A House of Prayer

At the age of twelve, the Son visited His Father’s official residence in Jerusalem. It seems that at that point in time it was also a place of learning, since we are told that he was found: “sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions” (Luke 2:46 NIV). The picture was very different some twenty-one years later. Mark tells the story this way: “On reaching Jerusalem, Jesus entered the temple area and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves, and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through the temple courts” (Mark 11:15, 16 NIV).

Jesus, upon arriving at the temple, entered first through the outer court, the court of Gentiles. No gentile was ever allowed beyond this point, but, here in this court, the gentiles who had converted to Judaism were allowed to pray. At least that had been the original intent. But the Gentiles couldn’t pray because, with the sanction of the high priest, the outer court had been turned into a mall for the sale of all the items necessary for temple sacrifice. Vats of wine and oil, kegs of salt and pens of approved sacrificial animals and birds were everywhere. In the Palestine of that day, Roman, Greek and Jewish money was in circulation. Exchange houses had to be provided so that the international visitors to the Holy Place, could change their money into Jewish coin. All males, 20 years of age and older were required by law to pay this temple tax.

Praying in the outer court would have been difficult amid such a carnival atmosphere. As well, it appears that people going about their business outside of temple property had become too lazy to walk around the Holy Place, so they simply carried all their merchandise through the temple, using it as a public street.

Jesus was outraged. “My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations” (Mark 11:17 NIV), he proclaimed. The religious leaders present would have understood this quote from Isaiah 56:7 that prophesied the day when Jews and Gentiles would worship God together in one place. Even more did they understand the next reference that the Lord quoted: “But you have made it a den of robbers”. The reference to “the den of robbers” comes from Jeremiah 7:11 and was a prophecy concerning the judgment that would fall on Jerusalem, the temple, her leaders and her people, for abandoning their God. Jeremiah’s prophecy is scathing and condemning. He writes: “Will you steal and murder, commit adultery and perjury, burn incense to Baal and follow other gods you have not known, and then come and stand before me in this house which bears my Name, and say, ‘We are safe’ —safe to do all these detestable things? Has this house, which bears my Name become a den of robbers to you … I spoke to you again and again, but you did not listen; I called you, but you did not answer … I will thrust you from my presence … my anger and my wrath will be poured out on this place” (Jeremiah 7:9-11, 13, 15, 20 NIV). And so it would be. Only a few short years later, in 70 A.D., Jerusalem and the Temple, were destroyed as the Roman armies led by Titus ravaged the land.

The Son came back to His Father’s official residence at the end of His ministry with one more warning. His desire, in this moment of righteous indignation, was to remove that which hindered the Gentiles from being able to worship God in quietness and reverence, as God intended that they should. He also took one more opportunity to call His people back to Himself.

“My house will be called a house of prayer” he shouts. It is interesting that He didn’t say: “My house will be called a house of preaching”, or “My house will be called a house of teaching”, or “My house will be called a house of worship”, or a house of service, or a house of fellowship, or a house of sacrifice. It was to be “a house of prayer”. Hanging over the steeples and stained glass of today’s church is our death sentence. Like the Temple, the majority of churches are no longer houses of prayer. If God condemned one generation for abandoning His prime purpose for His house, why would He not condemn another for doing the same thing?

God’s house was to be a place of prayer for the nations. Foreigners would be welcomed — a reference to the day when the gospel invitation would be extended to the Gentiles. God’s house would be a house of prayer for the marginalized. Isaiah’s prophecy states that eunuchs, those who had once been denied the right to enter the court to pray and worship because of their physical deformities, would no longer be excluded. There would be no room in God’s house for discrimination.

It is important to the Lord that His house be set aside for worship and instruction. But it is vital to Him that His house be a house of prayer. The walls, floors, windows and doors are not sacred. Neither is, (dare I say it) the pulpit or the communion table. What is sacred are the purposes for which these things are used. We are not to use His house for purposes other than those He intended, We are to facilitate prayer in God’s house, and we are not to neglect to make prayer in His house a major focus of our public worship, as well as in our private devotions.

If it was so important to Christ that His Father’s house be a house of prayer, then it should be important to us as well. To the extent that we are “houses of prayer”, corporately or individually, to that extent God will bless both us and our land.

©2009

Who Killed Felix Ortega?

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Author's Note: Student protests in Venezuela continue the cycle of death and the destruction of a society. They remind me that one day, God will call to account those who so callously cling to power at any price, and sacrifice everyone else to their own ambition. There will be a day of reckoning. At the same time, believers are called to pray—and always to stand up for truth and righteousness.

In the house hugging the foot of the Avila,* the conversation was subdued. The walls had ears.

“Felix has got to go. There are 400 names on his list and ours are among them.” The man slouched on the sofa looked worried.

“Be reasonable,” said another. “Montero got away—jogged away from his secret service minders right into an embassy where he could be sure of being granted asylum. We could easily do the same.”

“They will be more careful now. The leader of our movement walking away from house arrest in the plain light of day embarrassed them,” added a third conspirator.

“It’s only temporary. They will get someone to replace him,” suggested a fourth companion, adding: “We can only hope he’ll be less diligent.”

The subject of the clandestine meeting was state prosecutor, Felix Ortega.** Two years after what many considered a failed coup d’etat, Ortega was working his way through the list of supposed participants. At 38, he was a rising star on the political scene. His success and his public profile had become a threat to many.

Not far away, in an opulent reception room of the official residence of the president of the republic, others were having a similar conversation for different reasons.

“He’s got to go. He knows too much,” insisted the Minister of Justice.

“He’s fair,” said another.

“That’s the problem. Being fair means he is not necessarily going to be loyal to the revolution.”

“So, replace him.”

“No good. To fire him will throw him, and all he knows, into the arms of the opposition.”

Ortega had arrested members of the Metropolitan police, who had been accused of shooting and killing civilians during the march on the presidential palace that began the failed attempt to overthrow the government. He was also investigating the popular mayor of one of capitol’s satellite cities, implicated in the bombing of several embassies. Felix Ortega was tightening the noose around several necks.

In the house, plans were made.

“He has bodyguards. It will be hard to get to him.”

“If we were talking about a gunman, maybe. But a bomb is another thing. He’s taking a graduate course at night. They will guard him, but perhaps not his SUV.”

“Remote controlled?”

“Yes. He is most vulnerable on his way home from the university.”

In the presidential palace, other reasons for Ortega’s demise came to the forefront.

“The commandant wants it done,” said the president’s right hand man. “You know how he hates anyone to get more press than he does …”

“…or be more popular…,” interjected another.

A sharp glance from his companions silenced him. Even here, the walls had ears. They all looked around somewhat nervously as if expecting the Presidential Guard to rush in upon them.

“C-4 will do the job. There will be plenty of opportunity. He’s told us himself that he always dismisses his bodyguards when he goes to class,” said a minister.

One of the men chuckled. “We can always blame it on the opposition—or the CIA. He’ll make a handsome martyr for the revolution.”

On the night of November 18, 2004, a yellow Toyota SUV cruised through the darkened streets of the city. Just five minutes after the vehicle had left the university parking lot, two explosions ripped through the thin black fabric of the night. The car, consumed by flames, continued its forward momentum until it eventually crashed into a store.

Felix Ortega’s death is fact, as are some of the details in this story. The names and faces behind his death remain a controversy. Arrests were quickly made, but few are convinced that the real killers were found. The truth is that jealousy, fear, and lust for power killed Ortega. His death represents only one of many that God will charge to the account of the ambitious men behind the political turmoil that has marked this South American nation over the last ten years.

Paul’s admonition to Timothy is a constant reminder that unless those who rule come to faith, there will be no peace for anyone—including believers.

“I urge, then, first of all, that requests, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for everyone—for kings and all those in authority, that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness. This is good, and pleases God our Savior, who wants all men to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth.” 1 Timothy 2:1-4


*Part of the Andes mountain range
**Names have been changed.

I am Maranta

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Twilight descends as heavenward I bend
to embrace its portals.
Evening skies, chameleon as I, rainbow hues reveal:
Blue to orange, pink to mauve, purple to black.
I too am transformed, an aberration
like the human kind who follow my lead.
By day I stretch, verdant greens, spots and lines
in graceful combination,
a tribute to a creative Master.
Designed to delight and inspire,
I reach out to the light, to the Son, to heaven’s gleaming,
soak in its deepest sense;
then give back, exchanging one blessing for another.

I am Maranta.
I caress the light, hiding from its burning
yet seeking its warmth.
As night enfolds the day and holds it close
I retreat into myself, from reaching out
to pulling in.
Beneath the greens of light and dark, the veins and spots
hide another side,
another story.

I am Maranta.
Green turns to purple, the veins marked wine,
the spots of reddish-blue
blood-red against the darkening sky.
A curiosity to the uninformed who view my nature
as strange as that of those who lift
holy hands toward the sky.
I raise my “hands,” though they are not,
toward the One who made me thus.
Why, I ask, am I to be
so different from the rest?
I think He made me to reflect that bitter night,
the twilight of His life when, His prayer released,
He bled.
And vibrant life to death itself committed,

I am Maranta.
At twilight, the green of my life
to purple turns, the blood-red old as death
as to my Master I give myself in prayerful stance
as once He did with committed, dependent heart.
For those who echo my example,
who labour as He, with earnest voice;
be warned.

I am Maranta, an aberration,
as you will be to those who, without understanding,
fail to see that the greening of the soul
requires a purple twilight,
a garden of waiting,
of urgent pleading,
of heartfelt praise,
sometimes suffering,
always committed,
ever faithful
even to the death,
in prayerful pose.

I am Maranta.
Follow me.


The Maranta, more popularly known as the prayer plant, folds itself up at night revealing an undersurface of rosy-purple.