Prideful Prayer

March 10, 2021 — Craig T. Owens

Listen to the podcast of this post by clicking on the player below, and you can also subscribe on Apple or Spotify.

To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everybody else, Jesus told this parable: “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood up and prayed about himself: ‘God, I thank You that I am not like other men—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.’

“But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’

“I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.” (Luke 18:9-14) 

I think the NIV footnote on verse 11 is the most accurate rendering of “the Pharisee stood up and prayed about himself.” The footnote says, “He prayed TO himself.” He made himself God, which, if you will recall, is exactly how satan tempted Adam and Eve—you will be like God (Genesis 3:5). 

In a portion of William Cowper’s poem Truth, he addresses the pride of the Pharisee, and warns us that this could be our pride too if we aren’t carefully guarding our hearts. 

Who judged the Pharisee? What odious cause
Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws?
Had he seduced a virgin, wrong’d a friend,
Or stabb’d a man to serve some private end?
Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray
From the strict duties of the sacred day?
Sit long and late at the carousing board?
(Such were the sins with which he charged his Lord.)
No—the man’s morals were exact. What then?
‘Twas his ambition to be seen of men;
His virtues were his pride; and that one vice
Made all his virtues gewgaws [gyoo-gaws] of no price;
He wore them as fine trappings for a show,
A praying, synagogue-frequenting beau.
The self-applauding bird, the peacock, see—
Mark what a sumptuous Pharisee is he!
Meridian sunbeams tempt him to unfold
His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold:
He treads as if, some solemn music near,
His measured step were govern’d by his ear;
And seems to say—“Ye meaner fowl give place;
I am all splendour, dignity, and grace!”
Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes,
Though he, too, has a glory in his plumes.
He, Christian-like, retreats with modest mien
To the close copse or far sequester’d green,
And shines without desiring to be seen.
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,
Heaven turns from with abhorrence and disdain;
Not more affronted by avow’d neglect,
Than by the mere dissembler’s feign’d respect.
What is all righteousness that men devise?
What—but a sordid bargain for the skies!
But Christ as soon would abdicate His own,
As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne.


When the writer of Hebrews says that we can approach the throne of grace boldly, it is clear that it is not because of our righteous deeds, even if they are as exacting and as perfect as a Pharisee. We can only come boldly into God’s presence because we come in the name and the righteousness of Jesus. “I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God.” 


Adding “in Jesus name” to the end of our prayers isn’t a password that opens the storeroom of Heaven, but it is a reminder that we have nothing in ourselves to commend us to God. We come boldly only in Jesus.


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Poetry Saturday—Arise, My Soul, Arise

March 6, 2021 — Craig T. Owens 




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Arise, my soul, arise,


shake off your guilty fears;


The bleeding sacrifice,


in my behalf appears;


Before the throne my Surety stands,


Before the throne my Surety stands,


My name is written on His hands.




He ever lives above,


for me to intercede;


His all redeeming love,


His precious blood, to plead;


His blood atoned for every race,


His blood atoned for every race,


And sprinkles now the throne of grace.




Five bleeding wounds He bears;


received on Calvary;


They pour effectual prayers;


they strongly plead for me:


“Forgive him, O forgive,” they cry,


“Forgive him, O forgive,” they cry,


“Nor let that ransomed sinner die!”




The Father hears Him pray,


His dear anointed One;


He cannot turn away


the presence of His Son;


The Spirit answers to the blood,


The Spirit answers to the blood


And tells me I am born of God.




My God is reconciled;


His pardoning voice I hear;


He owns me for His child;


I can no longer fear


With confidence I now draw nigh,


With confidence I now draw nigh,


And “Father, Abba, Father,” cry. —Charles Wesley




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Poetry Saturday—Yesees and Noees

February 27, 2021 — Craig T. Owens 




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The Yesees said yes to anything


That anyone suggested.


The Noees said no to everything


Unless it was proven and tested.


So the Yesees all died of much too much


And the Noees all died of fright,


But somehow I think the Thinkforyourselfees


All came out all right. —Shel Silverstein




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Poetry Saturday—Must I My Brother Keep?

February 20, 2021 — Craig T. Owens 




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Must I my brother keep,


And share his pain and toil;


And weep for those who weep,


And smile with those who smile;


And act to each a brother’s part,


And feel his sorrows in my heart?




Must I his burden bear,


As though it were my own,


And do as I would care,


Should to myself be done;


And faithful to his interests prove,


And as myself my neighbor love?




Then Jesus at Thy feet


A student let me be,


And learn as it is meet,


My duty, Lord, of Thee;


For Thou didst come on mercy’s plan,


And all Thy life was love to man.




Oh! make me as Thou art;


Thy Spirit, Lord, bestow—


The kind and gentle heart


That feels another’s woe.


May I be thus like Christ my Head,


And in my Savior’s footsteps tread! —Thomas Raffles




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Poetry Saturday—An Owens Haiku

February 13, 2021 — Craig T. Owens 




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Craig loved Betsy first.


Then came three lovable kids.


All five love Jesus.




Then God sent us west.


To the town of Cedar Springs.


We all love our church.




God added spouses.


Lovable mates for our kids.


The blessings increase. —Craig T. Owens








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Poetry Saturday—The Scriptures

February 6, 2021 — Craig T. Owens 




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Note: the spelling in this poem is preserved from the 1663 edition of Herbert’s book of poems






Oh that I knew how all Thy lights combine,


And the configurations of their glorie!


Seeing not onely how each verse doth shine,


But all the constellations of the storie.




This verse marks that, and both do make a motion


Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:


Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,


These three make up some Christian’s destinie:




Such are Thy secrets, which my life makes good,


And comments on Thee: for in ev’ry thing


Thy words do finde me out, & parallels bring,


And in another make me understood.




Starres are poore books, & oftentimes do misse:


This book of starres’ lights to eternall blisse. —George Herbert (see Psalm 19:1, 7, 10-11)






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Poetry Saturday—Selections From “The Pilgrim’s Progress”

January 30, 2021 — Craig T. Owens 




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The hill, though high, I covet to ascend,


The difficulty will not me offend;


For I perceive the way to life lies here.


Come, pluck up heart, let’s neither faint nor fear;


Better, though difficult, the right way to go,


Than wrong, though easy, where the end is woe. —John Bunyan’s Christian, in The Pilgrim’s Progress








He that is down needs fear no fall;


   He that is low, no pride:


He that is humble ever shall


   Have God to be his Guide.


I am content with what I have,


   Little be it or much:


And, Lord, contentment still I crave,


   Because Thou savest such.


Fullness to such a burden is


   That go on pilgrimage:


Here little, and hereafter bliss,


   Is best from age to age. —John Bunyan’s Mr. Great-heart, in The Pilgrim’s Progress








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Poetry Saturday—The Lovetobutcants

January 23, 2021 — Craig T. Owens 




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I have a disease called


The “lovetobutcants”—


I think it’s time I told it.


I’d love to help with that garbage can


But my fingers just can’t hold it.


Hand me a bag of groceries and


My wrists just turned to jelly.


Cuttin’ grass and hedges


Gives me flutters of the belly.


The smell of paint will make me faint,


Sweat makes my eyes start itchin’.


Dishwater on my little hands


Will start ‘em shaky-twitchin’.


Pickin’ clothes up off the floor


Would paralyze my shoulder.


I must not try to close the door,


At least not till I’m older.


So though I’d love to join the work—


Till this disease is done,


I’ll have to lie here in the shade


While you have all the fun. —Shel Silverstein








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Poetry Saturday—Indispensable Man

January 16, 2021 — Craig T. Owens 




Sometime when you’re feeling important;


Sometime when your ego’s in bloom;


Sometime when you take for granted


You’re the best qualified in the room.




Sometime when you feel that your going


Would leave an unfillable hole;


Just follow this simple instruction,


And see how it humbles your soul.




Take a bucket and fill it with water,


Put your hand in it up to the wrist;


Pull it out and the hole that’s remaining,


Is a measure of how you’ll be missed.




You may splash all you please when you enter,


You can stir up the water galore;


But stop and you’ll find in a minute,


That it looks quite the same as before.




The moral of this quaint example


Is to do just the best that you can;


Be proud of yourself, but remember


There’s no indispensable man —Saxon White Kessinger








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Poetry Saturday—The Children’s Hour

January 9, 2021 — Craig T. Owens 




Between the dark and the daylight,


      When the night is beginning to lower,


Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,


      That is known as the Children’s Hour.




I hear in the chamber above me


      The patter of little feet,


The sound of a door that is opened,


      And voices soft and sweet.




From my study I see in the lamplight,


      Descending the broad hall stair,


Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,


      And Edith with golden hair.




A whisper, and then a silence:


      Yet I know by their merry eyes


They are plotting and planning together


      To take me by surprise.




A sudden rush from the stairway,


      A sudden raid from the hall!


By three doors left unguarded


      They enter my castle wall!




They climb up into my turret


      O’er the arms and back of my chair;


If I try to escape, they surround me;


      They seem to be everywhere.




They almost devour me with kisses,


      Their arms about me entwine,


Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen


      In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!




Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,


      Because you have scaled the wall,


Such an old mustache as I am


      Is not a match for you all!




I have you fast in my fortress,


      And will not let you depart,


But put you down into the dungeon


      In the round-tower of my heart.




And there will I keep you forever,


      Yes, forever and a day,


Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,


      And moulder in dust away! —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow








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