Recently I received an e-mail asking for prayer for a friend I had not seen in a long time. Jerry had routine hip replacement surgery and seemed to be doing fine. Two days later he had a massive stroke and was taken to a hospital intensive care unit in critical condition. After I tracked down his wife and son (they had moved since we had talked last), we had a prayer together over our cell phones. It seemed like the natural thing to do.
Afterwards, I remembered questions that my parishioners sometimes ask, “Does it do any good to pray for friends or members by long distance? Why do we pray for people overseas whom we do not know? How can such remote prayers be effective?”
In one sense, long distance prayers are the only kind we can make. If God is the creator of the universe, if God is unknowable, sovereign, inscrutable, the King of Kings, how can we do anything but be at a distance? On the other hand, if God truly is a loving parent as Jesus taught us to acknowledge in the prayer he taught his disciples, if God is as close as a loving father, or as caring for us as a mother hen is for the chicks under her wings, how can we say that God is far away, imperceptible and impenetrable? If God is in us, the hope of glory, if God is so close that the Spirit works through the inner person, how can we say that we are alone?
Three years ago my wife’s mother was burned in a terrible fire. For weeks we had to travel to visit her in a distant burn unit, alone in a strange hospital where she received three agonizing skin grafts. It seemed as if we were in the fires of hell ourselves. Our only support came from the prayers of those at home who cared about us, and from a faith that was reduced to its simplest terms. We hardly knew how to pray for ourselves and, in fact, we could not pray. Our beliefs centered around one Scripture from Psalm 139 that we called “Even There.” Even there, in the midst of uncertainly, isolation, and suffering, we knew that God was with us.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Or where can I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me fast.
As Presbyterians we like to deal with complex theological issues. It is good to do so because the careful struggle with issues of faith stretches our minds, leads to maturity of vision, and makes room for the fresh breezes of the Holy Spirit. But when it comes to prayer during the very toughest times, simple faith may be the best. It may be all we have.
The day before I received the urgent e-mail from my friends, I woke up at 6:15 and the following poem was fully formed in my mind. Maybe God put it there for Jerry and his family. Maybe he sent it for my wife and I. Possibly it is for us as Presbyterians when we do not even know how to pray for our foundering congregations or our beleaguered denomination. I call it “A Pioneer Faith” after Hebrews 12:2.
My faith is simple
like a log cabin floor,
varnished clear
by years of use.
No complex joints
hold it together
with nails and synthetic glue.
You can stand on it.
And that’s that.
Earl S. Johnson Jr. is the pastor of First Church in Johnstown, N.Y., and adjunct professor of religious studies at Siena College.
