Midnight Prayers In Asia

I looked over the remaining available slots. Mornings and afternoons were mostly covered, just the odd hour that needed filling. But it was a different picture for nighttime. Gaping holes made it clear that people didn’t fancy burning the midnight oil or rising at the crack of dawn to pray. 

But truth be told, I didn’t mind this. Whilst it’s a challenge at any time to pray — all the more so for hour-long stretches as part of a 24-hour prayer event — I’ve always enjoyed the quiet solitude of the night slot. There is slim chance of distraction, outside noises are kept to a melancholic hum, and the darkness brings out my reflective side.  

I arrived at the prayer room at 11:55pm. At first, I thought the person before me had left. But as I looked upwards and peered into one of the small rooms where there was a prayer station, I could see a girl sat resting against the wall, journalling. She was in the zone. Keen to not disturb her, I gently made my way to a small leather chair in the center of the main downstairs room. Snuggling into spot, I closed my eyes, trying to figure out where my head and heart were at before I got down to business. I immediately felt a pang of pressure — I have to pray, I thought, to maintain the prayerful momentum of this event — but, looking upwards at my comrade content at soaking in God’s presence, the stress eased. It’s not about ticking a box and following a formula, it’s about being available for what God wants to do.  

Soon enough, stories, sights, and sayings from my four days in the city filled my mind. Some at the time brought my jaw to the ground in wonder, others left a weighty ache. I didn’t know where to begin, except with gratitude for being in this place to be a small part of God’s story, not just for this city but this country. It was then that my eyes jolted open as I heard the door being unlocked. My comrade had done her duty and was leaving into the night. I was now alone. 

With a whole two floors to play with, I stood up and began walking the room. Moving around energized my prayers and faith, whilst prayer stations and outside noises — from sirens and shouts to the faint dim of club music — informed my petitions. Seeking some added inspiration, I plugged my iPhone into the sound system, turned to my soundtrack for the trip, Martin Smith’s aptly titled Song for a City live album, and cranked up the volume.  

We will rise up

From the shadows, we will rise up

We're singing over you!

And I sang over this city, the lyrics of songs giving words to the cries of an aching heart that felt foreign to me but familiar to Jesus. The more I sang and the more I prayed, the heavier my heartfelt. Different types of people cascaded before my mind — from the faithful brother and sister suffering for following Jesus to the wayward soul a million miles from Jesus — and I had the tiniest, fragmented glimpse into what God feels about them. I didn’t know what to pray. When the words of the song were insufficient, I lifted up a tongue, and when that wasn’t enough I could only cry. My offering was rambled and often painfully self-aware — what if someone comes in, and am I simply being delusional? — but in my fragile imperfection, I felt the Holy Spirit doing something. 

Alongside the mourning there was dancing. As my iPhone drifted through the album, the jumpier and upbeat songs gave rise to expectancy and declaration.  

You'll never stop loving us

No matter how far we run

You'll never give up on us

All of heaven is shouting

Let the future begin 

The same people that earlier came into my mind returned, but this time I felt sure that God was drawing beauty from ashes. I had faith for them. At that moment I asked God to work in their lives, and I felt sure He was and that someday in heaven He’ll show me what He was up to.  

The songs gradually turned more reflective and my heart grew quieter. I was in the Lord’s presence and I didn’t want to be anywhere else. 

You're the one who I adore, Jesus

There is no one I love more, Jesus 

But then a power cut. The music ceased, the lights went out, the generator stilled, and darkness engulfed me. But it felt light, I felt light. The Lord was still here and I sensed it was a moment to listen. What is God saying? I found a window and listened as a cacophony of different voices filtered in from the streets below and nearby buildings. This was their home and it provoked thoughts of my home. I remembered my church, my workplace, my family, and my friends. I chatted to God about them. I thought about my hopes and dreams, and fears. I chatted to God about them, too. There are many times when I pray and it doesn’t feel like God is listening, but I fight to know that He is. Here I felt and knew He was not only listening but really cared. 

The clock hit 2am and the power remained out. My duty was done. As I closed the door behind me, one of my fellow travelers arrived to take over. I explained the power cut and we went our separate ways. Taking the short walk back to the hotel, I thanked God for the beautiful, unexpected ways He meets with us and partners with us in His bidding, despite all our frailties. It’s a true honor. 

But what’s stayed with me most from that two-hour slot is how God feels for people. The word ‘feel’ is not even enough. He has this perfect love for all people, free from the bias, judgment, ignorance, and selfishness that always impairs my love for others. Whether near or far from Him, God longs to meet people where they’re at, to minister to them His unconditional and magnificent grace. Including me. I felt a tiny something of that. That evening, it inspired my prayers. And beyond that, it’s inspired a deeper love for Him.

John served as a short-term volunteer in a large city in Asia.