Getting out of the boat. Or not.

"'Shortly before dawn Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. 'It's a ghost,' they said, and cried out in fear. But Jesus immediately said to them: 'Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid.'  

'Lord, if it's you,' Peter replied, 'tell me to come to you on the water.'

'Come,' he said. 

Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, 'Lord, save me!'
Immediately, Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. 

'You of little faith,' he said, 'why did you doubt?'   

And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down. Then those who were in the boat worshiped him, saying, 'Truly you are the Son of God.'"

That's from the Matthew 14.

Peter gets out of the boat to walk towards Jesus?  Lord, if you are who you say you are, call me to walk on the water! Lovely, impetuous, impulsive Peter blurts it out and Jesus has a little smile and says, 'Go on then. Come.' 

And he does. At least for a few glorious moments, Peter is walking on water, eyes fixed on his master and friend, Jesus Christ, he doesn't sink beneath the swell, he walks On The Water, which as we know, is impossible. It's not possible, to walk on water. 

But he does. Not because of who he is, but because of who Jesus is. Tell me to come to you, and I will, because you can do amazing things. You can empower me to do amazing things. Me! I trust you so much, that if you ask me to do something, you know it's possible, and I only have to do what you ask me to do. 

That's what Peter was saying. So Jesus said, 'Come,' and Peter came. On the water. 

What happened next is by the way. Much has been written about why Peter started to sink, including my own take on it, which you can catch up on here, if you feel so inclined. 

I've been imagining myself in the boat. Me, in all my hesitant INFJ over-thinking splendour. 

Its still dark; before first light and the wind is getting up. We're all in the boat but the waves are big and it's getting a bit rough out there on the lake. Jesus isn't with us, because he went off doing that Lone Man on a Hill thing that he does now and then and we've learned to give him some space. The boat is getting tossed around a little when suddenly there's this apparition coming towards us. 

'It's a ghost!' someone shouts. That probably wouldn't have been me, I don't think. I wouldn't have been as dramatic as that. I'd have been at the back gripping the side of the boat and staring as the others point. What on earth is that? 

'Calm down, calm down, it's me.' Oh, it's Jesus. 

We all exhale a sigh of relief. It's Jesus. Thank God for that; a ghost indeed! Who said it was a ghost? Numpty.

You're missing the point, though, He's walking on the water. On it. Blimey, this man is something else. We've never seen anyone walk on water before. 

I'd have gazed in awe and wonder. Oh, Lord Jesus. You are amazing, and you're my friend. How can this be? 

I wonder if it would have occurred to me to ask what Peter asked? No, I can't imagine it. I always wait to be asked. I always hang back, afraid to be the one to push myself forward, reluctant to invite attention. Peter wasn't like me at all. 

'Lord if it's you, tell me to come and I'll walk on water too!' 

'Alright. It's a deal' 

Jesus must have been so delighted at Peter's outrageous request. He saw that Peter understood something about who he was. I'd like to think there was a chance I'd have grasped it too, but unlike Peter I'd have needed much more processing tome. 

Much more time. I am not a decisive person. Not known for my spontaneity, my happy-go-lucky attitude, my impulsiveness. Nope, I'm a planner. If Jesus had sent me an email the week before telling me how he saw that evening panning out, I might have been in with a chance. But this one unfolded quickly and unexpectedly.

There I'd be, towards the back of the boat, looking at Jesus with his broad smile full of affection, pride, confidence; at Peter scrambling over the side of the boat and lowering himself towards the water. My heart would have been beating so hard, and yet it would have been hard to breathe.

Oh, me too. 

Can I come? Lord, I want to walk towards you. I believe that if you call me, you'll make sure I don't sink. If you think I can walk on water, I believe that I can - I only have to keep my eyes on you. It's not me, it's you; I can do anything if you are near me. If you are there with your arms outstretched to receive me, if you are here, I am safe, even when doing something strange and impossible like walking on a stormy lake. 

And yet I am afraid. My legs won't move. How did Peter act so quickly on this revelation and yet I am here paralysed into inactivity, even though I want more than anything to do what my reckless friend is doing? 

Should I follow? Shout, 'Me too, Lord!' and hurl myself over the side after him? What if the invitation was only for Peter, because it was his idea? What if Jesus doesn't see me and he doesn't realise I'm there; I won't know what to do. I shall just dangle off the side of the boat until I drop off or someone hauls me in again, exasperated.

Should I ask permission? 'Lord, please can I come, too?' What if he doesn't hear me? Or says no? I'll be so embarrassed. Everyone will think I'm so presumptuous - clearly it's ok for Peter because it's the kind of thing he'd do, but me? Clearly getting too big for my boots, thinking that I can walk on water; ridiculous. What if I try and I can't do it? Can I even get over the side, in this swell, with my dodgy knee? I could easily fall and make a real fool of myself. There I'd be, splashing about fully clothed, ruining Peter's special moment.  What if I try and fail? I need to do something, I so want to be part of this miracle I'm witnessing... Should I go? What if I need rescuing and everyone laughs, or thinks how stupid I am, or worse, gets annoyed that I cause so much trouble? 

I am frozen, watching the spectacle unfold. What if I follow Peter, and then everyone does? What if Jesus was just taking a short cut to the boat in a low-key sort of way and then all because of me, everyone jumps out of the boat and we're all there skipping around on the water and Jesus is rolling his eyes and saying, 'Come on, guys, get back in the boat, it's been a long day.' What if we all leap out enthusiastically and we all go under? Jesus has to spend half an hour fishing us out when all he wants is a rest and a bite to eat? 

Look! Peter's actually doing it! Look at that! Jesus can walk on water, because he's God, but Peter?! He trusted Jesus and he's now actually defying gravity! It's impossible! Oh, this is amazing. Oh, Peter, Peter! No wonder Jesus says that you're going to be the foundation of his church. Look what you've done! I am in awe. Oh look at this; think what you're witnessing; this is huge. 

You missed your opportunity, didn't you? That could have been you, but it's too late now. 

You blew it. 

Your part in the story is as the one who stood and gaped and didn't do anything; in fact you're not in this story, at all, are you?  Look at the Lord's face. He's so proud of Peter - wouldn't you just love to have Jesus look at you like that?  You want that more than anything, don't you? Well, Peter got there first, while you were still wondering and faffing and debating with yourself. Sometimes you've just got to act, to step out in faith; that's what Peter did, isn't it?  Right in front of your eyes. While you were still thinking what to do, weighing up the pros and cons, he just got on with it. And now look. He's made the Lord happy. 

You so wish you were Peter right now, don't you? This wonderful thing has just happened and you're feeling all churned up inside. 

That would have been me. 

And yet, a friend told me the other day that she thinks that the Lord wants me to know that although I doubt the depth of my faith, he doesn't.  That despite my convictions that I'd hang back in the boat, fearful and filled with confusion, in her picture I was climbing over the side with a big smile. 

Lord Jesus, let it be true. Give me the chance? 

**

I was going to leave this blog post right here, but I find myself wondering if that is a sensible prayer to be praying. What if God does indeed give me the chance to step out of the boat, whatever that means? It certainly won't be a physical boat in the centre of Queen's Park Boating Lake, but some significant boat in my spiritual journey. I often feel stifled, stalled - as if I'm revving in neutral, if the metaphor can stand both of those at the same time. 

Getting out of the boat sounds scary. Maybe you need to be a Peter kind of person to do it. Maybe I should just stay where I'm safe a bit longer. Maybe if I say, 'Lord, call me and I'll come,' he'll say, 'Alright then, come!' and then... and then, I'd have to... get out of the boat...

Maybe there is a boat, and perhaps I should get out of it, with my eyes fixed on Jesus. 

Maybe it's time. 

I'll let you know. 

Knocking on the door

Afternoon, Lord God.

Let me run this past you. 

You know when Peter was miraculously released from prison? I know it in terms of Acts 12 in the Bible, but I imagine you remember it as if it were yesterday. For me it's a story that I believe is true but can't quite get into the reality of; for you it's a fond memory.

Peter was in prison and then it got all dramatic; an angel appeared, chains fell off, doors opened by themselves and he walked free. I know he was pretty confused because it tells us so. At first he thought it wasn't actually happening to him, but just a vision, and then as the angel left we hear that Peter is standing in the street gaping. Well, that's how I imagine it. It says that '...when he came to himself...'(Acts 12:10) he makes his way to where he knew his mates were hiding. I wonder what he was thinking. Amazed, scared, awestruck, confused, overjoyed, excited? I'm quite sure that he couldn't wait to find his friends and tell them what had happened. Then maybe a glass of wine or two?

So he knocks on the door and Rhoda answers it. 

'Peter! Wow! We thought you were in prison! It's a miracle! Come in and tell us all about it.'

Nope. 

'Peter knocked at the outer entrance, and a servant named Rhoda came to answer the door. When she recognised Peter's voice, she was so overjoyed she ran back without opening it and exclaimed, 'Peter is at the door!'

Acts 12:14

The disciples and Rhoda debate this for a while. Surely not. Peter is in prison. He's not at the door. Maybe it's his angel? (Seems to me that the disciples at this point were much more used to angels than we are these days. Why is that? If I'd been there I'd have suggested that it wasn't Peter at all but perhaps someone who sounded like him, but no, his angel. What about that?) 

Anyway, Peter's still at the door. Ahem. Knock, knock. 

It is Peter. It isn't Peter. Yes it is. No, it can't be. And so on. 

Knock, knock.

'But Peter kept on knocking, and when they opened the door and saw him, they were astonished.'

Acts 12:18

When they eventually open the door, Peter can get in. I'd love to have been there. 

'Of course it's me, you halfwits. I've been out there twenty minutes!'

Acts 12:18b (my version).

How wonderful, the tale he tells. A miracle indeed. Saved from Herod and secure in the knowledge that God Almighty is watching out for him and has a job for him to do. I bet the wine flowed and they talked into the night, even after Peter left (it says, '... for another place.' Where? That sort of thing intrigues me. Where did he go?) 

Anyway. It was a night to remember indeed.  I bet songs of praise were sung. I bet your name was lifted high that night. 

The thing that made me think was this: the disciples had been praying and praying for Peter. 

'So Peter was kept in prison, but the church was earnestly praying to God for him.'

Acts 12: 5 NIV

They prayed earnestly. They prayed, presumably, that he would be alright, that he wasn't having too nasty a time, and that he might soon get out of prison.  

So they pray that he might be released, and he is. And yet, when he arrives at the door, they don't believe it. To the extent that Rhoda leaves the poor bemused man standing in the street knocking and knocking and looking over his shoulder for prison guards while she gets a bit high pitched in the living room with the disciples. 

They prayed fervently and their prayers were answered. And yet they were astonished. 

Nothing changes, does it? How incredibly reassuring that the disciples were taken aback and disbelieving when their prayers were answered just like I am. 

I pray about something (how often can I actually say I pray 'earnestly'? Feeling a bit uncomfortable about that) and then, sometimes, I am aware that you have answered my prayer. Of course, I suspect that you answer them much more often than I realise, but on the occasions where I see it and recognise it, what do I do? I run about like Rhoda telling people, 'You'll never guess what's happened! It's amazing!'

So I pray in faith, and yet I don't expect an answer. I'm sorry. The faith part is a bit thin, hey? 

Is it a sign of spiritual maturity when answered prayer, even the dramatic type, doesn't send me into a flat spin? When I'm not 'astonished' as the disciples? When I can say, 'Of course God answered my prayer. I'm not surprised; I knew he would'. Hmm. Is that faith, then? 

I think so.

'"Jesus replied, 'Truly I tell you, if you have faith and do not doubt...you can say to this mountain, 'Go, throw yourself into the sea,' and it will be done."'

Matthew 21:21

Ah. It's about the measure of faith, then. Is it possible for me to have a faith that can move mountains? I pray and I think I'm not doubting... but I'm wavery and wondering and I can't honestly say that I'm particularly earnest, much of the time. I'm in good company, because the disciples (who clearly did a better line in earnest) were astonished and doubtful when it came to answered prayer. Thankyou for them, Lord God. Thankyou that I you comfort me with their humanity. They were the very foundations of the Church and yet were reassuringly slow on the uptake.

I would like to ask, though; is it not always a breathtaking, awe-inspiring wonder that the God of the universe would listen to me and answer a prayer in my little life? I can't imagine taking it in my stride, or being unimpressed, because it's amazing to me that you hear me at all. 

I'm sure there's middle ground. I'm sure that I haven't got to the bottom of this; for now I'll go on trying to practice enough to pray earnestly and I shall be on the lookout for an answer. I shall try to expect one. Help me to notice more of the answered prayers that I know are heaped up all around me. Help me to be more sensitive to your hand in my life, Father. Show me how to pray with expectation, not just on the offchance. 

Give me more faith. More and more, Lord. I want to be faithful. I want to be what a friend of mine calls a 'Power Pray-er'. I want to hear from you so often that your voice becomes familiar to me. I want to chat. I want to listen. I want to pray in such a way that your will is done, here on earth, as it is in heaven. I want to bring a little bit of your Kingdom right here. I want to make a difference. 

I don't want to leave Peter knocking in the street. I want to see him stumbling down the road towards me with a startled expression because I was waiting for him to arrive. I was expecting him to arrive.

I just can't guarantee that if - no, when it happens I won't dash off excitedly to tell the world about it. I shall shout it from the rooftops. 

My God is good. He answers prayers. 

Who do you say I am?

"Jesus ... asked his disciples, 'Who do people say the Son of Man is?' They replied, 'Some say John the Baptist, others say Elijah; and still others, Jeremiah or one of the prophets.''But what about you?' he asked. 'Who do you say I am?'Peter answered, 'You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.'"
Matthew 16:13-16 NIV

I've read this many times, and I read it again the other day and suddenly it meant something new. Simon Peter spoke up for all the disciples - I wonder what they were about to say or if there was going to be a long, painful silence? Either way, Simon Peter piped up, 'You are the Christ.'  He didn't say, 'We think that you might be the Christ.' or 'Are you the Christ?' He stated it as a fact. 

And then, this amazing bit:

"Jesus replied, Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah, for this was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my Father in heaven.'"

Simon Peter knew who Jesus was. I don't know how he came to this realisation, whether it was gradual or sudden, but Jesus tells him that it wasn't a conclusion he was ever going to come to on his own. God had revealed it to him. That's what He does. By His Holy Spirit, He reveals things to people.

Now, God, you are the same these days as you were then, aren't you? You are eternal, unchanging. You don't need to evolve, or learn, or develop in any way. You are the same God. So how is it that I, too, like Peter, can say of your Son, 'You are the Christ'? 

Isn't it amazing? Just as you gave Peter the understanding to grasp who he was, you have given it to me. How else would I know? 

Wow. 

The enormity of this struck me and left me pondering. You are the same God. 

'Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever.'
Hebrews 13:8

So if you blessed Simon Peter with the realisation that Jesus was the Messiah, and then all the normal everyday people down through history, then you have blessed me too. It therefore follows that just as you had a relationship with each of those people, spoke with them, directed them and spent time with them - you will do all that for me too. Because you don't change. 

AW Tozer summed it up for me, speaking about Peter's revelation and the foundations of the Christian church through him:

'If all of this is true - and everything within me witnesses that it is - we may insist that God is able to do for us all that He did in the days of the apostles. There has been no revocation in our charter!'
Mornings with Tozer

I don't really know why we read the Bible and believe that you did amazing things for and in and through the apostles and all those other Great People of the Old and New Testament, and then we look at our own lives and fail to apply what we've learned. It's as if we somehow think that you had your golden days back then and somehow you are a more distant, watered down sort of God now. Maybe in retirement, feet up, not much energy. Capable of watching over us in a benevolent sort of way but without the dynamism and drama of the Bible. Without the love and the power. 

But here's that little tiny but hugely important thing. Without you, Peter would not have seen who Jesus is.

Without you, neither would I. 

Thankyou, God Almighty. 

God of the Israelites, Father of Jesus Christ, and God of me too. 

Toenails

Oh, Lord.

I'm writing this and I don't know if I'll ever press the little orange 'Publish' button because I'd rather we kept it just between you and me, but then it's already between you and me, so why write it down at all?

It's because this is how I sort out my thoughts. I don't know what I think until I write, and then I find out. Sometimes I get from A to B via P, Q R and Z, but I get there eventually. Usually. 

Last week it was Maundy Thursday. Usually at church we have a simple meal together, a subdued Communion service and then we watch the altar in church being stripped. The golden cross and candlesticks removed, the beautiful embroidered cloths folded up and taken away. It always touches me and it's a very thoughtful way of getting ready for the bleakness of Good Friday, the emptiness of Saturday and the celebration of Sunday. I love Easter.

Anyway, much easier to talk about how I love Easter than what happened last Thursday. I planned to go to the Maundy Thursday service at church and I checked the time in the Church notice sheet as evening stuff is always a bit awkward to manage around the children's bedtime. It was as I was checking the notice sheet that I noticed something. It was to be a service of Holy Communion with foot washing.

Now, I have always been moved and intrigued by the way you washed the disciples' feet at the Last Supper. I've tried to put myself into your position, and into theirs. The twelve, who sat mute as their Lord knelt before them with a towel around his waist and washed their dusty, crusty, sweaty feet. Poured water over the filthy toes and patted them dry, and moved on to the next.

Peter, who indignantly pulled his feet away saying that it wasn't right, it wasn't happening that the one he knew was the Son of God should go near his hard skin and fungal big toenail.

But you explained why and Peter opened his heart and lifted his feet one at a time to welcome you. Wash the whole of me, Lord, because you are the only thing that matters to me.

Foot washing. At church. I wondered how it would be managed; who would be washing and who being washed, and I started to feel just the slightest bit anxious about it. Not enough to change my mind about going, but still, a little worry set in.

Getting my feet out in public?

As I dried my toes after the shower that morning I realised that my feet were not particularly presentable. I made a mental note to trim my toenails and give them a new coat of polish. As you know, I'm not the sort of woman who has regular pedicures and while in the summer I try to keep my toes looking reasonable because they poke out of sandals, over the winter the nail polish has more chance of growing out than being removed and reapplied. Indeed, the big toenail one each foot had a patch of leftover purple varnish but the rest were bare.

I bent low to my toes and gave them a quick once over with the nail clippers. Is this too much information? Surely you're not squeamish about all things toenail-related like some people? There is nothing inherently distasteful about toenail clippings, in my opinion, if disposed of correctly. But let's not get into that.

Pushing on. I tidied them up rapidly, taking care not to clip down the sides and trigger anything ingrowing, and then I assessed the nail polish situation. Being too idle to locate the nail polish remover, I sort of scratched at the patch of purple with my thumbnail. Some of it came off. I rubbed at it and it became quite a bit smaller. Decided - never mind, no-one will notice.

So I reached into my bedside table drawer and found the first bottle of polish that I came across. Not particularly bothered what colour it was. Slapped it on. Indeed, the pink hid the scrappy bits of purple. It was almost as if the new polish dissolved the old and it even went on smoothly. One, two, three, four, five, change feet and repeat.

Waft toes in the air for a few seconds to dry.

Do it again.

There. Much better.

Cosmetic improvement left and right. All ready for foot washing later in the day. Made mental note to change socks and give feet a quick squirt of something fragrant just before leaving for church.

This is where my mind started working.

It didn't feel right.

As I pulled on my slippers, I began to ponder the superficiality of it all. It just about sums me up.

I'm fine on the outside. Nobody would ever suspect what I'm like. The new nail polish glided over the broken and tatty remains of the last application and hid the damage beneath a shiny new layer. No-one could see that underneath the pink there was worn out patchy purple. Two coats of gloss and it took the eye completely away from the uneven trimming and the weeks of neglect.

Washed my feet in the shower and the grime and sweat from yesterday was gone. It wouldn't take long to accumulate again.

With a fresh coat of pink, they looked like butter-wouldn't-melt-feet. Without close examination no-one would notice the small patch of low-grade athlete's foot that has been a problem on and off for (ahem) quite a while now. I could clear it up with a consistent routine application of cream but I don't tend to bother.

See? That's the thing. I don't bother. My feet are rarely on show so I don't bother to make them presentable until it seems likely that someone might come into close contact. And when I do, I do a quick cosmetic job that will just about get me through.

That's me.

To the untrained eye I'm pretty presentable. (I'm not talking appearance, here; that's a whole other story). A nice enough person. Glossy, in some respects. More or less socially adept, superficially cheerful, often remembering to ask after people, making a generally good impression, messing up occasionally. Those who know me well might now and then notice a chip in the nail polish, so to speak, or suspect that all is not fragrant all the time, but there's only one person who still sees the buried remains of previous varnish, the callouses and the infections and the tough bits prone to cracking.

That's you.

You don't care about the nail polish, do you? You don't care whether I'm buffed up on the surface and looking good, sounding good, smelling good. You can see what's on the inside. The deep-down stuff that can't be hidden from the One who knew me from the beginning and knows my most secret thoughts, worries, fears.

And when it comes down to it, whose opinion matters, but yours?

'You have searched me, Lord, and you know me

You know when I sit and when I rise;

You perceive my thoughts from afar.

You discern my going out and my lying down;

You are familiar with all my ways.

Before a words is on my tongue,

You know it completely, Lord.'

Psalm 139:23

Lord, you know me.

Nobody sees me but you; you are El Roi, you are the God who sees. There's nothing I can hide from you. The jealousy when I feel that someone is doing better than me, the pride when I think I'm doing better than someone else. The selfishness, the spite, the cruel and critical thoughts that spill over into my speech sometimes. You know what I'm going to say before I say it and I suspect that sometimes the angels wince at the sound of my voice.

The times when I don't trust you, don't believe you or don't listen to you. When I say one thing and quite consciously, deliberately do another. When doing the right thing is too much trouble; much easier to look the other way, pass by on the other side of the street. The times when I'm sorry for what I've done and the times when I absolutely am not. The times that I hang on for dear life to the wrong things and let the right things pass me by.

I don't want to be polished smart on the outside and rotten on the inside.

What I am in my heart is what eventually will rise to the surface, and that frightens me a bit. I know that there's much that isn't right, isn't as you want me to be. And if I, flawed and blinkered, am capable of detecting the rubbish that lurks within, when half the time I don't even grasp the extent of my failure, then how much more is there that you can see that I can't?

'Search me, God, and know my heart;

test me and know my anxious thoughts.

See if there is any offensive way in me,

and lead me in the way everlasting.'

Psalm 139:23-24

Thank you, Lord, that you love me too much to leave me like this. Thank you that you have a plan that is just for me. Thank you that I can see your hand in my life; I know that you're at work. Thank you that sometimes even when I feel like I'm stuck, stalled and going nowhere, I know that you are there, never abandoning me, never giving up on me.

I am a work in progress.

'Cleanse me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.'

Psalm 51:7

Thank you that you have washed me clean indeed. 

Jesus, you died so that I might be forgiven - that I might not be held to account for all that rubbish that's buried below the surface. Keep on working in the hidden depths of me so that the bits that do see light of day are suitable for a Child of God. I want to shine as your light in the world. I want to reflect your glory. 

My feet are never going to be that much to look at, I don't think, but that doesn't bother me too much. I can always put on another coat of nail polish. And who looks closely at them anyway? Even me, I'm five feet nine inches away from them, and they're mine. They go where I go. I might leave footprints as I walk but you can't tell what sort of person left a footprint.

My heart? That's another matter. It affects everything that I do, everything that I say. I leave bits of it behind when I interact with people, and from those pieces they see who I am deep down - I can't help it. It might not be immediately obvious, but it's the part of me that makes me who I am. I am what I am on the inside.

Who am I? I am your daughter. What I am reflects on my Father. Don't let me sell you short, Lord God. Wash my feet, and like Peter I say wash my head and my hands too. 

Welcome, Lord Jesus. 

Come, Holy Spirit. Do your thing. 

PS. As it was, I didn't get to the Maundy Thursday footwashing service. I was all geared up for writing a meaningful, insightful piece about how it went, but as it was the children didn't settle down at bedtime and so I gave it a miss rather than draw even more attention to myself by being very late.

Perhaps it was for the best.

Or perhaps I didn't need to get my feet out in public for you to give me food for thought.

Thank you.

Knocking on the door

Afternoon, Lord God. 

I was reading something the other day and it made me think. Let me run this past you. 

You know when Peter was miraculously released from prison? I know it in terms of Acts 12 in the Bible, but I imagine you remember it as if it were yesterday. For me it's a story that I believe is true but can't quite get into the reality of; for you it's a fond memory.

Peter was in prison and then it got all dramatic; an angel appeared, chains fell off, doors opened by themselves and he walked free. I know he was pretty confused because it tells us so. At first he thought it wasn't actually happening to him, but just a vision, and then as the angel left we hear that Peter is standing in the street gaping. Well, that's how I imagine it. It says that '...when he came to himself...'(Acts 12:10) he makes his way to where he knew his mates were hiding. I wonder what he was thinking. Amazed, scared, awestruck, confused, overjoyed, excited? I'm quite sure that he couldn't wait to find his friends and tell them what had happened. Then maybe a glass of wine or two?

So he knocks on the door and Rhoda answers it. 

'Peter! Wow! We thought you were in prison! It's a miracle! Come in and tell us all about it.'

Nope. 

'Peter knocked at the outer entrance, and a servant named Rhoda came to answer the door. When she recognised Peter's voice, she was so overjoyed she ran back without opening it and exclaimed, 'Peter is at the door!'

Acts 12:14

The disciples and Rhoda debate this for a while. Surely not. Peter is in prison. He's not at the door. Maybe it's his angel? (Seems to me that the disciples at this point were much more used to angels than we are these days. Why is that? If I'd been there I'd have suggested that it wasn't Peter at all but perhaps someone who sounded like him, but no, his angel. What about that?) 

Anyway, Peter's still at the door. Ahem. Knock, knock. 

It is Peter. It isn't Peter. Yes it is. No, it can't be. And so on. 

Knock, knock.

'But Peter kept on knocking, and when they opened the door and saw him, they were astonished.'

Acts 12:18

When they eventually open the door, Peter can get in. I'd love to have been there. 

'Of course it's me, you halfwits. I've been out there twenty minutes!'

Acts 12:18b (my version).

How wonderful, the tale he tells. A miracle indeed. Saved from Herod and secure in the knowledge that God Almighty is watching out for him and has a job for him to do. I bet the wine flowed and they talked into the night, even after Peter left (it says, '... for another place.' Where? That sort of thing intrigues me. Where did he go?) 

Anyway. It was a night to remember indeed.  I bet songs of praise were sung. I bet your name was lifted high that night. 

The thing that made me think was this: the disciples had been praying and praying for Peter. 

'So Peter was kept in prison, but the church was earnestly praying to God for him.'

Acts 12: 5 NIV

They prayed earnestly. They prayed, presumably, that he would be alright, that he wasn't having too nasty a time, and that he might soon get out of prison.  

So they pray that he might be released, and he is. And yet, when he arrives at the door, they don't believe it. To the extent that Rhoda leaves the poor bemused man standing in the street knocking and knocking and looking over his shoulder for prison guards while she gets a bit high pitched in the living room with the disciples. 

They prayed fervently and their prayers were answered. And yet they were astonished. 

Nothing changes, does it? How incredibly reassuring that the disciples were taken aback and disbelieving when their prayers were answered just like I am. 

I pray about something (how often can I actually say I pray 'earnestly'? Feeling a bit uncomfortable about that) and then, sometimes, I am aware that you have answered my prayer. Of course, I suspect that you answer them much more often than I realise, but on the occasions where I see it and recognise it, what do I do? I run about like Rhoda telling people, 'You'll never guess what's happened! It's amazing!'

So I pray in faith, and yet I don't expect an answer. I'm sorry. The faith part is a bit thin, hey? 

Is it a sign of spiritual maturity when answered prayer, even the dramatic type, doesn't send me into a flat spin? When I'm not 'astonished' as the disciples? When I can say, 'Of course God answered my prayer. I'm not surprised; I knew he would'. Hmm. Is that faith, then? 

I think so.

'"Jesus replied, 'Truly I tell you, if you have faith and do not doubt...you can say to this mountain, 'Go, throw yourself into the sea,' and it will be done."'

Matthew 21:21

Ah. It's about the measure of faith, then. Is it possible for me to have a faith that can move mountains? I pray and I think I'm not doubting... but I'm wavery and wondering and I can't honestly say that I'm particularly earnest, much of the time. I'm in good company, because the disciples (who clearly did a better line in earnest) were astonished and doubtful when it came to answered prayer. Thankyou for them, Lord God. Thankyou that I you comfort me with their humanity. They were the very foundations of the Church and yet were reassuringly slow on the uptake.

I would like to ask, though; is it not always a breathtaking, awe-inspiring wonder that the God of the universe would listen to me and answer a prayer in my little life? I can't imagine taking it in my stride, or being unimpressed, because it's amazing to me that you hear me at all. 

I'm sure there's middle ground. I'm sure that I haven't got to the bottom of this; for now I'll go on trying to practice enough to pray earnestly and I shall be on the lookout for an answer. I shall try to expect one. Help me to notice more of the answered prayers that I know are heaped up all around me. Help me to be more sensitive to your hand in my life, Father. Show me how to pray with expectation, not just on the offchance. 

Give me more faith. More and more, Lord. I want to be faithful. I want to be what a friend of mine calls a 'Power Pray-er'. I want to hear from you so often that your voice becomes familiar to me. I want to chat. I want to listen. I want to pray in such a way that your will is done, here on earth, as it is in heaven. I want to bring a little bit of your Kingdom right here. I want to make a difference. 

I don't want to leave Peter knocking in the street. I want to see him stumbling down the road towards me with a startled expression because I was waiting for him to arrive. I was expecting him to arrive.

I just can't guarantee that if - no, when it happens I won't dash off excitedly to tell the world about it. I shall shout it from the rooftops. 

My God is good. He answers prayers.