Humor

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It was one of those situations you avoided at all costs, like spinach and broccoli. You know they're good for you but the process of eating gets in the way of the alleged benefits. So was praying with my pastor.

A dignified man of the old school, my pastor made a striking pose in the pulpit. I never knew a more serious man in all my life. He was so serious that one look from him peering over his glasses during a service could bring conviction to any mischievous lad. With him, everything was done properly or it was done again and again. My philosophy at the time was, if it's worth doing it's worth doing. Quality and performance were not too much of a consideration. Not so with my pastor.

Wednesday night we always attended the prayer meeting at the church. The pastor, coming down from the high pulpit, spoke to the congregation from the floor. He would have a Bible study, divide the congregation up into prayer partners and then look around for someone he could pray with. This was panic time for many a young person. Who in their right mind would be caught praying with the pastor?

Sunday morning the pastoral prayer could last as long as 15 minutes, during which the congregation stood. There's not much you can do when you're standing. You can't sleep for obvious reasons, and you can't thumb through the hymnal. All you can do is stand there while the pastor prayed around the world.

With that in mind, nobody, especially the younger people, wanted to pray with the pastor. He was always the last one praying and if you were his partner you had to stay on your knees until his last "amen.” But, he could fool you. He would come to what seemed a logical conclusion of his prayer and then remember something else and be good for another five minutes.

I successfully avoided this predicament for sometime. But, one week my guard was down. I had gotten cocky and for a brief moment put my guard on the pew to stretch. A person's guard can get awfully heavy at times. By the time I realized what I had done it was too late. The pastor singled me out. I couldn't run. I couldn't hide. I had to smile. I didn't have a prayer of a chance to escape.

Try looking happy when you wish you are dead. It doesn't help too much. He had me, I knew it and there was nothing I could do.

"Jim," he called out. I couldn't pretend I didn't hear him for I was looking right at him. "Jim, come and be my prayer partner tonight.” He smiled the smile of a victor snaring his next victim. Thirty years later, that smile still haunts me.

My heart dropped into my shoes. I heard it hit my sole. As my heart slowly ascended from my shoes, it brought with it a deep sense of defeat. What could I do? I had to go and so go I went.

Now, don't get me wrong. I believe prayer is the most important thing in the Christian's life. I prayed all the time, especially just before an English test. As long as there are English tests there will be prayer in school. I often prayed for the rapture to happen just as I sat down to take the test. Or, at least to die.

So, I was familiar with prayer. But, to pray with the pastor who was an expert in prayer was something altogether different.

Praying with the pastor was like sparing a few rounds with Mike Tyson. No matter how much you admire him there is no way you are going to challenge him on his turf.

We knelt in the front pew. It felt strange.

"Jim, you go first."

My mouth was dry and my brain froze solid. My whole life flashed before me, and, at 15, that alone can bore you to death.

"Go ahead, Jim," he encouraged. "I'll pray after you."

I moved my mouth but nothing came out. I cleared my throat, coughed a few times but without success. My mouth was as dry as last Sunday's sermon. I couldn't remember a single request.

I eventually found my voice and began to pray. I focused on the last "amen" in my prayer. I raced toward it with all the speed I could muster. Each word coming faster until they blurred together and finally I said "Amen.” I couldn't believe I had made it. A deep sigh of relief involuntarily escaped from my lips. That wasn't so bad, I thought to myself. I'm still living. I really made it.

Then I heard my pastor speak. He wasn't praying, either. He was speaking to me.

"Well, Jim," he began. "That was a good start.” Then he explained what prayer was all about. "Just like you are talking to me. That's all there is to prayer."

I took mental note, but was too happy that my prayer was finished. Next time, maybe. Then he shocked me back into a state of discontent.

"Jim, why don't you try praying again?”

What? Do it over again? I couldn't believe my ears. I flunked tests before but this was humiliating. Like Superman failing an eye exam. Or, imagine Arnold Schwarzenegger flunking a high school physical. How can you flub up a prayer?

"Let's try it again, Jim. And remember, talk to God just like you're talking to me."

I prayed again. I don't know what I prayed, but I prayed again. About half way through my prayer, I began to realize just how easy it was becoming. Soon my fear melted and I slid into the "amen" part with the greatest of ease. I was learning how to pray.

My pastor didn't have to do that. He could have let me go, but he made me back up and slow down. That's the secret of prayer. I've noticed this through the ensuing years. "Just like you're talking to me,” my pastor instructed. And it is really that simple.

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