113 Sermon Illustrations on Answered Prayer

One fall afternoon on our rural farm in southeast Iowa, we were I enjoying perfect weather as we harvested our hay. Cotton ball clouds floated high in the clear blue sky, a gentle breeze slowly escorting them toward the horizon. The trees, just starting their fall picture show, stood here and there in the valleys and fence lines across rolling hills.

The past couple days had not been easy ones. When our 50 acres of hay were mowed, the mower had needed a few new parts. That cost us all our extra cash. When the field had been raked, the universal joint went out on the rake, finishing off any funds we might have kept in our bank account. I was more than a little apprehensive as we walked out to get the baler ready.

My husband, Jack, seemed to be frantically searching for something when I joined him at the tractor. “What’s the problem?” I asked.

“The three-point hitch to hook the baler to the tractor is missing,” he replied.

“Where did you put it?” I reluctantly asked.

“In the tractor toolbox; the lid must have flopped open while I was raking the hay,” he replied as he stared out into the field.

I forced myself to stay calm as I asked, “How big is this part? And how much would it cost to replace it?”

I didn’t like his reply. “It’s a metal piece about a half inch thick and five inches long by about two inches wide. It would cost a lot to replace,” he finally added.

Discouragement flooded my being as I thought about that small part being somewhere out there in that 50 acres of raked hay. Most likely it had been raked into one of the rows. Finding it would be like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack.

And there was no way we could borrow enough money to buy a new one. We were nearly destitute. How could we harvest the hay crop in order to receive money desperately needed to feed and clothe our family? So many farmers had gone under in the past few years. Farming was not fun for me. Some days it seemed to bring only disappointment and grief.

I felt anger inside me raging like a monster, demanding to be released, I was angry at Jack for putting the part in that old toolbox with the floppy lid, and I was angry at God. By now the kids had come to see what the problem was. After a brief explanation I told them to start walking and look for a metal part. “I’m going to the house to get the pickup so you kids can ride on the tailgate and look for that part,” I

told them.

I stormed off. If the ground shook, it was probably my fault. I muttered to myself all the way to the house. “God, this is Your fault. You just don’t care about farmers. You don’t care about us!” Then I sheepishly looked up into the sky thinking lightning would strike any moment. As I gazed up I said, “I’m sorry, God. I’m mad. You know how I feel; I can’t lie. I know I’m not supposed to be, but I’m mad at You.”

I kept stomping across the field, muttering all the way to the house, where the pickup was parked.

I slammed the door as I climbed in and started the engine. I backed up and stomped on the accelerator as I steered the pickup out into the field. It didn’t matter to me where in the field I went; I just headed out there somewhere near the middle and slammed on the brakes.

I opened the door and yelled at the kids to climb on. As I glanced down I saw a small metal part lying on the open ground between the hay rows. I would have stepped on it if I hadn’t seen it first. It was the three-point hitch! It was the needle in the haystack. Only God could have led me to that exact spot.

I can’t describe how I felt. My emotions did an about-face, and I just cried. God showed me such boundless love and care. I felt so humbled. I didn’t deserve this kindness after the way I had acted. I humbly walked back to the house sobbing under the weight of God’s love.

Many years later that day is still etched in my memory, one of the most significant memories of what God has done for me. That day God put His signature on my life. Now when discouragement comes my way, I remember how God showed me, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that He loves and cares about me.

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Margaret Butler lives near Keokuk, Iowa.

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[Original illustration at this number was a duplicate of HolwickID #20868

O thou that hearest prayer, unto thee shall all flesh come. — Psalm 65:2.

Mary Slessor, a missionary to Africa, said, when asked to tell what prayer had meant to her: “My life is one long, daily, hourly record of answered prayer: for physical health, for mental over-strain, for guidance given marvelously, for errors and dangers averted, for enmity to the gospel subdued, for food provided at the exact hour needed, for everything that goes to make up life, and my poor service. I can testify, with a full and often wonder-stricken awe, that I believe God answers prayer. I know God answers prayer!”

God answers prayer –

Answers always, everywhere,

I may cast my anxious care,

Burdens I could never bear,

On the God who heareth prayer.

A whooping cough epidemic had raged in nearby Pauti just as Rufino and his wife had transferred there to start a new school. Missionary pilot Clyde Peters decided he should fly over and see how the teachers were getting along. The weather was very bad. He listened to the noise of the engine and pelting rain. Clyde circled a couple of times and decided to fly on toward Unini. Then almost as if he heard a voice in the cockpit, the words came to him, “Clyde, go back to Pauti!”

“Are you talking to me, Lord?” The impression became so strong that he banked the plane and headed back. The heavy rains let up a little. Carefully he guided the plane down under the clouds onto the muddy airstrip. Water still poured off the palm thatched huts as he landed.

Rufino, out of breath, raced to the aircraft. “Clyde, for three days we’ve been praying for the plane to come. My wife’s sick and I’m afraid my children will die.”

“I’m sorry,” Peters responded as he listened.

“Many people in this village are ill. We heard the plane coming, and when it flew away, our hopes of getting medical attention vanished. Then we all knelt down and prayed. We were still on our knees when we heard the plane returning. God sent you back!”

Their answer to prayer made a tremendous impression on the group of new believers who were just learning about Jesus and his love. Clyde used up all his medicine treating patients who suffered severe respiratory complications from whooping cough. Afterward he flew out and returned with more medication. At the base that evening he told his wife Eleanor, “God asked me to land in Pauti today. He’s definitely guiding our aviation ministry.”

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By Wellesley Muir, “The Man Who Jumped off Clouds, Adventures of a Jungle Pilot,” the story of Clyde Peters, who at age 26 became a full-time missionary pilot.

I was going through a rough patch in my life and thought a weekend getaway to one of Minnesota’s lakes might lift my spirits. I signed up for a retreat set up by my church. On the way we skirted the town of Brainerd, and a lonely stretch of road where my mom died in a terrible car accident when I was 17. Recalling that horrible day made me feel sad and more down than ever. The question that had haunted me for more than 20 years came back: Did Mom die all alone? I’d thought I could find comfort in the answer, but since no one was able to tell me what had happened, that answer never came. My prayers seemed in vain.

At the retreat center I was assigned a room with several other women. One of them, Terri, had come all the way to the retreat from Midland, Texas. “What brings you to Minnesota?” I asked her.

“My mother lived near Brainerd,” she told me.

“Really? I used to live near there.”

“Mom passed away four months ago,” Terri said. “After the retreat I’m going to visit her grave.”

I remembered how hard my first visit to my mother’s grave had been. Even after all these years the grief felt fresh. My mom was still such a presence in my life that it almost felt as if I could never completely stop mourning her. I knew what Terri must be going through. Before we got ready for bed that night, I decided to tell her my story.

“A man lost control of his car, crossed the centerline and hit my mom’s car head-on,” I said. “That’s what I was told. I wasn’t with her when it happened.”

“When was that?” Terri asked.

“November of 1973.”

Terri looked shocked. Then she took my hand. “Paulie, I was the first person to stop at the scene after the accident. I was young, but I remember your mother well. I held her hand and prayed until the paramedics took her away. I was there.”

Mom had not been alone. At last I had the answer, and the comfort I was searching for.

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Source: Guideposts, Copyright (c) July 2005, http://www.guideposts.org

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[Original illustration at this number was moved to HolwickID #5125]

What I remember most about the summer of 1934, when Dad got his tonsils out, is how hot it was. The middle of July in Blackwood, Va., and we hadn’t seen a drop of rain or felt a cool breeze for days. The ground was parched, the flowers drooping. Normally, I could at least cool down with an ice-cold drink. The ice man hadn’t been around, though, and the last block of ice in our icebox had long since melted.

Dad was recovering from his operation in the downstairs bedroom when Mom rushed out to the kitchen telephone. She called the doctor’s office. “He’s hemorrhaging badly,” she said, urgency in her voice. “What can we do?” Then I heard her repeat the doctor’s instructions. “Ice. Make a compress of ice and pack it around his throat.”

But there was no ice for miles around. We lived 10 miles from town. Dad couldn’t be moved and Mom didn’t dare leave him. She tried wrapping Dad’s neck with cloths drenched in cold water, but it was no use. His throat kept swelling and he was still bleeding. Tears filling her eyes. Mom said brokenly, “Lord, you take over. I’m lost.” I was worried so I wailed a prayer of my own. “God, please help my daddy. Please!”

Mom took me in her arms just as the wind began to blow. The sky grew dark as dusk, then simply opened up. The hammering noise on the roof was deafening. Mom kissed me on the forehead. She grabbed a pail and ran outside. Soon she was back, and in 15 minutes Dad’s bleeding had been stopped by the large balls of ice she’d collected from the heaven-sent hailstorm.

His name is Chum Sok,* but to many people, he’s known as Lazarus.

Lazarus, similar to his namesake in the Bible, shared how he went from death to life, literally. As a result, he said, God took this modest and elderly Christian and turned him into a bold witness for Christ.

Today, Lazarus is hard to track down. He has a calling to share Jesus with his own people. Every week, he spends at least two days going out to evangelize, traveling on Sundays to a village far away to share the Gospel and teach. He and fellow believers gather to study the Bible every night, often hearing of someone who is sick and going to pray for them until they are better. Lazarus’ experience not only impacted his life but stirred a strong response in his village, where there are now more than 80 people attending church.

Lazarus remains thankful to God. “Now villagers understand that Jesus can save,” he said, choking back joyful tears.

In a village where Buddhist neighbors once criticized Lazarus and fellow Christians for believing in the foreigners’ God, they now call on the Christians to pray when someone is sick.

The darkest day

Though he’s been a Christian for many years, Lazarus’ faith started out weak. “I used to be embarrassed,” he said. “I would hide my Bible in my shirt when I went to church. I prayed for God to help me not be ashamed.”

Lazarus and others shared how God answered his prayer in a way no one could expect. As the sun began to set one evening, he started having trouble catching his breath. Soon it became alarming as he began gasping, unable to breathe. His tiny, elderly wife, Mean Sary,* rushed to find a car to take her husband to the hospital.

She and their son managed to get Lazarus to the main public hospital. By the time he arrived, Lazarus’ organs were shutting down. The doctors soon lost his pulse. That’s when Mean Sary, who was not a believer at the time, began to pray. “I had no hope,” she said. “My husband was always praying, but he couldn’t. So I cried out to God for him.”

Lazarus’ pulse returned and he remained on a ventilator for the next six nights with no improvement and no clear diagnosis. Eventually doctors told Mean Sary to take her husband home to die. A few times, Lazarus regained consciousness long enough to write, “Pray.” Then he would slip back into his comatose state. Feeling defeated, Mean Sary began the journey home in the ambulance with Lazarus, who by that time had begun to look black and lifeless.

From death to life

Lazarus’ home was filled with friends and family, both Christian and Buddhist. Mean Sary collapsed once she made it home, unable to be consoled. Meanwhile, International Mission Board missionaries and friends, William and Nancy Potter,* and local believers from Lazarus’ church helped Mean Sary get Lazarus onto a bed and prayed for the family.

As the believers prayed, Buddhists mocked them saying that Lazarus was being punished for being a Christian. They wanted the Christians to leave so they could prepare a proper Buddhist funeral.

As believers prayed, William urged people to take the ventilator out of Lazarus’ mouth so he could die with dignity. When they did, a miracle happened -- Lazarus began to cough. The Christians all got down on their knees and began praying for God to heal Lazarus, to give him his breath back. Gradually, Lazarus began to show more signs of life -- regaining his natural color. “That’s when I started having hope and faith,” Mean Sary said.

The “Jesus clinic”

The Potters asked if they could take Lazarus to the Christian doctors in the area. Mean Sary agreed, and Lazarus was soon in the care of IMB missionary Joseph Bricker* at what’s known by the locals as the “Jesus clinic.”

The clinic is a multi-national, multi-organizational medical clinic whose mission is to provide quality medical care in the name of Jesus and share the Gospel with each patient. The Jesus clinic is actively planting churches throughout surrounding villages and has played a part in many church plants countrywide.

At the clinic, patients “experience the love of God in a way they would not experience anywhere else,” Bricker, who was one of the doctors attending Lazarus, said.

Test results at the clinic looked good, and Lazarus no longer had multiple organ failure. As he regained consciousness, he looked around and saw doctors and nurses praying for him.

“I knew I would live,” Lazarus said. “I knew Jesus was in those doctors, and their wisdom comes from God.”

Lazarus began to recover and was eventually sent home in good health.

A changed man inside and out

Lazarus only remembers a few things from his time in the hospitals -- the Jesus clinic in particular shapes how he now lives his life.

“I remember waking up once and praying ‘Oh God, if I am your child, please give me the chance to evangelize. If you let me live, I will tell people about you,’” he recalled, stopping a few times to wipe tears and take a breath.

After slipping back out of consciousness in the hospital, Lazarus had a vision. “I saw three people -- Jesus, a soldier and a guard,” he said. “Jesus said to me, ‘Let your hope rise in me.’”

Today, Lazarus is alive and well, and he’s keeping his promise to God. He didn’t just come back to life physically; he was revived and emboldened spiritually. No longer a shy Christian hiding his Bible in his shirt, Lazarus joins his fellow believers to make Jesus known in their village, surrounding villages and even villages far away. His wife and son are now believers in Christ.

Reflecting on his ordeal, Lazarus said, “[It was] like Satan wanted me to shut up ... God saved me, and now I speak the truth.”

He expressed his gratitude for the Jesus clinic and the care he received there. “The doctors at the Jesus clinic have hope,” he said. “Their faith stands out as different.”

Lazarus said he is especially appreciative of Dr. Bricker. “I like that he knows how to pray in my language,” he said. “He prayed I would be able to serve the Lord.” And that’s exactly what he’s doing.

Lazarus often goes back to the “Jesus clinic” for checkups. When he does, he shares his testimony, helping the clinic in its mission to share the Gospel with every patient. “If we’re God’s children, we must have fruit,” he said.

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* names changed