Unanswered Prayers; A Wicked Heart.
THE morning after Maria’s conversation with her father, she prayed, as she thought, with great fervency, and then descended to the sitting-room with full expectations of success. In the course of it, she was surprised to find that her difficulties had not diminished. Indeed, as she had expected that the grace of God would enable her to overcome all difficulties at once, without any effort on her part, she felt even more dissatisfaction on the review of the day than she had for some time past. The next day it was the same, and at the close of it, when she took her accustomed seat by her father, she could not conceal her disappointment and vexation. Bursting into tears, she began— “Papa, you said the reason I did not succeed in trying to be good was that I depended on myself; so today and yesterday I prayed to God to help me, and I have been worse than I was before.”
Her father could with difficulty repress a smile at this bitter complaint, that a single prayer, proceeding, tot, from a selfish and unhumbled heart, had not effected a conquest which would certainly ed a new life, and which, with that, would probably require months of prayerful effort. There were so many errors, so much misunderstanding and self-ignorance, implied in her remark, that he hardly knew how to reply. Thinking it best, however, to say nothing at that time of the character of her prayers, he replied, —
“It is true, my dear, that I accounted for your failure in this way; but I did not tell you, did I, that one prayer, or even two, would put all your difficulties to flight, and change your temper at once?”
“No, papa, you did not say so; but I thought, of course, God would hear me as soon as I prayed.”
“But it is not necessary to suppose that, even when prayer is offered aright, and when God intends to answer it, he does so immediately and at once: he bestows a little grace at a time, and often not until after many weeks or months of prayer.”
Maria was surprised, but not discouraged. She thought it would not be difficult to pray forever so long a time, if she might receive an answer at last.
“After all, papa,” said she, “I do not see why I should have been worse than usual today.”
“I do not think it certain that you have been so; you were expecting such great things, that the disappointment might make you imagine it, or perhaps you expected that God’s help would render it unnecessary for you to make any effort.”
“But did not you tell me, papa, that I could do nothing of myself, and that I must have God’s help?”
“Yes; but God’s enabling you to govern yourself is very different from his doing it instead of you, while you sit still.”
“Then, papa, must I try just as hard as if I did not pray?”
“Certainly; praying will do you no good without trying. But I have something else to tell you about your prayers; but it is late now; we will wait till tomorrow. Good night, my dear.”
Maria, quite encouraged, bid her father good night, and went upstairs with a lightened heart. She prayed for a new heart, not expecting an immediate answer, but regarding her prayer as one link of a chain of performances that were to obtain for her what she desired. She even tried to form some calculation as to the length of time which she would probably be obliged to wait for an answer to her petitions.
“I told you last evening, Maria, that you must not expect one act of prayer, nor even continued prayer, without effort, to prevail. I will now tell you something else about your prayers, which perhaps will surprise you. But first, did you not feel, after having prayed, as if you were better than before, and as if God was under some obligation to hear you?”
After a moment’s thought, Maria answered, “I don’t know but I did, papa.”
“I thought so, from what you said last night. You seemed to suppose that God would be cruel and unjust, if he refused to help you. Now, I must tell you that God is not only not obliged to answer you, but that he has reason to be displeased with you on account of your prayers.”
Maria looked at her father, to see if she understood him aright.
“Suppose, Maria, a poor person should come to you for food or clothing; would you expect him to demand it as a right, or to entreat it as a favor?”
“As a favor, papa, of course.”
“Well, now, suppose further, that this beggar was a person who had injured you very much; suppose that you had frequently assisted him before, that he had abused all your benefits, and then endeavored to prejudice others against you, what would you think in that case?”
“I should think he was very impudent to come again, and should send him away fast enough.”
“At least you see that you would be under no obligation to relieve him?”
“No, indeed, papa.”
“Well, my dear, your case with regard to God is just that of this poor beggar. He has been bestowing blessings upon you all your life long, which you have abused, and for which you have felt no gratitude. Even if you had had any claim to his favor, you would have forfeited it by this conduct. And yet you presume to accuse God of injustice, because he does not immediately grant you what you ask.”
Maria was struck by these remarks. After raining silent for some time, she said, — “Papa, I believe I see why God is not obliged to hear me, but I do not see why he should be displeased with me for praying.”
“You thought, however, it seems, that you should find reason enough to be displeased with the beggar, in the case I supposed. However, that is not the reason of God’s displeasure, for he has invited us to come to him at all times; he is never weary of answering our sincere petitions. But, to return to the beggar. Suppose that you possessed the power of reading the heart, and that all the time he was talking, you could see that his heart was full of enmity to you; that he was prompted merely by selfishness to come and ask favours for which he felt no gratitude; if, in short, you saw that he was not sincere in one word that he uttered, you would be displeased and disgusted.”
Maria’s countenance expressed her assent, and her father continued, —
“Or suppose I should perceive that all your expressions of love to me were insincere, and that, while you were professing a great deal of affection for me, you felt none, would you not expect that; instead of being ‘pleased, I should be disgusted, just in proportion to the vehemence of your protestations?”
“Yes, papa; but I do not see how this applies to My prayers. I am sure I am sincere in them.”
“In one sense, Maria, you are sincere. You sincerely wish to be saved from punishment, bat this is mere selfishness. The beggar was sincere in desiring that you would assist him; but, as his sincerity was the result of selfishness, it was no recommendation.”
This seemed so clear that Maria could make no reply; yet she did not feel satisfied. If she was not sincere now, when she thought herself so how could she ever be sure of having right feelings? Mortified and distressed by such reflections, Maria retired to bed with a half-determination not to try any longer.
One day Maria came to her father with an objection which seemed to have great weight in her mind, and which she probably supposed he would find some difficulty in answering. “Papa,” said she, “I don’t see how can help being wicked: I didn’t make my own heart.”
“Do you remember, Maria, what I told you the heart means?”
“I believe, papa, you said it was the affections.”
“Very well, my dear. Then to say that God made your heart, is the same as to say that he gave you the power of loving or hating certain objects. You understand this. But there is nothing sinful in this power of loving or hating, is there? The exercise of it would be holy or sinful, according to the character of the object on which it was exerted.”
“I do not understand you, papa.”
“If you love sin, and hate holiness, that is exerting the power to love, and hate in a sinful manner. This is to have a sinful heart. But God is no more to blame for this than you would be if you gave a man fire to warm himself, and he should choose to throw himself into it, and be burned to death.”
“Then, papa, how came my heart wicked?”
“Why, my dear, you chose to place your affections upon sinful objects, instead of giving them to God; if you had chosen to give them to him, they would have been holy affections; that is, you would have had a holy heart.”
“Still, papa, why should I have chosen one thing ‘ more than another? It could not have been merely by chance that I did not love God.”
“Very true, Maria; the faculty of choosing is called the will: now your will, and the will of every human being, is depraved, or inclined to sin, and therefore chooses it in preference to holiness.”
“Well, then, papa, God must have created my will depraved.”
“My dear child, I do not suppose that it is possible to explain this subject so that you will be satisfied; for no unconverted sinner ever was satisfied. It is true that we have a sinful nature, in consequence of our connection with Adam. Our hearts are, from the beginning, disposed to sin, and our wills are opposed to God. We do not understand how this can be, and it is useless to try to comprehend it; it is enough for us to know that it is a fact, and that it forms no excuse forms.”
“I’m sure I should think it was an excuse!”
“Well, let us see how it would apply in all cases. Here is a man to be tried for a murder; he confesses the crime, but says to the judge, ‘You certainly would not condemn me for what I could not help; it was my wicked heart which made me do this.’ Should we not tell him that this was the very thing he was punished for, because he had a heart which had disposed him to commit this crime? If a wicked heart is to be received as an excuse for sin, there ought to be no punishments in the world, for everybody could plead that apology.”
“I know that, seems absurd, papa, but yet, somehow or other—”
“Well, Maria, on this point I have a condition to make with you. Whenever you are ready to admit that this is an excuse in cases of injury offered to yourself, I will allow that it is a great one in your favor. So, if George should pull down your baby-house, or break your doll, I shall expect that, instead of being angry with him, you will say, ‘O, poor fellow! he could not help it, he has such a bad heart.’”
Maria could not help smiling at the absurdity of this; but though her understanding and conscience yielded, her heart did not. She looked uneasy and dissatisfied.
“I see, my dear,” said her father, “that you are not satisfied, and I did not expect that you would be, because the difficulty lies not in the subject, tut in yourself. All the arguments in the world will be of no use while your heart remains the same. Only be reconciled to God, through Jesus Christ, and the difficulty will vanish.”
“I wish I could; but my heart won’t let me.”
“The same excuse again. Why, my dear, your heart is yourself, while you talk as if it were something quite distinct from yourself, over which you have no control. To say that your heart won’t submit to God or trust in his blessed Son, is to say you won’t, which is your guilt, not your excuse.”
Maria sighed—her father also sighed. She thought the terms of salvation were so hard that they could not be complied with: — he sighed to see how powerless is argument where the heart is concerned.
NOTE. — Dear reader, — Do not suppose that you must necessarily pass through all the stages of Maria’s experience. Christ is ready at once to be your Saviour, as he was to be Maria’s. But Maria had not submitted to take her place as a lost sinner, needing a Saviour; she was, at least, for helping to save herself. All this must be given up, and then we are glad to find in Jesus, and in his all-atoning blood and his almighty grace, everything we need. May you thus believe in him at once, and be at once and forever saved.