The Pros and Cons of Obnoxious Prayers

Two men like that could scarcely have been more different. And yet, one Ash Wednesday evening, the both of them stood in the same sanctuary in the First Baptist Church of Somewheresville. They didn't arrive at the same time, and certainly not together. Not even close on either count. Thurston was one of the first ones there. He made sure of it. Dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, he strolled to the second pew, sat near the center aisle. It was a couple pews in advance of where most folks felt comfortable sitting. There was plenty of room in that big sanctuary, you know.

Everybody knew Thurston. Thurston sat on the borough council. Thurston was a board member here. If you needed help, you turned to Thurston. Thurston wouldn't let you down. See, Thurston always went above and beyond the call of duty. Thurston budgeted ample resources for generosity. Every Sunday morning, you could faithfully hear the offering plate go clunk when it came by Thurston. Same for every special offering – half of what went into the plate at the back of the sanctuary fell out of Thurston's hand. Above and beyond – always Thurston's motto. He knew the Bible backward and forward, up and down. Celebrated every holy day with exacting precision. Ran a successful business, and gave his employees their Christmas bonuses without fail. Thurston was articulate – he volunteered to preach whenever the pastor went on vacation, and half the congregation sometimes wished the pastor wouldn't come back so they could keep Thurston! He was a fountainhead of moral advice. He avoided all the classic vices scrupulously – never smoke, never drank, never gambled, never danced. (Hey, it was a Baptist church, after all.) Faithful and supportive of his lovely wife. Everybody knew Thurston. A man without scandal, trustworthy and true. A role model to the whole church.

Thurston was a real stand-up guy. So Thurston stood up. And Thurston prayed. Words flowed off Thurston's tongue. “Almighty and Everlasting God, I thank thee most highly and most heartily that thou hast seen fit to bless me in multitudinous ways. Thou hast prospered me, and thou hast extended mine borders. I thank thee, O Lord Most High, that thou hast made me who I am. For surely I could have been raised differently; I could have had a weaker character; I could have had less opportunity; I could have taken less initiative. But God, my God, I am not like other men, those who disappoint thee or disobey thee. O God, I am not unrighteous. O God, I am not an adulterer. O God, I am not a thief. O God, I am not a murderer or gangster. O God, I dress well. O God, I am not a drunkard, nor a smoker, nor a gambler, nor an addict. I stand for thy values, I write letters to my Congressman, I quote thy words to him. Thy favor is upon me, as all my dealings and all my prosperity doth abundantly attest, O God of heaven. And so I thank thee, O God, that I am not like those many other men – weaklings, reprobates, hypocrites, judgmental, militant, bigoted, promiscuous, greedy, bankrupt, rapacious, traitorous, and unreliable. I thank thee especially, O God, that I am not like him,” prayed Thurston, noticing out of the corner of his eye as a bedraggled figure crept sheepishly toward the back pew. “For I, O God, pray three times a day. And I, O God, hold vigils to take America back in thy name. And I, O God, never fall short of a full tithe. I am chaste, truthful, virtuous. Whatever thou hast asked for in thy word, I render it double unto thee. And so, Almighty and Everlasting God, this is my confession: I thank thee in advance for another year of reward and plenty. Look down from thy holy habitation in heaven and bless me, as thou art bound by thine promise so to do.”

And Thurston sat down. Thurston shares a great deal in common with a story Jesus once told – a story we heard read this morning. Thurston, had he lived in first-century Judea, would have been a card-carrying Pharisee. It's easy for us to forget, given the dim view of Pharisaic spirituality that prevails in the Gospels, that to most Jews of the time, the Pharisees were spiritual rock-stars. They were superheroes. They avoided obvious vices. They had their hearts set on renewing Israel and paving the way for the Messiah through national righteousness. They scrupulously obeyed the Law of Moses – the one in the parable went above and beyond the Law, carrying out acts of piety so intense, as if to put God somehow in his debt. The Pharisees held sin at the greatest distance by building a 'fence' around the Law, carefully steering clear of any infractions. And they held themselves out as an example for others to imitate. Thurston would've made a fine Pharisee; in fact, he did (cf. Luke 18:10-12).

The trouble here, you see, is that Thurston's prayer knows nothing of real grace or real mercy. It doesn't glorify God at all. Thurston's prayer glorifies Thurston. Thurston's prayer fits very poorly with Ash Wednesday, or any day of the Christian life. Thurston speaks volumes on his fidelity to the Law, his achievements, his fulfillment of the commandments. But the people Thurston distances himself from: he doesn't love them as himself, which is a pretty central commandment (Leviticus 19:18). And a prayer where Thurston's 'I' is the main active agent is a prayer that puts him at the center and God in a supporting role. Thurston's prayer is all about what he's earned and accomplished; Thurston prays for what he insists he deserves. Thurston's religion is business, a transaction: he keeps all the 'Thou shalt nots,' and in turn God must prosper him, and people must respect and admire him. Thurston looks down on others who don't meet his exacting standards – benignly, sometimes, but disdain and judgment all the same. Thurston has a lot going for him. Martin Luther describes his Pharisaic forefather as having “nothing but beautiful works,” such that he “appears to the world a paragon of godliness, a fine, pious, God-fearing, and holy man.” But Thurston's prayer is self-centered, prideful, loveless. It's not only obnoxious; it's an abomination, a blasphemy. And to the astonishment of all who heard Jesus, people like Thurston walk away dirty from the service – stained by sin, and in opposition to the heart of the God they claim (Luke 18:14).

But Thurston wasn't alone in the sanctuary. Midway through his prayer, another man entered the sanctuary. Ira didn't have much in common with Thurston. Ira didn't wear a three-piece suit. In most people's opinion, he wasn't “dressed for church” at all – in his grubby, wrinkled shirt, his hole-ridden jeans riding low beneath a couple inches of underwear, his grimy sneakers trailing mud behind him. Ira dressed the part of a teenager – it made him feel young again. He knew he'd squandered his life. He'd attended First Baptist as a kid. But that was then. After quitting the church, he'd spent some time as a radical activist – ah, the passions of youth. The Feds had a file on him, no doubt. In the years since, he'd rotated through plenty of avocations. Heroin dealer, for one. Ira almost didn't come today – couldn't bear to face church families who'd lost a daughter, a sister, a son, a brother, to his product. A loan shark he'd been, for a while, after lucking out in a poker tournament. But these days, he made a lifestyle out of dodging child support payments and taxes – doing odd jobs for under-the-table cash. Thurston was very proud of being nothing like Ira. And Ira couldn't blame him.

Ira sat in the far corner of the back pew, closest to the door in case he needed to cut a hasty exit – which was fine with most, who'd learned around town to keep a close eye on their watches and wallets when Ira was near. Ira knew good and well what other people thought of him. He used to be defiant about it. But the past weeks had driven it all home. He could hardly stand to look himself in the mirror when he brushed his teeth or shaved – tasks he reserved for special occasions. He felt like the bottom had fallen out of his life. If he were here to confess his sins, it'd take him from Ash Wednesday 'til Easter to even tell the half of it – and that's just what the drinking hadn't made too fuzzy to recall. After a week of close calls, Ira was desperate for someone to turn to. But Ira had no friends. And Ira couldn't blame them. So here he was, in the place no one expected – least of all Ira himself.

Ira listened with muffled ears to the close of Thurston's prayer. And he listened, in a way Thurston didn't, as the pastor led the Ash Wednesday liturgy. Words seemed to trail in and out. “To dust you shall return.” “I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.” “We have sinned by our own fault, in thought, word, and deed.” “Our self-indulgent appetites and ways, and our exploitation of other people.” Ira's eyes filled with tears. He'd stolen more than he could ever give back – not just in money he'd appropriated, not just in evil causes supported with a hard heart, but in flesh-and-blood lives he'd broken and ruined. Ira did know his transgressions. His sin really was ever before him. He could harbor no illusions about his self-indulgent appetites and ways. And he could bear it no more. He thought he was about to burst. As if in a dream, he leapt to his feet, interrupting the litany of penitence, and with a downcast gaze and a heavy heart, he pounded his chest with a calloused hand and sobbed the words, over and over again: “God, mercy on me, on sinner!” He broke down in blubbering – an unattractive sight. The pastor unsteadily wrapped up the words of absolution – after which Ira fled (cf. Luke 18:13).

Ira's prayer was obnoxious. It was noisy. It was loud. It was intemperate. It interrupted the service. It lacked all social graces. It came in an ill-dressed and odorous package. It wasn't eloquent; it was barely English. And it came from the mouth of someone who has no reasonable expectation in himself of getting an answer. All that is true. But where Thurston's prayer was centered on himself, Ira's prayer left Ira as an afterthought. Where Thurston's prayer was bold, confident, proud, Ira's was humble – not in the way of our common false modesty, but in real emptiness of self. Where Thurston's prayer was par for the course, Ira's prayer was life or death. And where Thurston prayed for his just reward based on his goodness, Ira prayed for the mercy of God in spite of his own corruption. Thurston looked in the mirror and saw nothing to repent of; Ira saw nothing else. And as Jesus tells the tale, the tax collector – Ira's spiritual forefather, a traitor to the nation of Israel and a social outcast – was the only one of the two who walked away looking good in God's eyes (Luke 18:14). If Ira's prayer is an obnoxious one, well, it's the kind of obnoxious prayer God loves. Like Martin Luther once said: “We pray, after all, because we are unworthy to pray.” And that was Ira's prayer. Thurston's prayer was I-centered; Ira's was I-emptied, for the sake of God's mercy. Pray like Ira. Be obnoxious like Ira.

Before Jesus set the stage for the Pharisee and the tax collector, he spun another good yarn – told of a widow who was destitute and desperate, and a judge whose hunger for a bribe was keeping her down. This judge didn't have any awe for God, and he respected nobody but himself. And the widow came to him – she was being taken advantage of by all her neighbors, victimized by crime, hounded by the bank – and she made her case to the judge. And the judge said no. But the next day, there she was again. And the judge said no. And soon she was appearing everywhere. You can imagine it: at the mall, at the luncheonette, in the park, outside his house, there she must be, inconveniencing him. As his sleep ebbed away, as his patience wore thin, eventually he says to himself, “I'm sick of this. If giving her justice is what will keep her away, then fine, she can have it.” I guess they didn't have restraining orders in those days. But it worked. The widow was so obnoxious in pestering the judge loudly and constantly, day after day, that her obnoxious petition prevailed (Luke 18:2-5).

And Jesus told this story so that we might “always pray and not lose heart” (Luke 18:1). For if even an unjust judge will yield to the obnoxious pestering of a widow who cries out day and night, won't a good God give quick and sudden justice to his chosen children who pray the same way, never losing heart, never giving up hope of being vindicated when Christ grabs the wheel of this car careening out of control (Luke 18:6-8)? You see, the widow's prayer is certainly obnoxious. It's repetitious, it's loud, it's abrasive, it's a nuisance. And Jesus tells us that God is plenty responsive to his favorite nuisances. So go ahead and pester your Father. He's not too busy to handle your case, however big or however small.

And finally, after treating us to the widow, the Pharisee, and the tax collector, we see one last vignette in today's reading. Some people were carrying small children to Jesus – infants, toddlers, maybe leading a couple of elementary-school age his way – just because they wanted these kids to have some contact with Jesus. And yet when the disciples saw this, they appointed themselves bouncers, tried to interfere (Luke 18:15). Why? Why would the disciples think it wise to keep these children away from Jesus? Is it because they thought it would be a waste of Jesus' time, a drain on his energy after a long day of preaching?

Maybe. But here's another reason that probably went through their minds: Kids are obnoxious. Don't deny it – it's true! Have you ever spent time with kids that age – kids besides your own or your grandkids, I mean? They don't know how to shut up, and it isn't like they have much interesting to say. They have no sense of propriety. They'll dress themselves in all sorts of mismatched ways, if you let 'em. They can be loud. They like to scream. They cry at the drop of a hat – sometimes literally! They're brash. They say whatever they're thinking; they love to voice their opinions. They eat too much, and then they throw up all over you. They are, in a word, obnoxious – but quick to trust.

And Jesus tells his disciples off – says that these obnoxious brats are no waste of his time. Their obnoxiousness is the stuff God's kingdom is built on. If you want to get in on it, start over from here. Be more like them. Pray more like them – bold, daring, humble, obnoxious. When I was a daycare teacher, I'd usually ask some kids to volunteer to lead the daily prayers. They had no guile. There was none of the Pharisee's braggadocio. Their prayers could be sweet, they could be long-winded, they could be grating and tiresome and misplaced, they could be whispered, they could be shouted. They were, at their very best, blessedly obnoxious.

An obnoxious prayer like the Pharisee's prayer is obnoxious because it's hurtful – harmful to those around him, derogatory toward God's glory. But an obnoxious prayer like the tax collector's, the widow's, the child's – those are dangerous prayers, fierce prayers, prayers with all the rawness of wild faith. This week, the world will be observing the five-hundredth anniversary of the Reformation – a movement that coalesced when one obnoxious monk challenged the domesticated propriety and the prideful self-centeredness he saw all around him. He bade us to strip away the inessentials, to empty our blowhard prayers, to admit our thoroughgoing sinfulness, and to lean on nothing else than the mercy of God made near to every sinner in Jesus Christ. To cry out for grace alone through faith alone is an obnoxious thing – loud, unseemly, unpolished, impolite, repetitive, pesky. But in no other way can we trade our filthy rags for a righteousness we can't manufacture or manage. In no other way can we gain the humble love through which faith blooms. This week, go pray some obnoxious prayers. Amen.