Category: February

A Prayer about Ordained Days and Thoughts of God  

In your book were written,
every one of them, 
the days that were formed for me, 
when as yet there were none of them. 
How precious to me are your thoughts,
O God! How vast is the sum of them! 
If I would count them,
they are more than the sand.
I awake, and I am still with you. (Ps. 139:16–18)  

Heavenly Father, it’s my birthday, and the number just keeps getting bigger. Yet as “vast” and “great” as the sum of my years seems to me today, vaster and greater are my thoughts of you. The number of my years is calculated merely in terms of decades, but if I tried to “do the math” concerning your glory and grace, I’d have to count every grain of sand on every beach that has ever existed. With David I can honestly say, “How precious to me are your thoughts” (Ps. 139:17). 

Father, keep on rescuing me from all wrong thinking about you. Keep showing me how little I really see and understand about the greatness of your love for us in Jesus. That won’t embarrass me; it will truly thrill me. May the gospel keep on getting bigger and bigger and bigger. 

It’s a source of incredible peace and freedom to know that you’ve ordained all of my days for me. That feels not like unfair fatalism but rather Fatherly affection. I’ll not live one day more or one day less than you decree, by your sovereign purposes and eternal pleasure. 

There’s a part of me that would like to turn the clock back for a possible “do over,” especially for certain stretches of my life. But then again, not really. Your name is Redeemer, and you’re the God who restores years eaten away by locusts. I choose to rest in your love rather than stew in my regrets. I have great confidence and hope in your commitment to make all things new. 

All I ask is that each additional day, week, month, or year you appoint for me in this world will be filled with a greater grasp of the only love that will never let go of us. By your Spirit, Father, continue to reveal to me how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ— the only love that surpasses knowledge (Eph. 3:18–19). Everything else will take care of itself. I make my prayer in Jesus’ matchless and merciful name.

Amen. 

A Prayer about the Sufferings of Jesus and the Victory of Justice  

Many followed him [Jesus], and he healed them all and ordered them not to make him known. This was to fulfill what was spoken by the prophet Isaiah: “Behold, my servant whom I have chosen, my beloved with whom my soul is well pleased. I will put my Spirit upon him, and he will proclaim justice to the Gen- tiles. He will not quarrel or cry aloud, nor will anyone hear his voice in the streets; a bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not quench, until he brings justice to victory; And in his name the Gentiles will hope.” (Matt. 12:15–21)  

Dear Lord Jesus, I’m greatly moved today as I ponder your compassionate heart for the broken and suffering. Surely there’s no Savior like you: entering, not running from our chaos; taking, not despising our shame; shouldering, not ignoring our burdens. “Bruised reeds” and “smoldering wicks” love your appearing. Justice will be fully victorious because you have been the willing Sufferer. 

For gloriously sure, your sufferings as our sin bearer are over. As the Lamb of God, you offered yourself once and for all upon the cross. No additional sacrifice for our sin remains to be offered— none. I no longer fear being judged by God for my sin. Your perfect love has driven away all fear of punishment, anxiety about judgment day, and uncertainty about eternity. I boast and rest in your sufferings for me, Lord Jesus, and I also shout a hearty “Hallelujah!” 

But I also cry out, “Help me, Lord Jesus . . . help me.” Help me go with you into the sufferings of friends and family, further into the groans of my own heart, and into the injustices and brokenness of my community. Like most, I have an aversion to pain and suffering. Like many, I’d love the Christian life to be an antidote for all discomfort and distress. Like some, I get overwhelmed and overtaxed by the sufferings of others. 

Here’s my peace, my consolation, my ballast, Jesus: you’re not calling us to suffer for you but to suffer with you, and that makes all the difference in the world. We’re called into the fellowship of your sufferings, not into the isolation of our sufferings.

You’ll never lead us into hard places where you’re not present. You’ll never ask us to do anything all by ourselves. You’ll never leave us or forsake us, Jesus. You will lead justice to victory, and in your name all the nations will put their hope. I pray in your kind and compassionate name.

Amen. 

A Prayer about Perpetually Coming to Jesus  

As you come to him, a living stone rejected by men but in the sight of God chosen and precious, you yourselves like living stones are being built up as a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. For it stands in Scripture: “Behold, I am laying in Zion a stone, a cornerstone chosen and precious, and whoever believes in him will not be put to shame.”
(1 Pet. 2:4–6)  

Heavenly Father, I used to think that “coming to Jesus” was a phrase whose meaning is exhausted when we first trust your Son to be our Savior. For sure, that is the most glorious and essential “come to Jesus” meeting we’ll ever have. How I praise you for showing me how much I needed your Son and for giving me the faith to trust Jesus plus nothing for my salvation. 

It’s obvious to me now, however, that the whole Christian life is about coming to Jesus. We need Jesus today as much as the first day he entered our lives. In fact, we’ll never exhaust our need for what Jesus alone can give. We’ll forever discover more and more reasons to give him the worship, adoration, and praise of which he alone is worthy. 

Indeed, Jesus, you are the life giving living stone for your beloved people; the precious cornerstone of the living temple called the body of Christ; the rock of refuge that’s higher than I am (Ps. 61:2–3); the rock from which God gave water in the wilderness in Moses’ day (1 Cor. 10:1–4). You are the honey-giving rock of whom Asaph spoke (Ps. 81:16), and you are Daniel’s stone, cut from a mountain by the hands of God, which will become an everlasting kingdom of redemption and restoration (Dan. 2:36–45). 

Jesus, we exalt you and delight in you. The more precious you become to us, the more we watch our shame melt away. The more we see you for who you really are, the more we see all other precious currencies as fool’s gold. The more we come to you, the more we realize that it’s you who is always coming to us first. 

Jesus, we come to you right now— we come bringing our emptiness to the fountain of your fullness. We bring our brokenness to the storehouse of your kindness. We bring our weakness in the great assurance of your endless mercies. We come to you right now for enough gospel manna to meet the demands of this one day. We pray in your precious and shame-freeing name.

Amen. 

A Prayer about Our Tireless, Weariless God

The Lord is the everlasting God, 
the Creator of the ends of the earth. 
He will not grow tired or weary, 
and his understanding no one can fathom. 
He gives strength to the weary 
and increases the power of the weak. 
Even youths grow tired and weary,
 and young men stumble and fall; 
but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. 
They will soar on wings like eagles; 
they will run and not grow weary, 
they will walk and not be faint. (Isa. 40:28–31 NIV) 

Gracious Father, this was one of the first Scriptures I memorized as a young believer, yet reading it today is like finding a new treasure in an old field. That’s one of the things I most love about your Word. It’s never antiquated or redundant but always vintage and ever new. You’re the God who speaks in specifics and without stuttering. You’re the Father who knows what we need even before we ask, and you provide before we ask.

This passage from Isaiah is underlined multiple times in my favorite Bible, and for good reason. It reminds me that you’re not like me, in so many ways. You never get tired or weary. I do and I am. Accepting limitations, finiteness, and weakness has never been one of my strengths. But I must. Since youths grow tired and weary and young men stumble and fall, why do I think I’m exempt from “running on empty” and hitting a wall? ট

Father, I’m not asking to soar like an eagle, as fun as that might be, and I’m not seeking to run like a sprinter or a marathoner. Just walking upright with a renewed heart, a steady gait, and a replenished energy will be enough. 

My hope is in you, Father— merciful Abba, who brings refreshment into the wilderness; generous Lord, who promises sufficient grace every day; mighty God, who raises the dead. Right now I look to you for all the spiritual, emotional, mental, and physical strength I’ll need to live out the implications of the gospel just today. I’m not depleted, though heading there, but I have no doubts about your great compassion for me in Jesus. 

Because Jesus embraced the ultimate weakness and weariness of the cross, I’m confident of your burden-bearing love. I may be weary in my servant hood, but I’m thriving in my son ship. Nothing can separate us from your love. I pray in Jesus’ tender and triumphant name.

Amen. 

A Prayer about Devilish Footholds  

“In your anger do not sin”: Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold. (Eph. 4:26–27 NIV)  

Dear Jesus, I can think of certain door-to-door salespeople I wish I’d never let across the threshold. One toe through my front door, one minute into their pitch, and I’m wishing I could usher them on their way. Oh, that I’d be that wise when the devil approaches my heart and home. 

Of course, if he came knocking in a red jumpsuit with a three-pronged pitchfork in hand, sporting sixties-style beatnik facial hair, I’d have no problem turning him away. Unfortunately, he often comes in the back door through my impatience, irritation, aggravation, and anger. 

Jesus, help me steward my anger. It’s always been a confusing emotion to me. I’ve been on the destructive end of anger and rage. I remember the fear, the confusion, the shame, the ambivalence. I don’t wish such a crushing of the spirit on anyone, but I certainly own the ways my anger has nonetheless brought harm to people I love. 

You’re not telling me never to be angry but to be careful not to sin in my anger. Jesus, help me be angry at the right time, for the right reasons, in the right way. Only you can melt this icy tension in my heart. Only you can change my rigidity into playfulness. Only you can redirect the wasted energy of my anger into patience and loving-kindness. Only you can replace my idol of control with a greater worship of you and submission to your purposes. 

Right now, Lord Jesus, I throw open every door and window of my heart. Come on in and establish multiple footholds of mercy, grace, and compassion. I abandon myself to your beauty and bounty today. I pray in your peerless and priceless name. 

Amen. 

A Prayer about the Comfort of Jesus’ Tears  

Jesus wept. (John 11:35)  

Lord Jesus, we all know this verse answers the question, “What’s the shortest verse in the Bible?” But it’s also a candidate for the most profound and comforting verse in the Bible. Your aching and compassionate tears, shed outside of Lazarus’s tomb, are one of the greatest showers that has ever fallen upon the face of the earth. 

You knew that within a matter of moments, your friend would breathe again. You knew he’d walk again. You knew you’d get to enjoy his company again. And yet you wept convulsively in the presence of his death. It was well said by those honored to see your sacred fury and great sadness, “See how he loved him!” (John 11:36). 

Jesus, I’m glad to know you as a tenderhearted Savior . . . especially today. In just a few hours I’ll help a couple bury their three-week-old son. Oh, the pain, the loss, the confusion, the second-guessing. Understandably, we cry, “Lord, if only you’d been there . . .” 

Jesus, no one hates death more than you. No one. No one feels its horrid implications more profoundly. No one grieves its ugly violation more deeply. No one longs for the day of “no more death” (Rev. 21:4 NIV) more earnestly than you. 

Perhaps some of your tears outside of Lazarus’s tomb were offered knowing he’d have to go through the whole rotten dying process again— such is your hatred of death. 

Today I rest my sobered and saddened heart on your shoulder and on the hope of being able to call you “the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25). Jesus, your death on the cross secured the death of death itself— the last enemy (1 Cor. 15:26). And because of your resurrection, we sing in advance of our resurrection, “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” (1 Cor. 15:55).

How we praise you! How we exalt you! How we rest our heavy hearts in your loving hands! I pray in your grave robbing name.

Amen. 

A Prayer about What or Who Brings Us Peace  

“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” “Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, “Teacher, rebuke your disciples!” “I tell you,” he replied, “if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.” As he approached Jerusalem and saw the city, he wept over it and said, “If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace.” (Luke 19:38–42 NIV)  

Jesus, the ache within our hearts for peace is unrelenting. Let me get specific: the ache within my heart is unrelenting. Though I already rest in you plus nothing for my forgiveness and righteousness, I still get sucker punched by the tantalizing illusion that peace can be found in something or someone else.

Some days, Jesus, I’m like Esau. My peace pangs take over, and in the moment, I’ll gladly settle for a bowl of hot porridge over the hope of a future banquet. The provision of a snack in hand blinds my eye, deafens my ear, and dulls my taste buds to the sumptuous fare of the wedding feast of the Lamb— the day when my longing and demanding heart will be fully set free to delight in you. “Maranatha!” Even so, Lord Jesus, come . . . hasten that day! 

Some days, Jesus, I get lost in the world of “if only.” If only there were no tensions in any of my relationships, I’d be a happy man. If only the phone wouldn’t ring again, demanding a little more of me than I have to offer, I’d be fine. If only I lived somewhere else, worked with different people, had a different body, had more money, had fewer hassles, had a different spouse, had never been deeply wounded, were twenty years younger . . . 

But right now I hear you saying to me, “If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace” (Luke 19:42 NIV). Indeed, Jesus, you alone, this day and every day, are the Prince of Peace. Only in union with you, only in communion with you do I find the true and sufficient peace for which I long. 

I join the chorus of those who cry out, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Luke 19:38 NIV), for you, Jesus, are the king of glory and grace. Until the day of consummate peace, continue to free me from the delusion that peace can be found anywhere else but in you. I pray in your faithful name.

Amen. 

A Prayer about Formerly “Useless” People  

Accordingly, although I am bold enough in Christ to command you to do what is required, yet for love’s sake I prefer to appeal to you— I, Paul, an old man and now a prisoner also for Christ Jesus— I appeal to you for my child Onesimus, whose father I became in my imprisonment. (Formerly he was useless to you, but now he is indeed useful to you and to me.) (Philem. 8–11)  

Dear Jesus, what a great story these few verses tell— the story of how one man’s “useless” slave became another man’s beloved son. Stories like this make the gospel so beautiful and believable. I see myself in this story, both as Onesimus and as Philemon. 

Jesus, thank you for not giving up on me, for coming after me when I was running away from you as fast as I could, just like Onesimus ran from Philemon. Overtly and covertly, I did everything I could to avoid you and ignore you, but you found me, you bound me to your heart through the cords of the gospel, and slowly but surely, you’re changing me. The journey from slavery to son ship hasn’t always been easy. 

Jesus, I also know what it’s like to be Philemon. I’ve been failed and I’ve been hurt. I’ve been betrayed and suffered loss. But forgive me for labeling anyone as useless. Paul saw something in Onesimus that Philemon didn’t see. Jesus, you saw something in me that no one else saw. Please give me your gospel eyes to see what you see in others: broken people just like me. 

Who have I branded “useless,” with either my actual words or unspoken words? Who have I written off? Who have I renamed “failure,” “worthless,” “you’ll never amount to anything,” “never to be trusted again”?

I know you’re calling me to be wise, but I also know you’re calling me to love others as you love me. None of us is beyond the need of your grace and none of us is beyond the reach of your grace. I pray in your chain breaking name. 

Amen. 

A Prayer about Jesus’ Dining Mates  

Levi [Matthew] held a great banquet for Jesus at his house, and a large crowd of tax collectors and others were eating with them. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law who belonged to their sect complained to his disciples, “Why do you eat and drink with tax collectors and sinners?” Jesus answered them, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.” (Luke 5:29–32 NIV)  

Dear Jesus, I can’t read this story without fueling my longing for the banquet of all banquets. Who will sit and be served by you at the wedding feast of the Lamb? 

Only those who’ve been saved by grace alone through faith alone; only tax collectors and “sinners” and Pharisees and teachers of the law who’ve been clothed in the wedding garments of your righteousness. 

I praise you for making me a part of your broken yet beloved bride; for calling me, healing me, saving me. I have no problem acknowledging my sickness and receiving your remedy. Jesus, there’s no greater friend of sinners than you. Thank you for eating and drinking, reclining and dining, fellowshiping and communing with the likes of us. 

It would actually be a good thing if our churches were places where Pharisees and “older brothers” (Luke 15) criticized us for all the sick people, broken sinners, and cultural misfits who gathered there. May we grieve when your welcoming heart is not extended as you intend. 

Oh, to be more like Levi— to be so impacted by your love, Lord Jesus, that I’m constantly throwing mini-banquets for my friends. Turn every one of my lunch appointments into a threesome, with you and a friend. Turn my family gatherings into occasions where you’re always filling the empty seat. 

Make this concave heart of mine far more convex, far more friendly to outsiders, far more like yours, Jesus. I pray in your merciful and mighty name.

Amen. 

A Prayer for a Friend Doubting the Faith  

Keep yourselves in the love of God, waiting for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ that leads to eternal life. And have mercy on those who doubt. (Jude 21–22)  

Dear Jesus, the liar and thief is at it again, and a good friend has a bull’s eye painted on his chest. The one who maliciously asked, “Did God really say . . . ?” (Gen. 3:1) continues his unrelenting assault, seeking to twist, undermine, and sabotage the only Word that gives life. I long for the day when our already-defeated foe becomes our fully eradicated enemy. Hasten the day, Lord . . . hasten that day. 

Jesus, as you know, this is a friend who’s helped many people find peace in you, but right now he’s not really sure what he believes. He’s beyond anger. There’s a scary void in his eyes. He feels abandoned by you and cruelly punished. This could be burnout, but it feels like more. 

I ache for him, Jesus. I groan for my friend and grapple for his heart. Help me love him well. Give me patience to stay present in his chaos. Help me wade through what feels like a smoke screen of theological questions to get to the real issues of his heart. What’s really going on inside of him, Jesus? Give me discernment. Give me good answers for honest questions, but give me great mercy for his real needs, whatever they are. 

And please keep him from medicating in destructive ways. Pain makes us vulnerable, and isolation intensifies our demand for relief. He’s pulling away from those of us he’s walked with for years. That’s what concerns me the most. 

Jesus, I’ll keep pursuing and praying, but I put much more stock in your prayers than mine. You never stop interceding for us (Rom. 8:34); you ever live to pray for us (Heb. 7:25). I cannot imagine your prayers failing. Restore the joy of your salvation in my friend. Bring him home to your heart. As you prayed for the protection of your disciples, I’m confident of your prayers for my friend (John 17:15). I pray with peace, in your tender and tireless name.

Amen.