Over the heads of the crowd the confident cry rang out, “There is no answer to prayer; it's all imagination. Don't be carried away. Use your own common sense. There is no hereafter. When we are dead, we are done for.”
The speaker was standing at the foot of a monolith erected in an open space of a busy Yorkshire city. He had an excellent gift of speech and a winning manner. A large crowd of men and women stood round listening. In a wonderfully ingratiating way, and with a persuasive voice, he tried to prove the non-existence of God, and inefficacy of prayer, concluding with a professed readiness to debate the question with any person in the audience. At this juncture a man was seen making his way from the edge of the crowd towards the speaker, saying at the same time, “I accept the challenge.”
The people eagerly made way for this champion of prayer, and a very few moments he was standing on the step of the monolith facing the crowd. He was tall, thin, pale faced, and well dressed. But he was no orator; he had no set phrases to tickle the ear; he had not the winning, catchy demeanor of his opponent. For a moment or two he stood looking at the sea of faces before him—faces waiting with eager expectancy for him to open the debate. A flush of color came into his features, and sweat stood in beads on his brow. “Friends, I am not a public speaker,” he said. “I did not come to this meeting with the intention of disputing anything our friend might say, but when he denied that there was any efficacy in prayer, and challenged anyone to prove the contrary, I felt bound to come forward.”
The crowd cheered the frank yet modest statement. He went on again: “You see standing before you a man who was once as big a scoundrel as it was possible to find in the city. I was a drunkard, a gambler, a wife-beater---yes! Everything the word 'brute' implies. My wife and child dreaded the sound of my footsteps, and yet, bad as I was, unknown to me, my wife had for years been praying for me; and she taught my child to pray.”
He paused a moment, as it overcome with sadness at the memory, and then continued: “One night I went home unexpectedly, rather earlier than usual; and, by accident, sober. When I opened the door, my wife had just gone up the stairs to put the little one to bed. I stood listening at the foot of the stairs; my child was praying; she was praying for me. 'Dear Lord, save my dear daddy! Save my dear Daddy, Lord! Dear Lord Jesus, save my Daddy!' And as she prayed in her simple, childlike way, I heard my wife saying,with a throb in her throat, 'Lord Jesus, answer prayer.' They did not know I was listening. I crept softly out of the house into the street. Strange feelings were coming over me, and ringing in my ears was my child's prayer: 'Dear Lord Jesus, save my dear Daddy!' Was I indeed dear to that child? In what way? She had never known a father's love; I question whether she ever had known a father's kiss. And as I thought of it, a great lump came into my throat; tears filled my eyes, and I cried aloud, 'Lord, help me; Lord, answer my child's prayer.' And He did.
“Years have passed away since then. Today I am a respected member of society. The past is under the blood. I live in the present, a new creature in Christ Jesus, a living testimony to direct answer to prayer.” Again he paused, and then said earnestly: “Friends, don't you think I should have been a coward if I had kept silent today? Can I do other than believe there is a God, and that he not only hears, but answers prayer?”
The sceptic made no reply. For this man's story had moved the crowd to tears, and when he had finished speaking the people went silently and reverently away.
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