Prayer [Proper 12C]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Luke 11:1-13

Prayer

I have knocked; I have knocked on unanswered doors. I have searched; I have searched and did not find. I have asked; I have asked questions into the bottomless abyss from which no answer ever emerged. And so have you. Not every time. But some times. You have prayed for a healing that never came. A solution that was not solved. You have knocked at the door and it seemed the knock just echoed through an empty house. I chose to preach on this text because I really did not know what to say about that – especially in light of today's Gospel.

Now I don't think prayer is a sanctified magic spell. I don't think using the correct words or doing it the right way guarantees desired results. If that were the case sporting events would get very complicated. All those prayers going back and forth could get pretty confusing for heaven. And we can be sure, a lot of the prayers would be prayed for sporting events, or elections, or Dancing with the Stars – something competitive. Ask, and it will be given is clearly not that simple. And actually, that is probably a good thing. Human beings are pretty emotional, consistently irrational, too often rash and irresponsible – I mean, not you all, of course, but the other human beings. We sometimes pray for things that cannot or should not be.

And also prayer is not like rubbing a genie's lamp. Prayer does not give us power or control over God. God does not owe us three wishes, or anything else for that matter. Jesus is not telling us, in today's Gospel, that if we just keep asking, eventually God just has to give us what we want.

Although, that said, the story Jesus tells does kind of suggest just that: keep knocking if you want that bread. In Jesus' story, the man knocks on his friend's door at midnight. I think we can all admit, that is not a convenient time to knock on a friend's door – especially a friend who has kids – especially a friend whose kids sleep in his bed. And yes, trust me: that is a thing. And no, it was probably not what he planned when he had his first child but it's just the way it is because his kid refuses to sleep through the night in his own bed. And so why would this neighbor knock on his door; he is a friend and I know that guy has complained to his neighbor about his child's sleep issues. So stop knocking; you are not getting any bread tonight! And now the kids are awake and it is going to take forever to get them back to sleep.

And all he hears echoing through the house, echoing through the neighborhood, is that painfully persistent: knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock. It just won't stop. It is the middle of the night: make the visitor go to sleep and get the bread in the morning. Who even goes outside at midnight? They didn't have street lamps or porch lights in 1^st century Palestine. But still: Knock, knock, knock.

I feel comfortable suggesting that both of the men in the story are probably good guys, not perfect, but good enough guys. The man who came knocking was appealing to a friend on behalf of his guest. That is a pretty generous thing to do – generous to his house-guest, not so generous to the man in bed, trying to sleep. The man in bed is looking out for his children. And he does eventually bring his friend the three loaves of bread; he doesn't call the cops; doesn't answer the door carrying a baseball bat. But on the other hand, his friend is desperate and his first excuse is: I already locked the door. I'm not sure how complicated first century door locks were exactly, but probably not that complicated; he is clearly trying, and failing, to brush the neighbor off. Helping his friend is not his initial instinct. Good enough guys – they have some good intentions – but they're flawed.

It is always tempting to try to allegorize and then literalize Jesus' stories and parables. But it never really works because Jesus' characters here, and elsewhere in the Gospels, are human and we know humans, and we know humans are not God. If the man in the house is supposed to be God, then, let's be honest, God is kind of selfish, a little bit disinterested, and only blesses annoying people, and even then, begrudgingly.

So let's look again. Let's imagine that this parable is not a description of God. No God in bed with the kids; no God knocking on the door in the middle of the night. In fact, God is never explicitly mentioned in the story at all. God is only implied and even then only to provide contrast – asking the listener to remember that God is even more generous than our closest friends, even more loving than our parents. I think Jesus makes this clear when he says to the crowd at the end of the Gospel: if you sinful people love your children enough to give them good gifts, imagine how much more a good and loving God cares for you. Contrast.

So the characters are not stand-ins for God. They are just people; it's a story about people – people like the ones we know, like us and our friends. And yeah, they look out for each other, give each other gifts, meet each other’s needs – even if they are not always that excited about it. They are pretty good folks and also they are flawed. The man in the house gives his friend the bread; he gives him what he needs even though he is clearly annoyed and put out and tired. That's pretty honest; that's pretty human.

The story, and the entire passage that surrounds the story, is, I think, not an allegory about God, but a reflection on the nature of prayer. Jesus recognizes that we are willing to ask favors of our friends, inconvenience them, annoy them, beg them to do things we know they do not want to do. We knock on their doors. We ask them for favors. We do it all the time. Some of them love us; most of them just like us; some can barely stand us.

And yet the passage begins with Jesus' disciples asking him how to pray; because while they've spent their entire lives appealing to flawed people who find them annoying, they do not know how to talk to the God who loves them perfectly and unconditionally. And so this parable is about prayer and, more specifically, that we should be doing it. Because God really loves us and actually wants us to knock on the door – even in the middle of the night.

But I do have to admit. I still don't know why some prayers go unanswered. I don't know why sometimes we ask and it is not given to us. I don't know. I don't think prayer guarantees anything. I don't think it is magic. I don't think it forces God's hand. And yet, I still want you to pray for me. And I still pray for you. And I still think God longs for our prayers and our company.

And I even think God wants us to keep knocking on the door, to be persistent in prayer. I think that is why when the disciples ask Jesus to teach them to pray, Jesus doesn't tell them, “Just say whatever.” He says, “Say this.” A prayer to pray – over and over and over again. Jesus gives them the prayer of his heart – a prayer that the Church has prayed persistently for two thousand years.

It's kind of an unusual prayer. There is no “I” or “my” or “me” or “mine”. It belongs to everyone and yet is possessed by no one. It is timeless and yet desperately immediate. It is the words of Jesus coming out of our mouths – always the same knock, always the same ask.

That the kingdom of God would come. Here on earth. To swallow up our violence in love and peace.

That every person would be fed. That every need would be met.

That our sins would be forgiven. By God. And by each other. Peace on earth. Reconciliation.

And that people would no longer be tempted by the evil and sin that so easily besets us.

It is what God wants for us. It is Jesus' heart offered to God. It is the prayer Jesus gives us to pray – a prayer that dares to hope for the impossible. Two thousand years later we are praying Jesus' prayer because it still needs to be prayed. Because, through us, Jesus is still asking, still searching, still knocking. And we keep praying his prayer because so are we.

Prayer isn't so much a request or a magic spell or a wish. Prayer is simply a vulnerable heart placed in the hands of our loving God – over and over and over again. With no guarantees. We pray not for the promise of results, but because no one else can hold our fears, and loves, and heartaches so well, so carefully.

There is a beautiful prayer in a New Zealand Prayer Book that ends “we put our trust in you the living God, risking disappointment, risking failure, working and waiting expectantly.”¹ Every prayer is an act of trust; we trust our lives to a God we cannot see, cannot touch, cannot control. Every prayer is an act of hope; and we hope for the impossible. Every prayer is a risk – but it's a risk worth taking. So lift up your hearts.

1 p. 484