Performance Prayer?

Matthew 6:1a -- "Beware of practicing your righteousness before men to be noticed by them . . ."

I'll never forget the big moon shining that bluish tinted light in through the Rover window as we rounded the corner to descend the hill in Davao City, Philippines. Our hill. Part way up we'd take a right turn down Oak Street and wait for our house keepers to open the big metal gates and let us pull in. The sound of the hot engine would pop, four car doors would open and shut as we all went inside. Family, home, and comfort awaited us. We could tuck into a bed with a roof over our heads and walls to keep us safe.

Just before the turn at the bottom of that hill, there was a beat up tin roof that partially covered a make-shift seating area where people would wait for public transport in the hot tropical sun. They would gauge the traffic and watch for Jeepnies - if they were lucky, they could spot one quickly - one that wasn't too full to flag down. I always peeked out of my window behind Dad, checking to see if "HE" was still there.  I always hoped- prayed - he would be - hunched over in the dark underneath that tin roof, sitting almost too still. No one sat there when he was there. He was avoided at all costs. It was a make-shift shelter to them, not truly necessary as they hurried on through their busy lives. It was where he called home. 

When I could catch a glimpse of him I'd sigh in relief, glad to know that he'd made it through another night - but my heart would break at the same time. He had nowhere to go. No one to love him. No one to help him. I once asked Dad if we could just give him some water or a blanket, a mosquito coil - maybe a pillow. After all, isn't that what we were doing there? Sharing the love of Jesus? But Dad brought something to my attention that had never occurred to me at eleven years old. It wasn't safe to help him that way.

It wasn't safe for him. People would rob him of the things we'd try to give him. It wasn't safe for us because people would soon line up at our gate and expect the same kind of help. Even if they didn't really need it. 

It just wasn't safe - it would draw unwanted attention to him and to us. 

That's when Dad told me about the verse in Matthew. He explained that we did, indeed, have people in a network that could help him. There were centers and shelters that our mission had helped to establish. It was through those channels that we could help our community - because no one would know we had helped. He explained that it was better if no one knew we had helped. 

I learned to be content to pray silently for him as we drove by. There were nights when I'd wake up from a deep sleep and wonder if he'd managed to find rest. I could look out my bedroom window - above the other houses, the coconut trees, and out past the arena used for Cock Fighting every Sunday - I could see the moon shine on the waters of the Davao Gulf. I could see the flickering lights of the fishing boats as they were ready to pull in to market. I would wonder if he'd managed to find something to eat. And I'd pray for him.

One night, the skinny old man stopped showing up at the rickety make-shift shelter. His absence was a deafening sound to me. I determined for myself that he'd found home and peace. Perhaps a long lost loved one found him and took him in. I'll never know, really. But I'll never forget him. I'll never forget how he taught me to be a prayer warrior. It was the year I started to pay attention - no longer just the child of missionary parents - I was a member of the mission.

That was the year that my Dad was given a plaque of recognition with his name hand carved into the front. Beautiful coconut wood and other embellishments - a bird with a long feathery tail was perched next to Dad's name. It made a truly handsome thing to have on your wall. But my Dad never hung it on the wall. Not even at home in his small office. No - he kept it in a drawer. The sentiment meant everything to him - he cherished the ones who'd had it made. But he would not hang it. He would not show off. 

I'm proud of my Dad. When I send him cards I'll often include his full title, Dr. Karl Babb. He earned those letters. But he doesn't like for me to do that. He doesn't show off. From time to time - I show off for him, anyway. [just don't tell him .... ]

That summer I learned true humility. And I learned it from my Dad.

In the first chapter of Matthew Jesus points out that the things we do for him, we should do FOR HIM. Not for the benefit of praise or for recognition. There are some moments when I'm so excited that I've been able to do something for some one that I want to share my joy. I want to shout it from the mountain tops because I've found a need somewhere that I was able to fill through the love of Jesus Christ. I get excited. I'm needed. I'm able. Jesus used me! It makes me giddy. But posting it on face book or announcing it loudly would very truly take some of the joy away. It's Jesus whom I serve. Not myself - in spite of myself - to God forever be the glory.