Empty.

I have great memories of going to the landfill when I was a kid. Heading there with my parents to dispose of what we would call the “un-burnables” because, yes you bet it, when you live in the country you burn stuff. Trash. Whatever fire will consume. 

But there are a few things that fire won’t touch, and those things got taken to the landfill. Tin cans. Old buckets of paint, and the inevitable television that even the latest version of bunny-ear antennas couldn’t make work.

And if my memory is serving me correctly, whenever we went it was always sunny out. And our particular landfill was situated in the woods, so not only was it sunny and typically warm, there was always a cool breeze coming from the forest. Just exactly the kind of weather that is conducive for a girl like me to have her already-overactive imagination run wild.

In addition to the grand, sunny weather, there to tantalize my mind were old semi-truck trailers, each full of only one kind of thing. All the TVs went in that one, all the batteries heaped up in another, etc. etc.. How cool, I always thought, bins full of old stuff and scrap metal.

Even at that age my mind ran like a fleeing wind: DO YOU KNOW WHAT I COULD DO WITH THAT?? I would think as I surveyed the piles all around. I had these crazy imaginings of being let loose, free to take whatever I wanted, no doubt conjuring up images of all kinds of neat furniture and cottages I could make with my findings.

It is probably safe to say that that’s where my “Scavenger” mentality came from, for, I admit, if I see something cool that has fallen off the back of someone’s truck, no doubt on their own way to the landfill, I am ridiculously tempted to stop and pick it up (and you all remember those stories I have told of where I gave into that temptation and did in fact pick it up….).

For instance, last week on my way to work I saw what, I am pretty sure, appeared to be a sander.

And I even saw it twice.

But I didn’t stop.

And now I regret it.

But I digress. Yes, we all know, Bethany likes old stuff that she finds.

In ditches, on the side of the road, or even, she imagines, in those heaps at the landfill.

And these are all the thoughts I thought about when I came across this passage in Matthew.

“And when you pray, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do, for they think that they will be heard for their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.” (Matthew 6:7-8)

See, I like heaps. I like digging through things, scavenging, to find the treasure, to find something interesting that I can do something grand with.

But when I read this and I see that word “heap,” I don’t see piles of cool scrap metal and nifty bricks. No.

I see something more along the lines of….milk jugs. The big gallon ones.

Can you picture a huge heap, a pile big enough to climb on and slide down like a human avalanche, of empty milk jugs?

Well that’s all I can think about.

Did your dad ever yell at you when you were a kid over the “un-squashed” jugs in the trash? Mine did. And he was right. It was a useless waste of space because literally, they are just full of hot air.

So maybe that’s why I have an inherent distaste for piles of empty milk jugs. 

But then when I see that verse, brazenly using the word “heap” in a negative way, it stops me in my tracks a bit. For, it BEGS the question: Are your prayers equivalent to piles of empty milk jugs?

Wait, what?

I know, it’s totally obtuse, but think about it!

Are your prayers just taking up space?

And I don’t mean that in like a your-prayers-are-less-important-than-everybody-else’s kind of way.

No no no no no no No. I don’t believe that is possible at all.

I mean it in a do-you-think-God-hears-you-more-because-you-say-all-the-right-things kind of way?

Maybe none of you have this attitude, but sometimes I think I do. Sometimes I think God listens to me more because I have been a Christian a long time, I serve on this many ministries, I write all this stuff, I give my money to the poor, blah blah blah blah blah.

That’s so ridiculous.

Why?

Because it’s pride.

And here is what I have decided: Anytime pride comes into our relationship with Christ, anytime we think we have it all together, anytime we are pretty confident that when it comes to “being a Christian” we have got things figured out and, yeah, we can handle it on our own---all of our prayers become like heaps of empty milk jugs.

Useless wastes of space.

Because it denies the very reason why we pray in the first place.

In this passage Jesus says that the Gentiles thought they would be heard “for their many words.”

I.E. They thought they would be heard because of things they had done. Things they had said. Because they had figured out how best to talk to God.

God hearing them was totally based on THEM, they thought. It had nothing to do with God. It was based on their performance.

And just like he always does, Jesus swoops in and turns the situation on its head. It doesn’t matter about how great of a performance or show you display, or about any of those good things that you have done, any of those flowery words that you use, God doesn’t pay more attention to you because you have this whole spirituality thing under control and know how to sound all “Christian”; God hears you when you come to him admitting the opposite. Admitting a dependence on him. 

Do you see the difference? It’s a removal of I-have-it-all-together and an induction of Oh-God-I-Need-You.

And why does he not only hear prayers based out of that kind of reverence, but answer those prayers? Because you are admitting in humility what he already knows: You have a lack and he is the only one who can fill it.

And not only does he know we have a lack (and yet he is still good to us), but Wolfies, he knows what we lack BEFORE we do.

Talk about removing any possible opening for pride. Not only do we have nothing to be proud about, but he knows of our failings and needs way in advance of us being aware of it.

Whoa.

And yet, it’s to those people, the ones who see their lack, face it, admit it, and bring it to him to fill, those are the people whose prayers are not empty. Those are the people who do not heap up piles of worthless trash.

Rather, I like to think that maybe my prayers, your prayers, if said in an awareness and understanding of our lack of sufficiency, maybe ours are piling up like cool old scrap metal and bricks and broken furniture, just waiting for him to make into something more excellent than we could have ever figured out what to do with on our own.