believe pray without ceasing means to acknowledge that God is with us in every moment, perhaps preparing to move us in some mysterious, unexpected way, perhaps simply waiting for us to thank Him for waking us up today. When we are in a relationship we engage in conversation at any given moment, but not at every given moment. Pray without ceasing means to live life in conversation with God.
At that same prayer breakfast in our nation’s capital, on a different morning, I sat and listened to a homeless man tell me about his demons while we ate. He talked for at least 20 minutes. I didn’t say much. When it came time to go our separate ways, I reminded him that making bad choices doesn’t make us bad people. I also told him I wasn’t sure I’d offered him much wisdom to remember in our time together.
“You listened to me,” he said, emphasizing every word with a conviction that seemed to come from deep inside.
Maybe we spend too much time struggling with what to say when we pray and not nearly enough time simply being still and listening. What a great thing to think that God could look upon us with conviction and say, “You listened to me.” What a great thing to think of what God will reveal if we aren’t in a hurry to be on our way. ~ Forrest
***For information on Mission opportunities listed below or to sign up, contact Forrest White, Director of Mission Ministries, (fwhite@firstumc.org).
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