Tremont Temple
Wednesday Noon till 1:00
Main sanctuary
88 Tremont Street
Boston
David Manuel
DavidBMjr@aol.com
Alex Canavan
alexc55@comcast.net
Two years ago at the National Day of Prayer in Washington, DC, an old prayer warrior named Ray Bringham got to his feet. In clear, ringing tones that belied his 85 years, he declared: ”There should be Noon prayer hours in major cities across the country!” There was scattered applause and murmurs of approval.
I knew where Ray was coming from. In the third history book I did with Peter Marshall, Sounding Forth the Trumpet, we describe the Noon prayer hour that Jeremiah Lanphier began in New York City. Spreading rapidly throughout the city, the compelling desire to pray together jumped to Boston, Philadelphia, and Washington. A shoe salesman named Moody took it to Chicago. Eventually it became known as the Great Prayer Revival of 1857 and went to all cities, north and south, and around the world. It continued into the Civil War, with full-scale Revival taking place in both the Union and Confederate armies.
I shook my head; that might work in the 19th Century, but not in the 21st . In today’s stress-filled marketplace, no one had time to stop for even a few minutes of prayer, let alone a whole hour. I sighed and shrugged it off. Ray might be a good friend, but I feared he was a little out of touch. . . .
However – when I got in my car to drive back to Massachusetts, I heard a still, small voice in my heart: Why not Boston? Why not Tremont Temple?
You know perfectly well, why not, I thought. Nobody would come! Who’s got time? Besides, you’ve called me to be a writer, not an event-organizer – a species for which, as you know, I have a very low opinion.
We drove on in silence. But I knew it was unresolved. And sure enough, after a few miles I heard it again: Why not Boston? Why not Tremont Temple?
Ever notice how, when God desires you to do a thing that you have no desire to do, it is not open for discussion? “Come,” I pleaded aloud, “let us reason together.”
Silence.
I chatted with friends on my cell phone until its battery gave out. I listened to all the Dutch Sheets CD’s I’d brought with me. I turned on the news, till it started repeating itself. And when it was finally quiet in the car, there it was again. . . Why not Boston? Why not Tremont Temple?
After seven hours of trying to stave Him off, I gave up. “All right!” I cried aloud, “I’ll do it! But it’ll be clenched-teeth obedience.” And then, more calmly, “What’s the next step?”
What I would have liked, of course, was the whole game plan. That way, I could start putting the pieces together, getting the right people in the right slots . . . . But then I would be in control, making it happen. Which was the opposite of what He wanted. He wanted me out of control, powerless to go forward on my own, and listening carefully.
That’s why He never gives us more than the next step. That step is a test; if we carry it out promptly, exactly the way He wants it, He will give us the step after that. In that way, we’re perpetually out of control and perpetually needy.
Call Alex Canavan.
Alex was general manager of the two Christian radio stations that reached the metro Boston area. He and I went way back. At the height of the Charismatic Renewal, He’d been a regional director of the Full Gospel Businessmen, then their International Director, about the time I was setting up the editorial department of Logos, the first Charismatic publishing house.
I called Alex and shared what had just happened to me. He caught the vision for the Noon Hour immediately. “The great hunger in the Church today is for the presence of God in the worship; too often, He’s just not there.” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “The only way that will ever change is through prayer.”
Before I could tell him where I thought the Noon Hour was supposed to be, he exclaimed, “And I know just the venue: Tremont Temple.”
In the heart of downtown Boston, Tremont Temple had been a great well of revival in the 19th Century. As the first integrated church in America, it became a rallying place for the Abolitionist movement. Abraham Lincoln spoke there on his way to the Presidency. And later, when Billy Sunday was on the platform preaching revival, the line to get in would extend around the block. Built like a three-tier opera house, it could hold in excess of 1800.
More recently, Derek Prince, speaking there in 1972, declared Boston to be America’s intellectual Jericho. (There 53 campuses in the metro area, which annually award 18% of all the degrees given out in the country.)
Derek concluded with this prophetic word: “The Lord says, When I cause the walls of intellectualism to come tumbling down, then I shall pour out my Spirit upon this whole land.”
The next step? Alex and I went to Tremont Temple, to seek God’s will. The cavernous interior was dark and forbidding, but even in the gloom, God spoke to each of our hearts. This Noon Hour was of Him. He wanted us to proceed together, as co-stewards of it. As long as we stayed out of control, He would open the doors and anoint our endeavors. And He would bring the watchers, to stand with us on this wall. Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.
We covenanted with Him to keep it totally His. We’d seen too many works of men come crashing down. A self-appointed boulder-pusher calls on his friends to help him. Many come to help him push the great stone up the hill. But the closer they get to the top, the steeper the hill becomes, till someone loses his footing and. . . . If the Noon Hour ever got our fingerprints on it, we promised God, we would run from it.
For its format, we would follow Jeremiah Lanphier’s model. It would be on Wednesdays, at Noon. And we would incorporate his rules: Start promptly at 12:00; end promptly at 1:00. Everyone is welcome, even if they can spare only a few minutes. No sermonizing, no prayers or exhortation lasting more than five minutes. No divisive or political prayers. And be considerate of your neighbor, who may not come from the same prayer tradition that you do.
Each Wednesday we would renew that covenant, turning the hour over to Him, asking Him to give us the prayer concerns and the right words. We would not lead. He would be our leader.
The next step? To meet with the interim pastor, Ray Pendleton, on loan from Gordon Conwell Theological Seminary. After we shared our vision, he smiled. “You gentlemen have no way of knowing this, but when our board met last week, our great burden was to reach out to the marketplace. We felt we had to do something, probably on Wednesdays at Noon, but we had no idea what.” He chuckled. “Now we do.”
For the first Boston Noon Hour, June 8, 2005, six people showed up – exactly the number that had come to Jeremiah’s first hour. And the Lord gave us a word:
For I will fill each one of these seats
with those whose hearts long for my heart.
And I will renew their strength
And I will lift them on the wings of my spirit.
They will soar with me,
And they will rejoice with me,
And when I return them to earth,
Their joy will be magnified
And will spread throughout the city
And throughout the land.
The following Wednesday, however, we were only four. (Jeremiah had twenty his second week.) I knew God was not interested in numbers, large or small, but still. . . . Then, in my heart I heard, Despise not small beginnings.
Only the following week, they were even smaller – just Alex and me and Basil Yarde, the radio stations’ director of ministry. We roamed the aisles, praying free-form and declaiming. Nothing happened. Then after about half an hour, suddenly He was with us.
I’m glad You’re here, I told Him, but why now? Why not sooner?
I waited until you were finished.
After that, we turned the hour over to Him at the outset.
The day came when there was just Alex and me – and God. He was tangibly with us, and that was all we needed to keep going.
By Labor Day, there were twelve to fourteen. And I was impatient for the Awakening that He kept telling us was coming soon. Finally, I burst out, “Father, with all due respect,” (and you know that whenever anyone starts off that way, they’re about to be appallingly disrespectful), “the way Heaven uses the word ‘soon,’ it could be a thousand years! I mean, Jesus is coming soon!”
Then I heard, I am using that word not as we use it here, but as you use it there.
That helped – for about four months. By the first week of Advent (we were now twenty to thirty), my impatience was again boiling over. And I heard, My son, you are like a small child, impatient for Christmas. You know your parents have something to do with it, so why won’t they make it come sooner. Christmas will come at its appointed time – not a day sooner, or a day later. But when on that glorious morning you unwrap the magnificent present I have prepared for you, all your frustration will be forgotten.
That has held me (pretty much) ever since. We’re upwards of seventy now, of all denominations, ethnic backgrounds, ages, and walks of life. There may be a few more blacks than whites, a few more women than men. A few of us are well-to-do; more than a few are barely making it.
We’ve become a prayer family, invited by God into His living room. It’s as if He sits in His chair, and we gather cross-legged on the floor around Him, while He leads us in our prayers. We have become concerned for one another, praying for one another, helping one another. And His presence has been growing stronger each week, till we often just sit in silence with Him, basking in His love.
Love is increasingly the focus of our prayers, as we bow or kneel and open our hearts to Him, giving Him all the love we have, and receiving all He has for us. Then, as we leave to return to the marketplace, He challenges us to see if we can give away more love than He can replenish. Recently He said:
My children, you have deeply pleased me with your gift of love. And you have received my love in return. Let us exchange this gift of love again and again, without ceasing. For this meek but intense love is what will draw so many unto me, and I will awaken their hearts to my love, as I have already awakened yours.
Copyright © 2007, David Manuel
All Rights Reserved
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