A reward of $1 million will be tendered to the individual that provides information leading to the location of the spiritual waste dump.
Somewhere out there is a biological waste dump for human appendixes. And somewhere out there is a spiritual waste dump for extended prayer.
An altarectomy has been performed upon The Church, and we need to locate this vital organ, transplant it back into The Body, and take the proscribed medication necessary to keeping it healthy and properly working again. The medication is continued praying.
Going to, and remaining at, the prayer altar was a common practice. In the early days of the last century it was a practice that defined the Pentecostal Movement. It was called, “praying through” or “digging in” prayer; it's hallmarks were late, or missed, lunches, tears, and audible moans from the heart, not to mention blessed results. The faithful, not content with quick, superficial petitions, came down to the altar (of their homes or their home churches) to meet with God for extended times of real communication. It was intentional; it was common; it was talked about and shared; it was realized as irreplaceable in the life of faith; it was proven emotionally uplifting, life-changing; its value was of immeasurable worth to millions of the faithful; it was a spectacle of powerful testimony to other souls; it was a joy to the soul and a joy to God! Yet, alas, The Church has been “operated” upon and now this treasured, vital organ has been removed. It is gone and we are weakened as individuals and as a body. So, we must locate the spiritual waste dump; we must search and find it laying there; we must pick it back up, transplant it back inside, and protect it forevermore.
Some people will protest my claim, stating that I am wrong because I have not visited their congregation or home where this vital organ of faith remains within, and strong. To those good people I would say, “praise The Lord; this is good.” But I am talking about The Church as a whole; I am saying that, as a whole, The Church has been given an altarectomy, and that, for most of us, extended prayer times, either in our congregations or in our homes, is gone, cut out, forgotten.
In general, and in many mainstream, good congregations, and in Christian homes (and I have visited many, including my own), the calls and visits to the altar of EXTENDED prayer are completely nonexistent or too few in number to be able to define us, build us up, and keep us strong. And we had better face and see the truth and cease the denial of it, because our very lives and the lives of those we love depend upon doing undoing the altarectomy.
We need to get back to the regular appointments with God, the extended times of prayer in which we pour out our hearts before Him and forget about time, and meetings, and this thing or that thing. As The Church, members and collective body, we need to go back to our roots and dig in and pray-through, until we receive from Him what we need to live joyously, victoriously as a beacon of hope in a tiresome, lonely, often cruel and loveless world. We cannot do this under, or by, our own strength, either as single people or even as a group of millions; we must have the anointing from on high - we must have His Power and His Strength. We need His Encouragement and Fatherly Guidance.
When I was a young man of about twenty-five, my then spiritual father and pastor, George Hendrickson, invited me to early morning prayer with himself and his wife, Lena. We all arrived at the church at six o'clock in the morning, sleep-ies still in our eyes and yawns still opening our mouths. I entered not knowing what to expect. Sure, I knew that we were there to pray, and I knew how to pray, but I didn't know what to expect. Would it be formal prayer, the three of us sharing openly with one another? Or would it be that we would each go off to a separate area and pray alone, quietly. I didn't know what to expect. I learned that neither of these would be the case, but that BOTH would be the case!
Often I recall how awkward I felt. I knew them well enough, but my experience in prayer was always private. Was I now going to have to speak or reveal something? What were they going to expect from me? Unfamiliar things and experiences always stir up insecurity and, consequently, nervousness and butterflies. I wondered if they would expect me to hold hands (I still don't like that, I'll admit). I wondered if they would be reading the Bible (I hadn't brought one with me). I wondered how I would react to the various things said or done. I wondered about a thousand things and more as pastor opened the church door and as we walked toward the prayer room. I was quiet, awkward, new at this, wondering, intimidated, insecure. It was only us three, and they, too, were quiet. Were they feeling awkward also, I wondered?
And then it happened fast; I didn't have to wait a second more. Once we entered the room and took off our coats, there came no demand for me to do or say anything. Not even a subtle intimation that I should say or do anything. I eased a long sigh out of my mouth. It seemed like I had nothing to be insecure about; they weren't looking for me to act in any specific manner or to say anything at all. I could instantly tell, and instantly relax, because they turned away from me, got down on their knees, buried their faces into their crossed arms, and silence was the only thing heard in the room.
Like a child that learns by watching and emulating, and because it is best for one to always do what the Romans do when one is inside Rome, I found a place and buried my face in my crossed arms. I kept silent. This wasn't going to be bad at all. But how long would this go on? Would things change? Would I soon be expected to speak (or “share” as we like to say in church)? Would I soon be expected to sit up and interact with them, so that they could “share” things with me? I hoped not. That would bring me back to feeling awkward. So, I sat there, not praying, only thinking about what would follow. And then, after about two minutes, it happened.
The quiet was broken by a murmuring coming from one of them. It was like a deep, deep moan, like from someone with a belly ache. But I thought that I heard something intelligible in that moan, and I was correct because I soon heard the moan again, from the same person, and I clearly heard the word spoken inside that moan.
“Jesus.”
I heard it. She said “Jesus.”
Then he said “Jesus” in a moan.
Then the moans of “Jesus” increased. That one word, that one name, all inside of a deep, deep moan.
“Jesus,” they moaned. And, sometimes, “Jesus, oh, Jesus.”
I sat there, still not praying. How could I? I had never prayed like this or heard anyone else pray like this! Moaning prayer? Prayer by which one word, even though this one word was the name of God's Son? What a strange type of prayer this was to me. Three people, apart but close enough in a small room, so quiet that you could hear the clock ticking, and one moan of Jesus after another moan of Jesus. It was peculiar to me, curious to me; how could I pray or think of anything? I was too busy trying to figure it all out, and so would anyone else that has not experienced this. But then something else happened.
I began to relax in my whole soul. It was as if those moans of that one word, Jesus, were soothing me way down deep inside my heart and mind and body. It was remarkable, and I am as astounded by it today as I was back then, so long ago. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. And the silence. And the clock. And the stillness of buried faces in crossed arms. Jesus, oh, Jesus. Jesus, oh, Jesus. Their hearts were calling Him through their mouths, in moans of calling, in moans of yearning, in moans of “please.” Oh, Jesus.
And this went on for some time, until one of them moved. I peeked to see what they were doing, and was again surprised. It was Lena, my pastor's wife; she had moved. Was she getting up? Was she finished with her moaning prayer of Jesus? No. She had moved to a prone position; she was now laying outstretched on the carpeted floor of the prayer room. Her head was still buried in her arms. And she continued to call Jesus. But now her moan had turned to a sound of gentle weeping.
What was going on? No long petitions? No exalted and loud praises? No reading aloud of Scripture?What on earth was going on? It was still strange to me, but it was no longer causing me to be anxious. I understood, or at least my soul understood, that it was TRUE prayer. I was witnessing true prayer, which comes out of the deepest recesses of the heart. And I was at peace just hearing it. And soon I found myself in a prayerful state. I entered in to the environment of prayer and grace and peace that they had prepared for us. An hour passed, and there were some articulated petitions and praises heard spoken into crossed hands, but I might as well have not been there it seems. They were lost in Jesus and in their time with Him. I thought that they may have forgotten that I was even present.
When the hour passed, they stood up. They smiled at me with radiant faces. They hugged me and shook my hand. They genuinely thanked me for coming and I could tell that they weren't just being polite. Somehow, my presence there, with them, meant something real to them. And they appreciated it. How strange, I thought to myself, for I had done nothing more than sit there with my head in my arms and listen to them. I never spoke. I never prayed aloud. I never encouraged them with words. What had I done? Why were they so very happy to have me there with them? It would not take me too long, by the grace of God, to understand. God soon informed me what it was all about.
They loved me. And when you love someone than you value them simply being with you! My presence, my willingness to be part of their spiritual family and gathering, my getting up early to be with them touched them. And they couldn't hold back their delight and their expression of love for me. I had joined them. I had been with them when they met with their Jesus. I had shared my time with Jesus with them. They got up early. They were intentional. They “dug in” and “prayed through” and set being with Jesus before everything else in their day. They moaned out to Him. They cried out to Him. They lay vulnerable before Him, not caring what I might think, not caring if I might look upon them as strange. They did what they had been doing for many years. And I was there. I was there. We were separate but together during that whole hour. People, coming to God and expecting God to come as always. And He came! I was there with them. That's why they were delighted. Hearts love to share.
I will never forget that first day of this new kind of prayer. I have engaged in it myself, many a time. And I have never been disappointed; Jesus has always come and lifted me up in ways supernatural, in ways that no human being could ever do. I have been to the extended prayer altar of my home, and I have been to the extended prayer altar of my church. But, sadly, not enough in these later years.
Congregations that have discovered an altarectomy must locate the spiritual dump, find again that vital organ, and transplant it back in where it belongs. Altar calls. Tarrying. Digging in. Praying through.
Individuals that have discovered an altarectomy must locate the spiritual dump, find again that vital organ, and transplant it back in where it belongs. Family prayer time. Tarrying. Digging in. Praying through.
Let the Sunday roast burn if need be, but let us wait upon the prayer altar for Jesus! Let the appointments and sleep times be missed. Let the many other things be put beneath the call to pray and to pray long and pray hard!
Our Lord said that He rewards those that diligently seek Him. He also stated that the Kingdom of Heaven is to be taken by forceful people, people that come expecting the consolation of His Presence and people that won't leave until their hearts have been changed enough to receive that day's morsel.
Return to extended prayer. Dig in. Pray through.
Reverse the altarectomy!
I am committed to doing it. Won't you join me?
