Nothing
"Let me have all things, let me have nothing..."
Look around at the American Christian landscape, and you will find that this is not a prayer that is prayed very often. Oh, the first part is prayed plenty: "Let me have all things." And then we quit and go embrace our stuff. And I'm not excluding myself from that. I like my stuff. I enjoy the ways technology and what some would call "toys" can be used in ministry. (Yes, I can justify many things!)
But look at many of the top-selling "Christian" books today and you'll find ones by prosperity preachers. These preachers promise you can have it all, and, more than that, they say God WANTS you to have it all. Having all things is popular American theology because it goes so well with our cultural landscape, with what we want to believe. When a child, for instance, forgoes having birthday presents and asks that donations be made instead to a homeless shelter or toward digging a clean water well in Africa—well, that sort of story is big news because it's so out of the ordinary.
It's the second part of the prayer that causes us trouble. "Let me have nothing." Even when we recognize, as we sometimes do, that it is in the times when people have nothing that they most learn to rely on God, we still struggle to pray this prayer. Think of Job, who lost absolutely everything and yet in the midst of his suffering, found God (and that was enough). Think of the Hebrews, who were taken out of slavery in Egypt and made to wander for forty years in the wilderness. They had nothing, but they had God. (It's when they got into the Promised Land and settled down that the problems really began.) Think of the Jews who were taken into exile, eight hundred miles from home. They had to decide who they were—their own people or God's people.
It's in the wilderness, in the times when we have nothing but God, that we most become his children. It's when we learn to rely on him the most.
Let me have all things, let me have nothing.
This prayer doesn't mean God will immediately take everything away. It's allowing him to use our lives in whatever way is best—lots or nothing—to shape us into the people he wants us to be. And yes, it's a dangerous prayer to pray, because God just might choose "nothing." Maybe that is the only way he can get our attention.
Think back over your spiritual life, your walk with God. When have you drawn closest to him? When have you felt his presence near? When have you grown the most? If you're anything like me, it's in those times when everything I thought I could count on had disappeared. It's in those times when I had nothing to rely on but Jesus. It's not always about material possessions. It's about the things we rely on and the way they block our path to Christ. Let me have all things, let me have nothing. If push comes to shove, will you choose Jesus or something that promises to satisfy but doesn't?
Look around at the American Christian landscape, and you will find that this is not a prayer that is prayed very often. Oh, the first part is prayed plenty: "Let me have all things." And then we quit and go embrace our stuff. And I'm not excluding myself from that. I like my stuff. I enjoy the ways technology and what some would call "toys" can be used in ministry. (Yes, I can justify many things!)
But look at many of the top-selling "Christian" books today and you'll find ones by prosperity preachers. These preachers promise you can have it all, and, more than that, they say God WANTS you to have it all. Having all things is popular American theology because it goes so well with our cultural landscape, with what we want to believe. When a child, for instance, forgoes having birthday presents and asks that donations be made instead to a homeless shelter or toward digging a clean water well in Africa—well, that sort of story is big news because it's so out of the ordinary.
It's the second part of the prayer that causes us trouble. "Let me have nothing." Even when we recognize, as we sometimes do, that it is in the times when people have nothing that they most learn to rely on God, we still struggle to pray this prayer. Think of Job, who lost absolutely everything and yet in the midst of his suffering, found God (and that was enough). Think of the Hebrews, who were taken out of slavery in Egypt and made to wander for forty years in the wilderness. They had nothing, but they had God. (It's when they got into the Promised Land and settled down that the problems really began.) Think of the Jews who were taken into exile, eight hundred miles from home. They had to decide who they were—their own people or God's people.
It's in the wilderness, in the times when we have nothing but God, that we most become his children. It's when we learn to rely on him the most.
Let me have all things, let me have nothing.
This prayer doesn't mean God will immediately take everything away. It's allowing him to use our lives in whatever way is best—lots or nothing—to shape us into the people he wants us to be. And yes, it's a dangerous prayer to pray, because God just might choose "nothing." Maybe that is the only way he can get our attention.
Think back over your spiritual life, your walk with God. When have you drawn closest to him? When have you felt his presence near? When have you grown the most? If you're anything like me, it's in those times when everything I thought I could count on had disappeared. It's in those times when I had nothing to rely on but Jesus. It's not always about material possessions. It's about the things we rely on and the way they block our path to Christ. Let me have all things, let me have nothing. If push comes to shove, will you choose Jesus or something that promises to satisfy but doesn't?
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