19 Sermon Illustrations on Prayer for Others

Unfortunately, countless Christians become selfish in their prayers. They pray for themselves and their families and care little about others. The moon is a lavish giver that owes all her beauty to her habit of giving. Suppose the moon should swallow up and keep to herself all the years of light which the sun gives her and should refuse to share them with us; what would the effect be? She would stop shining. The moment she stopped shining, she would lose all her beauty. All the beauty and the brilliancy of a diamond are caused by its reflecting, or giving away, the light which it receives. It is the same way with the moon. If it should stop shining, or giving away the light it gets from the sun it would hang up in the sky like a great, black, ugly-looking ball. All its brightness and beauty would be gone. Which would we rather be, as we pray: a black ugly ball in God's sky, or a shining light, constantly giving of the light we so abundantly receive?

A surgeon of the army said, "I never felt the need of being a Christian so much as at the battle of Chickamauga. A number of men were brought into a tent where we were amputating limbs, and probing wounds. Examining the hurts of one poor fellow, I was obliged to tell him he could live but a few minutes. He turned and looked to me: 'Surgeon, are you a Christian?' I had to confess I was not. 'Is there no Christian here?' No one responded. 'I want some Christian to pray with me before I die.'—'Are you a Christian?' I inquired. 'Oh, yes, sir! I am a Christian; but I should so love to have some one pray with me before I go away to be with Jesus! O surgeon! won't you pray?' The pleading of the dying man was more than I could resist. I knelt down beside him, and offered up a heartfelt prayer to God. I don't know much about such things; but that prayer has had a most marked influence on my life ever since. The soldier died in a few minutes after its close."

A pious English widow, who resided among ignorant and vicious neighbors in the suburbs of B—, Mass., determined to do what she could for their spiritual benefit; and so she opened her little front room for weekly prayer meetings, and engaged some pious Methodists to aid in conducting them. Much of the seed thus scattered on a seemingly arid soil, produced fruit. One instance deserves special notice.

Among others who attended was a young sailor of intelligent and prepossessing countenance. A slight acquaintance with him discovered him to be very ignorant of even the rudiments of education; but, at the same time he had such manifestly superior abilities, that the widow became much interested in his spiritual welfare, and could not but hope that God would in some way provide for his further instruction, convert him and render him useful.

But in the midst of her anticipations he was suddenly summoned away to sea. He had been out but a short time when the vessel was seized by a British privateer and carried into Halifax, where the crew suffered by a long and wretched imprisonment.

A year had passed away, during which the good woman had heard nothing of the young sailor. Still she remembered and prayed for him with the solicitude of a mother. About this time, she received a letter from her relations, who had settled in Halifax, on business which required her to go to that town. While there, her habitual disposition to be useful, led her with a few friends to visit the prison with Bibles and tracts. In one apartment were the American prisoners. As she approached the grated door, a voice shouted her name, calling her mother, and a youth appeared and leaped for joy at the grate. It was the lost sailor boy! They wept and conversed like mother and son, and when she left she gave him a Bible—his future guide and comfort.

During her stay at Halifax, she constantly visited the prison, supplying the youth with tracts, religious books, and clothing, and endeavoring by her conversation to secure the religious impression made on his mind at the prayer meetings in B—. After many months she removed to a distant part of the provinces; and for years she heard nothing more of the young sailor.

We pass over a period of many years and introduce the reader to Father T—, the distinguished mariner's preacher in the city of B—. In a spacious and substantial chapel, crowded about by the worst habitations in the city, this distinguished man delivered, every Sabbath, discourses as extraordinary, perhaps, as are to be found in the Christian world. In the centre column of seats, guarded sacredly against all other intrusion, sat a dense mass of mariners—a strange medley of white, black, and olive, Protestant, Catholic, and Pagan. On the other seats in the galleries, the aisles, the altar, and on the pulpit stairs, were crowded, week after week, and year after year—the families of sailors, and the poor who had no other temple—the elite of the city—the learned professor—the student—the popular writer—the actor—groups of clergymen, and the votaries of gayety and fashion, listening with throbbing hearts and wet eyes, to a man whose only school had been the forecastle, whose only endowments were those of grace and nature, but whose shrewd sense, keen wit, and glowing fancy, and melting pathos, and energetic delivery would allow none to be inattentive or unaffected in his audience.

In the year 183—, an aged English local preacher moved into the city of B— from the British provinces.

The old local preacher was mingling in a public throng one day with a friend, when they met "Father T—. A few words of introduction led to a free conversation, in which the former residence of his wife in the city was mentioned, and allusion was made to her prayer meeting—her former name was asked by "Father T—;" he seemed seized by an impulse—inquired their residence, hastened away, and in a short time arrived in a carriage, with all his family, at the home of the aged pair. There a scene ensued which must be left to the imagination of the reader. "Father T—" was the sailor boy of the prayer meeting and the prison. The old lady was the widow who had first cared for his soul. They had met once more!

A pious man in the western part of New York was sick with a consumption. He was a poor man, and ick for years. An unconverted merchant in the place had a kind heart, and used to send him, now and then, some things for his comfort, or for his family. He felt grateful for the kindness, but could make no return, as he wanted to do. At length he determined that the best return he could make would be to pray for his salvation; he began to pray, and his soul kindled and he got hold of God. There was no revival of religion there, but by and by, to the astonishment of every body, this man came right out on the Lord's side. The fire kindled all over the place, and a powerful revival followed, and multitudes were converted.

This poor man lingered in this way for several years, and died. After his death, I visited the place, and his widow put into my hands his diary. Among other things, he says in his diary, "I am acquainted with about thirty ministers and churches." He then goes on to set apart certain hours in the day and week to pray for each of these ministers and churches, and also certain seasons for praying for the different missionary stations. Then followed, under different dates, such facts as these: "To-day," naming the date, "I have been enabled to offer what I call the prayer of faith, for the outpouring of the Spirit on — church, and I trust in God there will soon be a revival there." Under another date, "I have to-day been able to offer what I call the prayer of faith, for such a church, and trust there will soon be a revival there." Thus he had gone over a great number of churches, recording the fact that he had prayed for them in faith that a revival might soon prevail among them. Not long after noticing these facts in his diary, the revival commenced, and went over the region of the country, nearly, I believe, if not quite, in the order in which the different places had been mentioned in his diary.

When I was about 18 years of age, says a blind preacher, there was a dancing party in Middleboro, Mass., which I was solicited to attend, and act as usual, in the capacity of musician. I was fond of such scenes of amusement then, and I readily assented to the request. I had a pious mother; and she earnestly remonstrated against my going. But at length, when all her expostulations and entreaties failed in changing my purpose, she said: "Well, my son, I shall not forbid your going; but, remember that all the time you spend in that gay company, I shall spend in praying for you at home." I went to the ball, but I was like the stricken deer, carrying an arrow in his side. I began to play; but my convictions sunk deeper and deeper, and I felt miserable indeed. I thought I would have given the world to have been rid of that, no her's prayers. At one time I felt so wretched and so overwhelmed with my feelings, that I ceased playing and dropped my musical instrument from my hand. There was another young person there who refused to dance; and, as I learned, her refusal was owing to feelings similar to my own, and perhaps, they arose from a similar cause.

My mother's prayers were not lost. That was the last ball I ever attended, except one, where I was invited to play again, but went and prayed and preached instead, till the place of dancing was converted into a Bochim, a place of weeping. The convictions of that wretched night never wholly left me, till they left me at the feet of Christ, and several of my young companions in sin ere long were led to believe and obey the gospel also.

A poor woman, at Berwick St. John, in Wiltshire, England, the wife of a day laborer, being called by the grace of God, her husband became a bitter persecutor; and, because his wife would not relinquish the service of God, he frequently turned her out of doors in the night, and during the winter season. The wife, being a prudent woman, did not expose this cruelty to her neighbors, but, on the contrary, to avoid their observations, she went into the adjacent fields, and betook herself to prayer. Greatly distressed, but not in despair, her only encouragement was, that with God all things are possible; she therefore resolved to set apart one hour every day, to pray for the conversion of her persecuting husband. This she was enabled to do, without missing a single day, for a whole year. Seeing no change in her husband, she formed a second resolution to persevere six months longer, which she did up to the last day, when she retired at about twelve o'clock as usual, and, as she thought, for the last time. Fearing that her wishes, in this instance, might be contrary to the will of God, she resolved to call no more upon him; her desire not being granted, her expectation appeared to be cut off. That same day her husband returned from his labor in a state of deep dejection, and, instead of sitting down as usual to his dinner, he proceeded directly to his chamber. His wife followed, and heard, to her grateful astonishment, that he who used to mock, had returned to pray.

He came down stairs, but refused to eat, and returned again to his labor until the evening. When he came home, his wife affectionately asked him, "What is the matter?"

"Matter enough," said he, "I am a lost sinner. About twelve o'clock this morning," continued he, "I was at my work, and a passage of Scripture was deeply impressed upon my mind, which I cannot get rid of, and I am sure I am lost."

His wife encouraged him to pray, but he replied, "O wife, it is of no use, there is no forgiveness for me!" Smitten with remorse at the recollection of his former conduct, he said to her, "Will you forgive me?" She replied, "Oh yes." "Will you pray for me?" "Oh yes, that I will." "Will you pray for me now?" "That I will, with all my heart." They instantly fell on their knees and wept, and made supplication. His tears of penitence mingled with her tears of gratitude and joy. He became decidedly pious, and afterwards greatly exerted himself to make his neighbors acquainted with the way of salvation by Christ Jesus.

Cf. v. 40—disciples forgot in sleep. While saints slumber, sinners plot against Christ Soul-winner. The heart burden for the lost. Jesus leaves a crowd to deal with one man.

At the close of a prayer-meeting, the pastor observed a little girl about twelve years of age remaining upon her knees, when most of the congregation had retired. Thinking the child had fallen asleep, he touched her and told her it was time to return home. To his surprise he found that she was engaged in prayer, and he said: "All things whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive." She looked up at the pastor earnestly, and inquired: "Is that so? Does God say that?" [Illustration] He took up a Bible and read the passage aloud. She immediately began praying: "Lord, send my father here; Lord, send my father to the chapel." Thus she continued for about half an hour, attracting by her earnest cry the attentions of persons who had lingered about the door. At last a man rushed into the chapel, ran up the aisle and sank upon his knees by the side of his child, exclaiming: "What do you want of me?" She threw her arms about his neck, and began to pray: "Oh, Lord, convert my father!" Soon the man's heart was melted and he began to pray for himself. The child's father was three miles from the chapel when she began praying for him. He was packing goods in a wagon and felt impressed with an irresistible impulse to return home. Driving rapidly to his house, he left the goods in his wagon and hastened to the chapel, where he found his daughter crying mightily to God in his behalf; and he was led there to the Savior. -- Foster's Encyclopedia

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Hester I. Radford, in _The Atlantic Monthly_, writes the following:

You struggled blindly for my soul And wept for me such bitter tears That through your faith my faith grew whole And fearless of the coming years.

For in the path of doubt and dread You would not let me walk alone, But prayed the prayers I left unsaid And sought the God I did disown.

You gave to me no word of blame But wrapt me in your love’s belief, Dear love, that burnt my sin like flame, And left me worthy of your grief.