23. III. Prayer must be earnest

The public become suspicious even of good money when coiners have pushed their base metal into wide circulation. Even so, religion falls into disrepute, and the character of piety suffers in the eyes of the world, when the church swarms with pretenders and false professors. And in like manner, the value of prayer has fallen in the eyes of men in consequence of many prayers which are offered, being rejected by God, because they are not genuine. Hence prayer comes to be held in light esteem, and—if I might so speak—the bills drawn on the bank of heaven being dishon ored, man says—" Who is the Lord, that I should serve him, or what profit shall I have if I pray unto him?"

Among other gross and venal impieties, the Church of Rome sells prayers. By her prayer-market she converts God's house into a house of merchandise and a den of thieves. Her prayers—although their price, like that of other goods, varies with the locality—may be bought for money, under this general rule of the market, that the praying shall correspond to the paying. The rude Tartar saves his money by a practice that achieves the object just as well, or rather that fails as completely to do any thing but deceive the blind. He cuts a cylinder from a block of wood. Upon its surface he writes a series of prayers; and then he runs an axle through the cylinder, and fitting it up so that it shall keep turning like a mill-wheel in the running stream, he sets it in motion. He goes away on his hunt, to the pursuit of war, business, or pleasure, and reckons that, whether he sleeps or wakes as the wheel goes round, and the prayers in its revolution turn up to the eye of the skies, heaven reads them there, and God accepts the prayers of the dead cylinder for the desires of a living heart.

Prayers without wishes are like birds without wings; while the eagle soars away to heaven, these never leave the ground. It is the heart that prays—not the knees, nor the hands, nor the lips. Have not I seen a dumb man, who stood with his back to the wall, beg as well with his imploring eye and open hand, as one that had a tongue to speak? If you would have your prayers accepted, they must be arrows shot from the heart. None else mount to the throne of God. You may repeat your prayers every day; you may be punctual as a Mohammedan who, at the Mollah's call from the minaret of the mosque, drops on his knees in public assembly or the crowded street. What then? The prayer of the lip, tongue, memory, of the wandering mind, in its dead formality, are, in the sight of God, no better than the venal prayers of Rome, or the revolutions of the Tartar's wheel. "The sacrifice of the hypocrite is an abomination to the Lord."

Would you see true prayer—would you know what prayer really is? step into this Egyptian palace where Benjamin stands bound—his amazed and trembling brothers grouped around the lad? Judah advances. He bows himself before Joseph. His heart is full. His lip trembles. The tear glistens in his manly eye, and now, with tenderness thrilling in every tone, he pours forth this plea of surpassing pathos—"Oh my lord, let thy servant, I pray thee, speak a word in my lord's ears, and let not thine anger burn against thy servant: My lord asked his servants, saying, Have ye a father, or a brother? and we said unto my lord, We have a father, an old man, and a child of his old age, a little one; and his brother is dead; and he alone is left of his mother, and his father loveth him." Thus on he goes; and every sentence goes like a knife into Joseph's heart. And then he closes and crowns his appeal with this most brave and generous proposal, "Now, therefore, I pray thee, let thy servant abide instead of the lad, a bondsman to my lord; for how shall I go to my father, and the lad be not with me, lest I see the evil that shall come on my father?" Joseph's heart, which has been swelling with emotion, is now ready to burst. He can stand it no longer; nor any wonder. That is prayer; and could we bring such earnestness to Jesus, Oh, how would his tender, much more tender heart melt, like wax, before it. Did we approach him with the fervor that glowed and burned in Judah's speech; did we plead for our own souls or those of others, with such tears, in such tones, as Judah's when he pleaded for Benjamin, how would a divine brother discover himself to us.

Now turn from that Egyptian to this Hebrew palace. There also is prayer. Two women stand before King Solomon. In the darkness of the night one has crept, with noiseless step, to her neighbor's bed, and while the mother slept, and the babe slept in her bosom, softly, cautiously, she steals the living child, and leaves her own cold, dead infant in its place. They carry the dispute to Solomon—each claiming the living, and each repudiating the dead. With a skill that earned him his world-wide fame, the wise monarch summons nature as a witness. Horrible to hear, he orders the living child to be divided. The sword is raised—another moment, and each mother gets a quivering half—another moment, and interference comes too late. One stands calm, firm, collected, looking on with a cruel eye. With a bound that carries her to his feet, and a shriek that rings wild and high over all the palace, the other—the true mother—clasps her hands in agony, and cries—"Oh, my lord, give her the living child, in no wise slay it." That is prayer. That cry, that spring, that look of anguish—all these proclaim the mother—how different from the cold, callous, unimpassioned frame in which, alas! the best too often present themselves at the throne of grace, as if, when we are seeking pardon, it were a matter of supreme indifference whether our prayer were or were not answered. Oh! how should we pray that God would help us to pray, and touch our icy lips with a live coal from off his altar.