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An Old Preacher’s Prayer
on the Eighty-Second Anniversary of His Birth
October 4, 1939 – October 4, 2021
(thus far and counting)
With reference to
Joel 2:28 and Acts 2:17
James S. Lowry
Hendersonville, North Carolina
Holy Son of the one true God,
seated today as ever
at Her gentle right hand
in a place beyond place,
removed yet listening
to my grandfather clock
as it counts and chimes,
numbering my hours and days,
gathering speed,
one chasing the other,
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Earthy Son of God,
standing by me here,
present,
as though in a sacrament,
shoulder to shoulder
in my closet study
surrounded by tokens
of the preaching life
gathered mostly
from the days of my youth:
Certifi cates here, photographs there,
paintings, trinkets, and books everywhere,
plus a whole fi le of old sermons,
some not half bad,
and others…well, you know.
My sin goes ever before me.
It’s my eighty-second birthday,
and I’ve come aside to pray
as is my custom
in this wee sanctuary.
I like coming here
with just you and me,
where you don’t seem bothered
by the clutter of my life or
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by the clutter of my study or by the crusting of my brain. Son of God and friend of sinners, listen to this old preacher praying. The ancient prophet predicted a day would be coming when the Sprit of God would be poured out, and on that glad and fearsome day, the young would see visions and the codgers would dream dreams. Generations later, with your death and resurrection in the air of near memory and the Holy Spirit as predicted blowing like a stiff summer breeze and spreading like wild fi re here, there, and everywhere, Simon preached a sermon, powerful indeed, declaring then as now is the time to see those visions, and this is the hour to dream the prophet’s dreams, as tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock goes my grandfather clock.
Son of God, friend of this sinner, listen now to this old sixteen-a-day pill-popping preacher. I’m fi nding it very hard, hard indeed, to dream a dream hold up as I am in this porcelain palace reserved for the rich, the old, and the dying:
This once proud nation of noble and sin-soaked birth is crumbling beneath the weight of lies and greed while the rich get richer and the poor are left to grovel. It’s hard just now to dream as of old of a land with milk and honey fl owing or of manna in the wilderness,
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just enough for everyone. It’s harder still in this day and moment to picture fi ve loaves and two fi sh feeding a multitude.
There are wars between clans, wars between powers, wars in the streets, and near wars between blue and red states, all seen as eerie preludes or, by case, postludes to death by mass killings in houses of worship, and beneath a policeman’s bony knee while militias armed with catapults brought up to deadly date are inspired by nothing save suspicion and hate. In such a deafening din, it’s hard for this old preacher man to dream of a peaceable kingdom that looks at all… even one little bit… like a lamb and lion together snuggling in.
The world you and your Mom made good as by her right hand you stood is now, by place, choking or drowning, burning or melting as your star creation does little or nothing. Do you see why it’s hard for this old preacher of Word to dream of your kingdom coming, and harder still to remember if, as a young preacher long, long ago, I held bold visions like those in images of justice rolling like water fl owing and of a day of no more pain or crying? All this rambling is to pray just this:
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On the eighty-second anniversary of the day of my birth, give this old codger a new dream or two, or three or four, or maybe even more… pictures of hope unbound for Martha, Jayne, Patrick, Nichols, and Finn,* and for my family by birth and family by marriage, for close friends new and of long standing, those close by and all the rest… people of all nations, times, and places set free by acts of sacrifi cial grace. All of this is to pray, Savior and Friend, that your Mom grant to this old preaching fool just enough time and energy left to see them on the way to a new world birthing… birthing in acts of kindness at the grocery store; in deeds of welcome at the border walls; in words of truth reported in the news; in pure love poured out from government halls, and in hearing the pain voiced in opposing views.
Now take this long and rambling prayer, place it at your Mother’s holy feet. Then whisper in Her listening ear to tell her where she can fi nd it.
So may it be. So may it be. Amen.
*Spouse, daughter, son-in-law, daughter, and grandson in that order.
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