TWO KINDS OF PRAYER by Theodore L. Cuyler

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Nov 24, 1881

TWO KINDS OF PRAYER.

By Theodore L. Cuyler

ON a certain day in the olden times, two men went up into the temple at Jerusalem to pray. But there was this difference: one of them delivered a fluent speech to the Almighty, and the other offered a petition. The one had the ready-tongued flippancy born of self-conceit; the other broke down into a single sob, "God be merciful to me, the sinner!" It was not a vague idea floating in his mind, but a very definite stroke at the guilty man who stood in his shoes, for in the Greek the literal meaning is, "me, the sinner."

When our Lord drew this striking photograph of self-satisfaction, and self-abasement, he knew that the portraiture would answer for all time. Those two men are living yet in many a copy; not in name, but in nature. The Pharisee's prayer, or rather his address to the Lord, was the genuine reflection of his own heart. It bespoke his complete self-satisfaction. Let others censure him, or criticise him, or scoff at him, if they chose, it could not prick through the rhinoceros hide of his self-righteousness. He told over the inventory of his own merits glibly, as an auctioneer cries his wares. On the negative side he was no extortioner, and no cheat, and no adulterer; and then with a contemptuous fling at the poor, odious, social outcast who stood within hail of him, he sneers out, "Lord, I thank thee I am not like that publican!" Having trumpeted his negative virtues, he adds another stroke of self-laudation, "I fast twice in each week" (i. e., on every Monday and Thursday), and "I give tithes of all that I possess." Having thus made out his bill, he presents it to the all-searching God, and goes home perfectly satisfied.

Are there any such people nowadays? Not in name and external garb of Phariseeism; but in the core of them, in their inmost hearts, there are quite too many. They are seen and heard in our prayer-meetings. The secret disease that tainted the Pharisee's fluent address to God, taints their hearts and poisons their prayers. It is the disease of self-exaggeration. They compare themselves with the reckless, the profane, the drunkard; and by comparison they seem almost angelic. Having heard the scandals afloat concerning certain delinquent professors around them, they secretly whisper to themselves, "Well, nobody has caught me cheating like brother A—; nobody sees me

the worse for drinking like poor Col. B—; I am always in my pew on Sunday, and if anybody thinks I am not about right, let him show a better record." And this complacent spirit rolls through all the fluent phrases of devotion which he pours out in his prayer, and he sits down satisfied that while other people neglect the meeting, he is there and has taken part and done his duty. Into the plague of his own heart, he has not got even a glimpse. Even the penitential expressions he wove into his prayer were so hollow, that if his pastor were to take him at his word, he would be indignant. So wrapped about is he in the soft cloak of orthodox creed, and decent moralities, and external compliances, that he does not spy a fault.

There are just such professors of religion in our churches; they are the keenest-eyed to see other people's faults, and the sharpest-tongued to condemn them. But all spiritual growth is impossible; like the young artist who sees no blemishes in his first pictures, they are doomed to self-blindness, and as they rise in their own estimation, they sink in the estimation of every one around them. How God must abhor such prayers! What waste of precious time in their repetition! And when this spirit gets into a church—a spirit of entire satisfaction with their pastor, with their music, with their income, with their social position, with their orthodoxy, and with themselves—how God does punish such a church by leaving them to be just what they are! Fancying that they have need of nothing—no, not even a searching revival—they dream not how blind and naked they are in the eye of Him who despiseth the proud, and gives His grace only to the humble.

Precious is the grace of humility! That publican was a man after Christ's own heart. Other people despised him, but not one-tenth part as much as he loathed himself. He has no spiritual attainments to write in capitals on his bulletin board. Thoroughly sick at heart of his own guiltiness, he dares not to look God in the face. Looking inward at his own heart sinfulness, and the plague of ingratitude, and impurity, and unbelief that nestles there, he keeps beating on his breast—as if he would smite that wicked heart—and he cries out, "God have mercy on me, the sinner!" No fluent experience there, you will observe, such as are sometimes rehearsed in certain meetings for displaying spiritual attainments. If Paul himself were to slip into such meetings, his single remark might be, "Not that I have already attained or am already perfect, but I press toward the high calling in Christ Jesus." That self-abhorring man who made the honest prayer on the temple-steps, stands there to-day for our copying.

There is a rich blessing in store for him. He will go home under the smile of God, forgiven and accepted. The load of guilt will be lifted off by the Pardoner. He will get a full baptism of the Spirit. Brethren, would it not be a blessed thing if we could hear more such prayers as his in our meetings—yes, and in our pulpits, too? Is not this just what we want in the present condition of our world-eaten churches? Self-satisfaction is blinding us, and dwarfing us, and dooming us to death and barrenness. What we need is to lie down low before God, and confess to him just what we are. Not for one day only, but continue to lie there till God lifts us up. Self-exaltation will ruin us. But they that humble themselves, and ask for nothing but mercy, and pardon, and help, shall be exalted—as soon as God sees it is safe to do it.—Rev. T. L. Cuyler.