I preached at the Calvary Baptist Church Men’s Prayer Breakfast this morning. And while I arrived with a few expectations, almost all were dispelled from the moment I walked in the gymnasium. Certainly entering into a room as an unknown is intimidating, but walking into a room in which I was the only man not born prior to the Nixon reign or FDR for that matter is down right terrifying. Laughingly, I had nothing to fear. But it is still true, I do not remember 25 cent movies. I have no recollection of the Korean war and my affinity with nursing homes, Alzheimer’s or liver spots has yet to engage my waking moments. I had nothing in common with these 45 men and this made me nervous. But after eggs were eaten and coffee drunken, prayers were lifted up like incense in that Baptist metroplex. Stories of broken bodies, weak eyes and even weaker legs echoed from each table as names were read from a pre-prepared list of physical needs. Tears emerged. Heads bounced as they remembered when each person recalled was once healthy and was at one time at this very same prayer breakfast.
What struck me most profoundly was that these were not sweet prayers. On the contrary, these were Manly prayers. There was no wavering. Each syllable was sanctified in the greatness of God as healer and marinated in the trust that can only be gotten by years of pain and even greater years as recipients of God’s faithfulness. The prayer time was short. In fact, it was over before I had finished my coffee.
I was introduced, though they did not really know me. I laughed to myself cause the man who was in charge of reading my bio (which I forgot to bring) just defaulted back to the old Johnny Carson days and howled, “Heeeeeere’s Johnny!” Everyone clapped. I nervously stepped forward to the podium. I felt like a child that was about to read a Dr. Seuess book to men who had studied Kipling and Shakespeare. I complimented the eggs. There was a long pause. A long nervous pause. They just stared at me patiently. They had nowhere to go and apparently were not in a hurry. I opened my bible and read out of John 10 and made a few comments about hearing God’s voice and his faithfulness in leading us in difficult times.
Of course with every word, my inner voice kept interrupting me and my pre-planned talk. It would say, “These guys been walking with Jesus long before you could even spell J-E-S-U-S. They have written the book on hearing God. And you are gonna teach these men?” I finished. Quickly. Not my best work. I sat down. Applause.
After the closing prayer several men came over to me (obviously to tell me how terrible the bible study was) and just shared stories of God’s faithfulness and love. Each of their stories started with a tragedy, but it seemed it was always just a comma in the narrative. The exclamation point was always how good God had been to them. I learned that getting old is not losing. I discovered that though life is a mist it can be enjoyed like a good wine. But mostly I learned how to hear the voice of God from men who have truly walked with God over a lifetime.
It was a good morning.
