Ever heard that? Ever said it? I know I have.
I say it in those times when I've run out of ideas, solutions, and possibilities. When there is nothing I can do, or nothing else I can do, I find myself saying, "There's nothing I can do. All I can do is pray."
I say it like it's a last-ditch effort. I've given up on everything else, and I've got nothing left to lose, so I might as well try prayer. I'm not sure I really mean it that way; I pray often and passionately and boldly. I pray because I must. But then again, maybe I do mean it that way. I have to admit that when things go wrong, my first impulse has not always been to pray. My first impulse is usually to find a way out, to look for a solution. So maybe I really have viewed prayer as a last-ditch effort to find a solution.
There have been so many times when I have prayed and nothing seems to happen. Yes, I've heard the platitude that God always answers prayer (not true, by the way, according to Scripture); he sometimes answers yes, sometimes answers no, and sometimes answers wait. Sure, there are a handful of times when the answer to prayer comes with startling clarity, rapidity, or certainty. But most often, I have prayed and nothing seems to happen. Nothing changes, that I can see, and being told that God might be answering with a "no" or a "wait" isn't particularly helpful in those circumstances. So I am tempted to think that my prayers don't really make much of a difference. They're ineffective.
But I am beginning to rethink my understanding of prayer.
If genuine power is gentle, if the still, small voice has more power than the whirlwind and the fire, then for me to assume that simply because I don't see anything happen or hear anything happen, or feel anything happen, that means that nothing happened, is a horribly shortsighted assumption.
In the Old Testament tabernacle, and later, in the temple, God's Glory above the mercy seat of the ark was veiled by a thick curtain. The people could not approach or look upon the Glory of God without dying. Only once a year was the high priest permitted to go past the veil and approach the holiness of God, and only with the blood of atonement in his hands. But right in front of the curtain was a small altar for burning incense. Every day, a priest was given the duty to take the specially mixed incense and burn some on the altar. The smoke of the burning incense was a pleasing aroma to The Lord.
So what, you say? So, in Psalm 141, the psalmist says this, "Let my prayer be counted as incense before you, and the lifting of my hands as the evening offering." And in Revelation, John sees this: "The four living creatures and the twenty-four elders fell down before the Lamb, each holding a harp and golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of the saints." Later, he sees another angel who was "given much incense to offer with the prayers of all the saints on the golden altar before the throne, and the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, rose before God from the hand of the angel." Somehow, the sweet-smelling smoke of the burning incense represents the rising of our prayers to the ear of God. And Leviticus 16 tells us that the smoke of the burning incense penetrated the veil that hid the Glory of God from human eyes. The smoke could go where the human could not. The prayers could enter where the people could not. It is not the fire that entered the presence of God; it was the smoke. It is not the fire that represents the prayers of the people; it is the smoke of the incense.
Smoke seems so vapourous, so ephemeral, so unsubstantial. You can't grab it. You can't hear it. You can wave it away with a hand. There's no heat, no light, no glow, no warmth. It appears so powerless. Fire has power. It roars and flames and leaps and dances. It licks and burns and destroys. It has heat and light which can comfort or consume. That's power. But smoke? Smoke just floats and drifts and wafts.
But in most house fires, it is smoke that causes the most damage. It's not the flames, but the smoke. It doesn't leave visible signs of damage -- walls are still standing, books are still on the shelves, pictures hang in their frames. But it drifts and wafts and penetrates every corner and crevice and leaves an indelible imprint of its presence. At most campfires, it is the smoke that drives people back, not the heat. The smoke drifts and wafts and smarts the eyes and the lungs and demands a response. The smell of the smoke lingers long after the heat and the light, the snap and crackle of the flames have faded away.
So it is with my prayers. My prayers are not fiery. There is no show, no outward sign of power. My prayers are more often accompanied by groans and tears than by any kind of triumphalistic show. Often, they're spoken in silence, cries of the heart that never make it past my throat. They can drift, float away, vapourous, ephemeral, unsubstantial. They may seem to die out as the sound of my voice fades. They can appear to be powerless. But somehow, those quiet prayers gain a life of their own. When I pray, I am taking into my hands a power of cosmic proportions. They rise before God long after the soundwaves of my voice have flattened and faded. And it is my quiet prayers that move the hand of God. Every prayer rises up and ignites a fire in the heart of God. Every prayer that rises up causes earthquakes in the cosmos, even though my senses may be unaware.
So I've been rethinking my understanding of prayer. I'm becoming more aware of the enormous quiet power I am yielding when I pray. When I stand in the gap for a friend and pray, it is not all I can do; it is the best I can do. I may be summoning angelic forces. I may be holding demonic forces at bay. Daniel did, when he prayed. I may, in some incomprehensible way, turn the heart of God, even as Moses and Amos turned the heart of God when they pleaded for their people.
That's a lot of power. That's a lot of smoke damage. My prayers are not just words. They are weapons in the war against all that is wrong in this world.
The thought of it drives me to my knees.
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